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Chapter Text

The letter arrived on a beautiful day.

Rhaenys received the maester in the Hall of the Nine with Baela at her side, resplendent in Velaryon blue. Sunshine streamed through the clerestory windows and cast dancing shadows over the tile. Dressed all in white, the maester who had delivered her children stood before her and spoke of her husband’s fate.

“Will he live?” Six years had passed since Rhaenys had last seen her husband, but she had always assumed that he would come back to her alive.

The maester frowned. “He led his sailors into an ambush. A ship made to look as if it were abandoned. In the fighting, his neck was slashed by a corsair’s dagger. He fell overboard into the sea.” A pause, as the man swallowed. The gulls were screaming in the wind. “The wound was severe. Much blood was lost, but the greater concern has been the fever that followed. The ship’s maester said he burns from within.”

She looked to her hand, where a silver seahorse curled around her finger. One of the first gifts that Corlys had given her. Rhaenys took a breath and braved a look at her granddaughter. Baela met her gaze, purple eyes to purple eyes. With her hair unbound and set aglow by the sun, she resembled Laena more than ever. Her granddaughter’s brows were drawn together, an uncertain tilt to her mouth.

“The ravens came in from…?”

“Evenfall, princess.”

From Tarth. Her heart ached from an old grief. To think that her husband and father might have died in the same place. She swallowed a sigh. “So they arrive in three days,” Rhaenys said. “Let all be ready to receive him.”

Nodding, the maester turned and left the Hall of the Nine. Baela, her precious girl, turned to her and managed a small comforting smile. “The Sea Snake is strong.”

“No doubt,” Vaemond spoke at last. “And yet, I have seen blood fever overcome men half his age.”

Rhaenys refused to consider the idea. “I will not suffer the talk of crows in my house, Vaemond.”

“I love my brother,” answered her goodbrother. This, Rhaenys knew. Vaemond would follow Corlys anywhere, from bitter battle in the Stepstones to the farthest edges of the known world. He had welcomed Rhaenys to their house with open arms and had loved Laenor and Laena unabashedly. “But we must be honest with ourselves. We may greet his ship to find him gone.”

Inhaling, Rhaenys entertained the possibility and nearly surprised herself with the wave of grief that crashed in her stomach. “And then who would take the Driftwood throne?” Vaemond continued.

“My grandmother seems quite comfortable here.” Baela’s voice was clipped, defensive despite her affection for her great uncle.

“She presides only in the absence of her husband. On his death, the seat passes.”

Before Baela could reply, Rhaenys spoke. “To Lucerys. As is my lord husband’s desire.”

“I am his brother, the Sea Snake’s own blood. The closest kin that remains to him.” This argument had been had before, but her goodbrother argued as ardently as he always had.

“Be careful, goodbrother,” Rhaenys said halfheartedly. One never knew who was listening, even in her own home. “One could take your words for treason.”

Vaemond threw his head back and laughed, a bitter sound, and then strode forward. “I speak the truth, Rhaenys.”

I know, she thought. “The matter has been decided,” she looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

“By a man whose ambition has brought down on our house calamity after calamity.” When Vaemond argued with his brother, they had raged and shouted loud enough to shake the hall. At least with Rhaenys, he kept his voice level and calm. “My brother cares only for the history books, but what of the Velaryon line? Should it be snuffed out and supplanted with the land-loving pups of House Strong?”

Baela looked away suddenly. Despite her best efforts, her granddaughter still loved her step-brothers. “Vaemond,” Rhaenys started, but her goodbrother spoke over her.

“Driftmark is mine by all rights.”

It should have been Laenor’s and Laena’s, she thought. Or it should pass to Baela and Rhaena.

“And while I should like your support,” continued Vaemond, “I do not need it. The winds have shifted, and I have good reason to believe the crown would take my side.”

“The king, my cousin, would have your tongue for this.”

“It’s not the king who sits the throne these days,” answered Vaemond. They both knew who did.

There was nothing left to say, for what else was there to do but hope that the man they both loved would not die. Vaemond turned and left the Hall of the Nine, flanked by his two sons.

“You should not let him speak to you so, grandmother.”

Alone with her granddaughter, Rhaenys sank down against the Driftwood Throne. “He is family.”

“Not by blood,” groused Baela. She glanced at her granddaughter, raising an eyebrow, and the younger girl glanced to her hem. “What do you think uncle Vaemond will do if—well, if grandfather—”

“I suspect he’s already preparing to sail to King’s Landing,” Rhaenys rose with a quiet groan, as her age caught up to her. “But I will not stay here and wait for a raven to bear us a scrap of news. I intend to be there myself.”

Baela frowned; brow furrowed in confusion. “You will support his claim?”

Silently, Rhaenys shook her head and took her granddaughter’s hands in hers, trailing her thumb over the smooth skin of Baela’s palm. “No, child. I will not.” A pause. “Now, go pack a bag. We’ll set off tomorrow morning.”

“We?”

“We,” Rhaenys affirmed. “Perhaps this time, Moondancer might give Meleys a run for her money.”

Baela laughed and looked so much like Laena that it hurt. Pulling away, she flashed a bright smile. “We shall see, grandmother! One of these days, it will be Moondancer and I flying far ahead of you.”

A bittersweet feeling bloomed in Rhaenys’ chest. She prayed she would see the day and rued that that poor Baela had to race against her old grandmother instead Laena. “Breakfast will be at first light and we’ll leave right after.”

“Of course. I should pack,” she paused, briefly lost in thought. “And I should write to Rhaena…and Father. They should know about grandfather.”  

Despite her dislike for Daemon, she never begrudged her granddaughter for writing to her father, nor would she ever dare to monitor their private correspondence. “They should,” Rhaenys agreed, even though she knew Vaemond hoped to keep his audience with the court a secret from Dragonstone.

Like a sea breeze, Baela blew from the hall, blue skirts flying behind her. It was just Rhaenys, an old woman, surrounded by the great treasures of Corlys’ nine voyages, the only tokens of her wayward husband. Once, their children had played in this room and the stone echoed with their shrieking laughter. And later it had housed the burned corpse of her son.

Rhaenys turned away from the memories and made her way towards the lord’s chambers. When Corlys had built High Tide, he had set aside lavish chambers for his future wife, but, upon their marriage, they had found they preferred to share a room. With six years of absence, she had begun to think of it as her room only; the marriage bed of her youth had become a place where an old woman slept alone.

Packing had been a greater ordeal when her children were small and Corlys was here. If left unsupervised, Laenor would pair together patterns that did not match and Laena was likely to fill an entire hold of a ship with her wardrobe. Her husband liked to bicker about which gowns made Rhaenys look more queenly or if they should match and sometimes preferred to eschew clothes all together to take his wife to bed.  

These days Rhaenys wore sailor’s shirts and trousers more than gowns and preferred long overcoats that gave the illusion of a skirt. It was likely to be a quick trip and so she perfunctorily packed two sets of trousers and shirts, a long black overcoat, and a finer gown of silk with matching slippers in Velaryon blue.

She spent the remainder of the day preparing the household for Corlys’ arrival, whether that be dead or alive. In the afternoon, she stood from the ramparts and watched as Vaemond’s ship was prepared across the causeway. An invitation was sent to Baela to join her grandmother for supper, but it was politely refused, as her granddaughter had preexisting plans to dine with Daeron, Vaemond’s son, his young wife and his three-year-old daughter, Daenaera.

And so Rhaenys ate in private, across from the empty seat where her husband would sit. She slept alone in a bed too large for one person and wondered if her husband would ever rest by her side again. Mercifully, the gods allowed her to sleep dreamlessly.

A gentle hand woke her before first light. Melissa—an woman even older than Rhaenys who had served her own lady mother, Jocelyn—smiled at her in the dark. “A bath has been drawn for you, princess. And the chef wishes to let you know that they have already begun on breakfast.”

“My thanks, Melissa.” Rhaenys fought against the aching pain in her back as she sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “That will be all.”

Once the woman had gone, she slipped from the bed, her nightgown brushing the cool stone. She undressed, bathing quickly—for she would need to bathe again as soon as they arrived in King’s Landing—and awaited Baela.

Her granddaughter came right before the sun peeked above the Summer Sea, in that strange hour where the world was awash in grey light. She was already dressed in her riding leathers and her silver curls were pinned up behind her head.

“Did you sleep well, grandmother?”

“I did. And you, dear child? I do hope you weren’t up too late with Daeron and his girls.”

There were dark circles beneath her eyes, but Baela was not one to admit defeat. “Of course not,” she said, reaching for a slice of bread. “I slept very well.”

Upon the table, breakfast had already been set. Eggs whisked and cooked with tomato puree, olive oil, and arugula. A cheese pie fried with nuts and drizzled with fresh honey. Rhaenys reached for a porcelain bowl which Corlys had procured in Yi Ti and spooned rice pudding sprinkled with cinnamon and clove onto her plate.  

They ate together in companionable silence and, like always, Rhaenys amused herself by watching for the idiosyncrasies that Baela shared with her mother. Her granddaughter liked to eat her eggs upon a slice of toast like Laena did and only ate rice pudding with extra honey drizzled on top. They held their forks in the same way and tended to chew using the right side of her mouth. But unlike Laena, Baela enjoyed arugula and picked the nuts off of the cheese pie and preferred jasmine tea over juice.

Once the plates were clear, Rhaenys stood wordlessly and Baela followed, hoisting both her and her grandmother’s bags over her shoulders. A chivalrous little lady, her granddaughter was. They exited the castle together and stood on the damp, exposed sand of the beach at low tide.

“Grandmother,” Baela was looking south to where Vaemond’s ship was beginning to sail into the pink morning sky. “Why are we going if you don’t plan to support uncle Vaemond’s claim?”

Rhaenys breathed in the sea and the sour sulfur of dragon. “Have you ever wondered why I took you in as my ward?”

Calling her just Rhaenys’ ward was an understatement, all of Driftmark had taken Baela under their wing. She had taught Baela how to manage a household, yes, and how to hone her bond with Moondancer, but it was Vaemond and Corlys’ cousins who taught her granddaughter to sail and swim and to fish. Her granddaughter could secure sails and tie the best knots and had a crew of her own that obeyed her without question. If she was not with her grandmother or her dragon, she was likely to be found on her own ship, the Lady Rhaena, named for her twin.

Had Baela not guessed her grandmother’s dearest hope? Her greatest desire? Her granddaughter looked surprised, as if she had not really considered it before. “Answering a question with a question? How mysterious, grandmother.”

Before she could answer, a roar sounded in the distance. Meleys flew into view, set aflame by the rising sun, with a smaller dragon in her shadow. With a resounding thump, the Red Queen landed, kicking up clumps of wet sand. Compared to the older dragon, Moondancer was small, almost unusually so for a dragon of her age, and was barely larger than a warhorse. Her scales were a pale, marbled grey green, resembling a carved nephrite serpent that had lived in Corlys’ solar for years, and her horns and wing crests were an opalescent pearl. When she produced fire, the flame was a dusty grey that looked like sea fog.

Meleys chuffed lowly as Rhaenys pressed a hand to her neck, while Moondancer chittered as Baela pressed wet kisses over her dragon’s snout. Rhaenys mounted her dragon with little ceremony and settled into the same saddle that her aunt Alyssa had once used.

“Soves, Meleys,” said Rhaenys, and the Red Queen took to the skies with a roar.

Cool sea air rushed over her, whipping her hair back from her face. Rhaenys felt the great muscles of Meleys’ wings beneath her thighs as the dragon ascended. The wings flapped once, twice, three times, before the Red Queen leveled out. She looked over her shoulder and Moondancer shot up beside her with a playful screech, her wings beating twice as fast.

Baela was laughing as she came into view, teeth flashing in the light. “Let us race, grandmother!”

The morning sun was shining through her hair. Her perfect and wonderful granddaughter. “Off you go then,” Rhaenys shouted. “You need the head start.”

Together, Moondancer and her rider roared playfully and shot into the sky. Meleys made a low hum but Rhaenys had them wait, hovering over the sea. Her granddaughter flew towards the Velaryon ships, circling twice around the mast and waving, before tearing off into the sky. The pale green dragon grew smaller, and Rhaenys waited until it was nearly a speck in the sky before urging Meleys forward.

The Red Queen flapped her wings hard, bursting into a jolt of speed. The wind whipped at her face, bringing tears to her eyes. In minutes, they overtook the ship and Rhaenys raised a hand and waved to Vaemond, who returned the gesture from the deck. Perhaps he wondered if she had come to support his claim after all.

It did not take long to catch up to Moondancer, but Rhaenys urged Meleys to hang back. What was the harm in letting her granddaughter take the lead? Once King’s Landing was in sight, she would urge her dragon to fly faster.

As they flew, Rhaenys watched her granddaughter. Her curls had been blown free from their pins, streaming in the wind, and she had raised a hand to idly trace the underside of a cloud. A sudden desperation seized her. If Corlys died, Baela would be one of the last two things binding her to this life.

Rhaenys shook her head, discarding the feeling, and settled in her saddle. There were three things that she had absolute faith in: Meleys, her husband, and that it would be Baela who would inherit the Driftwood Throne, even if it killed Rhaenys to put her there.

Chapter Text

The Queen Who Never Was and the eldest daughter of the Prince of the City were received with a welcome that befitted their station. The dragonkeepers greeted them warmly, cheering for Meleys and cooing over little Moondancer, and sent them up to the Red Keep in a comfortable wheelhouse. Rhaenys and granddaughter arrived in the courtyard of the castle and found it utterly deserted, with not even a member of the royal family having come to greet them.

“I supposed we shouldn’t be surprised,” remarked Rhaenys, tugging off her riding gloves.  Baela, who was likely not used to this sort of treatment, glanced at her with uncertainty.

“It doesn’t make it right,” her granddaughter replied.

“No,” Rhaenys took her bag from the wheelhouse and slung it over her shoulder. “But I will not stand here and wait to be let inside my family’s own castle. Grab your bag, Baela.”

She walked towards the doors and the guards, suitably cowed by her level stare, opened the great doors. Knowing the Queen, Alicent would put Rhaenys in the same rooms she always had, and so they walked together towards the drawbridge to Maegor’s Holdfast.

A serving woman intercepted them there, nearly dropping her basket of linens into the spike moat. “Princess! We were not expecting the Velaryon party until this afternoon.”

“Dragons are faster than ships.” A pause.  “I assume the north guest rooms will be prepared for me?”

“Right away, princess. And I’ll send word for rooms to be prepared for your granddaughter as well.”

Rhaenys nodded. “Good. I would like a bath drawn up in my rooms as soon as possible.”

With a hurried curtsy, the serving woman vanished back into the halls. Rhaenys continued her march through Maegor’s Holdfast, trying to suppress a smile as Baela’s head swiveled around, taking in the castle of her ancestors.

“What do you make of it?”

“It’s very…red,” answered Baela and that made Rhaenys laugh. She would have said imposing or grand or cramped. Even though it was the castle of her youth, she preferred High Tide. But perhaps that was the bias of her Velaryon heart.

“Your father and I should have brought you to court before,” she said. “So that you could know where your father and grandparents were born and raised.”

Baela’s eyes sparked with interest. “You must tell me a story about father then. I deserve a consolation prize for how badly you beat Moondancer and I.”

“If you wish it, dear one.” She had hoped she would ask about Laena, or perhaps Aemon and Jocelyn, but at least her childhood stories of Daemon were of happier days.

They arrived in front of Rhaenys’ guest rooms and were met by one of the Queen’s ladies, who curtsied so deeply her necklace nearly touched the floor. Baela bit down on the inside of her cheek, in the way that Rhaenys knew meant that the poor girl was trying to suppress a laugh.

“Princess,” the woman greeted as she rose. “Lady Baela, I have been instructed by the Queen to escort you to your rooms.”

Her granddaughter looked to her and Rhaenys nodded. “Off you go. You need to bathe as well.”

Baela, charming thing that she was, pressed a kiss against her cheek and followed the other woman down the hall. Rhaenys watched her go until they turned a corner and slipped from sight before entering her own chambers. Unlike the rest of the keep, little had changed here in these rarely used guest quarters. The linens remained that deep, ruby red of the Targaryen sigil, with dragons carved into the torch sconces. A half-filled bath stood in the center of the room, letting off steam into the air.

Despite the close distance to Driftmark, the weather in King’s Landing was dreary. A sea of grey clouds had blotted out the sky and cast everything in soft, dim light. The Blackwater Bay was oddly still, reflecting the unbroken sky. By mid-afternoon, Vaemond’s ship would dock in the harbor.

She waited by the window for the serving girls to finish drawing her bath, then dismissed them. The water was close to scalding, just as she liked it, and she scrubbed the smell of Meleys from her skin. With a comb, she methodically worked out the knots in her hair.

As she soaked in the water, dragon shrieks echoed over the Blackwater Bay. Her eyes snapped open as Rhaenys climbed out from the water and walked towards the window, wrapping a towel around herself.

Five dragons dropped out from the clouds. Caraxes was leading the flock, a bloody smear against the sky, while Syrax took the rear, flying sedately on the wind. Between them flew Arrax and Vermax and little Tyraxes, small splotches of white, green, and dark brown.  Beneath them, a ship flying the Targaryen standard cut through the bay.

Rhaenys bit back a sigh. Oh Baela, she lamented. I should be proud that you are such a dutiful daughter. Vaemond would be furious. It would make Rhaenys’ own job harder as well. But how could her granddaughter know that?

Alone, she dressed herself quickly in a pair of dark trousers and a thin shirt. Her hair was a different matter and took far longer. Sitting before a vanity mirror, Rhaenys pulled her hair away from her face, braiding small strands of it, and pinned it half-up in the style she was accustomed to. For propriety, she buttoned herself into a sable overcoat that fell to her shins. The one good thing about aging was that she could wear that she liked.

She had no intention of running into Rhaenyra, or, gods forbid, Daemon, and so she fled to the rookery to send a message to High Tide. If Corlys survived, the letter would be her apology for not being there. She went to the kitchens to request seafood for her supper tonight and wandered through the halls, taking in the changed scenery. All of the rich deep greens and holy imagery peppered through the keep. Alicent’s doing, no doubt, or the Lord Hand’s.

But despite her best efforts, Rhaenyra tracked her down in the godswood. Rhaenys stood before the bone white trunk of the heart tree, listening to the wind rustle through the red leaves. Idly, she considered muttering a prayer to North’s strange Old Gods; Corlys needed all the help he could get.

A gentle voice interrupted her. “Grandmother?”

Rhaenys turned and her knees nearly buckled at the sight of her youngest granddaughter. After a moment, she found her voice. “Rhaena.”

She did not run, but her granddaughter came to her quickly, a briskness in her step. Her sweet girl paused only a handful of steps away, suddenly shy, and that nearly made Rhaenys weep. She offered a hand and pulled her granddaughter close, pressing her nose into her silver locs.

Reluctantly, they parted and Rhaenys studied her granddaughters face. She had her grandfather’s sweet mouth and Laena’s delicate brow and Daemon’s eyes. Despite being twins, Rhaena looked different than her sister, with sharper cheekbones and a rounder jaw. Her hair took more after Laenor and Corlys, and Rhaena had pinned and arranged her locs in a style that felt reminiscent of Rhaenys’ own towering hairstyle.

“You look beautiful,” Rhaenys managed, blinking tears from her eyes. Her granddaughter looked down shyly, tucking her chin against the red fabric of her cloak.  

“Baela said you might be here.” Rhaenyra stepped forward and Rhaenys reluctantly ripped her eyes away from her granddaughter. The Heir to the Iron Throne was fiddling nervously with the rings on her fingers, her hands clasped above the gentle swell of her stomach.

“She’s done well as your ward.” A pause. “You’ve raised her admirably.”

Despite herself, Rhaenys softened, although she wondered if Daemon would agree. “You honor me, princess.”

A silence settled upon the garden and Rhaenys squeezed Rhaena’s hand. There was so much to speak about, so much to learn about her wayward granddaughter. While Baela was a joy, she had always mourned that she could not share her meals and laughter and love with Rhaena as well.  

Rhaenyra spoke before Rhaenys could. “Would you mind if I spoke to the princess alone, Rhaena?”

Her granddaughter frowned; her brows drew together in confusion. I certainly mind, Rhaenys thought. I haven’t seen my granddaughter in two years! But Rhaena looked to her for guidance and she nodded, reluctantly releasing her granddaughter’s hand.

“Princess,” acknowledged Rhaena, bobbing into a curtsy, and Rhaenys watched her go with great sorrow.

Her former gooddaughter stepped forward. The years had remained kind to her and Rhaenyra was as beautiful as ever, with Aemma’s features and Viserys’ smile. “When we heard from Baela, I wondered for many an hour what your purpose was in coming here. Whether you speak for or against the suit brought by Ser Vaemond. But then I realized you intend to advocate for yourself.”

Blinking, Rhaenys almost laughed in her face. Is that what Daemon and Rhaenyra thought? Did the Greens believe the same? That Rhaenys wished to rule? She was an old woman and her time in the sun had long passed. Everything she did was for her granddaughters now.

“This is no fair proceeding,” Rhaenyra continued. “It is a trap! Set by the Queen and the Hand, I’d wager, to claim my son illegitimate!”

Vaemond was not here for Lucerys. He was here for the future of House Velaryon, and that was an important distinction that had been lost upon the Crown Princess. “Yet, you did worse than that with Laenor,” she said, unwilling to confirm or deny anything. “Did you not?”

As the birds sang, Rhaenyra sucked in a shallow breath. “I loved your son,” she said at last, and Rhaenys scoffed. “You may not believe it to be true, but I did.”

That she might be able to believe. Laenor was so easy to love. She turned away, unsure what she would do if she had to keep looking at woman who had shamed her son so.

“I did not order his death. Nor was I complicit in it. I swear this to you.”

What good were her oaths? Rhaenys swallowed her grief and turned away, making to exit the garden. “I’ll make you an offer!” Rhaenyra’s voice was clipped with nervousness. Despite her dislike for the woman, she was kind to Baela and Rhaena and so Rhaenys stopped.

“Back Luke’s claim, and let us betroth Laena’s children to mine.” It was strange to hear the girls referred to as Laena’s children, not Daemon’s. “Baela would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And her sons would be heirs to the throne. Rhaena would rule in Driftmark and the seat will pass to her and Lucerys’ children in time.”

Did Baela want to be Queen? Rhaenys doubted that anyone had ever asked her. And what of Rhaena? What did her sweet stranger of a granddaughter wish for in life?

“A generous offer,” she answered. “Or a desperate one.”

“What does it matter?”

Rhaenys managed a small smile. “You are right in this at least. It does not matter.” She stepped forward and a small hope bloomed in Rhaenyra’s violet eyes. “You can bargain with me all you like. Bring my granddaughter with you to soften my resolve, but tomorrow the Hightowers will land their first blow. And I must stand on my own.”

Sweeping away, she left Rhaenyra before the heart tree. Perhaps she could catch up with Rhaena, surely the girl had not gone too far, but there was no need. Her granddaughter stood outside the gardens, waiting on a low bench, and she sprang to her feet as Rhaenys entered the passage.

“Grandmother!”

Her arms were full of Rhaena, all hair and smiles and sweetness. She wore a fuller gown than anything Baela had ever been forced into and she wore it beautifully, dripping with elegance.

“Darling Rhaena,” she exhaled. Alone, she pressed two kisses on both cheeks. “You cannot know how wonderful it is to see you.”

Rhaena linked arms with her grandmother and together they swept down the hall. “How was your trip from Driftmark?”

“Quick, as it always is. And you? Did you fly with your father?”

“No,” Rhaena said placidly. “I sailed with the younger children.”

“Aegon and Viserys.” Oh, how she had laughed when she heard about baby Aegon. The Green Queen must have been furious. “And you saw your sister?”

“Yes! Baela said that Moondancer has grown, but we both know how she likes to exaggerate. Is she large enough to carry two?”

She patted Rhaena’s arm. “Not yet. If you wish to ride, I’m sorry to say that it must be with your old grandmother.”

“You’re not old!” Her granddaughter was a flatterer! “Besides, I love Meleys.”

Walking with Rhaena was a delight, a precious memory to treasure. As always, Rhaenys was struck by how charming and elegant she was, a lady to Baela’s wild nature. In some ways, she reminded Rhaenys of Corlys, in the way that he loved to show off before the court. He would have showered Rhaena in pearls and aquamarine jewels and gowns of silver damask and silks from the edge of the known world.

“You should have supper with me,” Rhaenys said. “You and Baela and I, together at last.

Rhaena’s face fell, her mouth turning down into a pout. “I would love to grandmother, but I cannot. Father wants Baela and I to dine with him tonight.”

“I understand, dear. Some other time then,” she swallowed down the bitterness. Daemon loved his daughters just as much as she did, and she could not fault him for wanting more time with Laena’s precious girls.

To her surprise, it was Vaemond who she dined with that evening. Her goodbrother had arrived in the afternoon, a handful of hours after the party from Dragonstone did. But unlike the rest of the arrivals today, Vaemond was received by the Queen and the Lord Hand in private.

“The Queen seemed nervous,” recalled Vaemond, setting his napkin on the table. They had feasted on one of Corlys’ favorite dishes: a stew of rice, prawns, and mussels cooked in tomatoes, paprika, and peppers with an accompanying soup of cabbage and potatoes and garlic.

“She must be. They did not expect Rhaenyra to come.”

Her goodbrother took a sip of wine. “Nor did I. How did she know? They must have rats in the Red Keep.”

“Baela wrote to her father about Corlys,” Rhaenys admitted, “and likely slipped in the news about your departure as well.”

“Blasted girl,” he said exasperatedly. “If only her father loved her as much as she loves him.”

“Vaemond. Daemon is many things but he loves his daughters.”

“Bah,” he answered, and a small silence fell upon them. “Your support means very much to me goodsister,” he said at last.

Rhaenys hummed quietly, swishing her wine in her cup. Let him believe what he wanted to believe.

“If Corlys survives, I will stand aside,” he continued. “You know this. But if he does not, you know that this is our only chance to see true Velaryon blood on the Driftwood Throne.”

It was their only chance. And Rhaenys was determined to not let it pass by.

She bid good night to her goodbrother and readied herself for bed, oddly nervous despite her age. Fitfully, she slept before rising early in the morning and readied herself for court.

In the throne room, a large crowd had assembled, with bodies pressed closed together. Chatter followed Rhaenys as she squeezed through the throngs of people. Rhaenyra’s faction took the right side of the hall, while Queen’s gathered on the left.

The Lord Hand had paraded out all of his grandchildren, all dressed richly in green velvet. Standing nearly a head taller than his mother, Aemond, the one-eyed child, was easy to pick out. The six years since Driftmark had rendered the baby fat from his face and left it narrow and harsh. His missing eye was covered by a black eyepatch and he made no effort to hide it behind his long, straw-straight silver hair. His older brother stood to his side, shorter and more disheveled, and blankly stared at a nearby wall. Their sister stood between them; her hands clasped together in the mirror image of her mother. Despite being only a handful of years older than Baela, the poor thing had been made a mother thrice over and two of her children—twins—stood clutching to her skirts.

Near the throne, Vaemond stood alone. Rhaenys joined him and ignored Rhaenyra’s eyes boring into her. Daemon lingered behind his wife, with Jacaerys and Rhaena standing behind him. Little Luke, the one who stood to inherit the entire Velaryon birthright, stood beside his mother.

“Grandmother!” And there was Baela, slipping out from the crowd like a dream. She was dressed from head to toe in Velaryon blue, in a gown that embroidered with seahorses and pearls.

Her granddaughter stood beside her and Vaemond, which shocked Rhaenys. Perhaps the girl did not know what it meant, to have Rhaena standing with Rhaenyra and Baela with her granduncle. Daemon’s lilac eyes bored into her, narrowing to slits.

As the Hand ascended the stairs to the Iron Throne, the crowd broke into murmurs. “Though it is the great hope of the court that Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark.” A pause, and Otto looked straight at Daemon. “As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.”

Otto Hightower sat down upon the Iron Throne of her ancestors, and Rhaenys bit back a sharp laugh. The audacity! There was not a man in the realm more clever and vile than Viserys’ closest friend.

“The Crown will now hear the petitions.” He waved a hand, gesturing at her goodbrother. “Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

Vaemond stepped forward, dressed finely in a blue tunic cut with slashes of sable and silver. “My Queen,” he bowed lightly to Alicent Hightower, who nodded stiffly. “My Lord Hand.”

“This history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen as ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our two houses became the last of their kind.”

Vaemond and Viserys could have been friends, Rhaenys thought. Both were obsessed and proud of their ancient histories.

“Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they were to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name.” He paused, full of resolve. Oddly, Rhaenys thought that Corlys would be proud of him, if not for the circumstances. “I have spent my entire life of Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am his closest kin. His own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

“As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon,” said Rhaenyra, voice clipped. Rhaenys shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir.”

Her voice rose. “No. You only speak for yourself and your own ambition.”

“You will have your chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra,” admonished the Queen. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.”

Vaemond grinned, a sharp and bitter thing. A bad sign. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you and you still would not recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my own house, not yours.”

“It is not ambition. It is a matter of blood. Of heritage! I place the continuation of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor, if the gods should be so cruel as to not let him survive. As the Lord of the Driftmark. The Lord of the Tides.”

So spoke Vaemond, and he returned to her side. Hightower nodded to the princess, signaling her to step forward.

Rhaenyra was dressed for the part, wearing a black gown with intricate red and gold embroidery. She swallowed, throat bobbing around the rubies that rested against her collarbones. The princess stepped forward casually, as if she had already given up.

“If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago in this very room—”

Behind the crowd, the great doors to the throne room swung open. Rhaenys turned and her hand flew to her mouth. Balancing precariously on a cane, Viserys stood at the threshold, hunched over like a man twice his age. His head was mostly bald apart from clumps of thin silver hair and his face was overshadowed by a bulky mask of beaten gold that concealed the left side of his face.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the first of his name!” The guard shouted. Her cousin hobbled down the stairs, with the rest of his titles following behind him. “King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!”

He walked down the aisle at an agonizing pace and as he drew closer, Rhaenys could hear the ragged sound of him breathing, the sheer amount of effort it took to walk this far. Otto vacated the Iron Throne like a child who was found playing with something he was not supposed to. The King waved away his guards and the fluttering hands that sought to help carry him up the steps to the throne.

Vaemond’s cause was lost, she realized, as Viserys walked past her. Perhaps her own cause was lost as well. With a clatter, the crown of Jaehaerys fell against the stone floor and Daemon was there, kneeling to pick it up. Viserys made to shake off his brother, but then, realizing it was Daemon, acquiesced for the help, to be brought to his throne.

Rhaenys wiped away a tear. To see her cousin brought so low. What was Daemon thinking? The King’s brother placed the crown upon his head, and when he turned to walk back down from the dais, his eyes were shining.

“I admit my confusion,” wheezed Viserys. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight to Lord Corlys wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

She blinked. The King calling upon her was unexpected. “Indeed, Your Grace,” she managed at last, looking away from Vaemond’s desperate gaze.

With her footsteps echoing throughout the silent hall, Rhaenys stepped forward. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor’s line to his trueborn son.” A pause. “But my husband and I have agreed that it should pass to an alternate successor.

“You haven’t seen your husband in six years,” Daemon scoffed.

Rhaenys resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I did not need to see him"

“Who is this alternate successor?” Viserys made a wheezing noise. “Ser Vaemond?”

“Lord Corlys and I agreed that Driftmark should pass to Baela Targaryen, the eldest daughter of our eldest child, Laena Velaryon, so that she may rule as the Lady of the Tides in her own right. My granddaughter, Lady Baela, has been my ward for the past six years for this very purpose. The wardship was discussed and approved by you, Your Grace, alongside Daemon and my husband.”

It was an easy lie to tell. If Corlys had bothered to know their granddaughter, she was sure he would have agreed. She chanced a look to Baela; her eyes were wide, confused, and she did not look very pleased. Viserys appeared to sink into the Iron Throne. “If I had known what you were planning, I never would have let you steal away my daughter!” Daemon snapped.

“Am I to understand that there are now three claimants to the Driftwood Throne?” The King’s voice was faint. “Ser Vaemond Velaryon, Baela Targaryen, and Lucerys Velaryon?”

“No, Your Grace,” said Vaemond. He looked disappointed with Rhaenys, but not angry. “If Princess Rhaenys means to put forward the claim of Lady Baela, then I would withdraw my own. I have known my great-niece for six years. I taught her to sail myself. If not me, I can think of no one else suited for the title.”

Relief flooded through her. Perhaps she should have confided in her goodbrother after all, although she was sure he would have less polite and gracious things to say to her in private about the deceit.

But it was not over yet. The King frowned, lost in thought, and looked to Rhaenyra, who had taken Luke by the hand. “I appreciate your candor, cousin, but I cannot in good conscience rely on an unofficial agreement when this matter was settled officially years ago. While I am sure that Lady Baela is a lovely girl, I hearby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftmark Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides!” 

Rhaenys looked to the floor, shutting her eyes. Somehow, this hurt more than when her own grandfather had passed her over at the Great Council at Harrenhall. Baela would lose her birthright to a step-brother that likely didn’t even know how to tie a bowline knot.

“You break law,” Vaemond let out a ragged breath, stepping forward, “centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir, but you dare to tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon? No.” He pointed to Baela, and his hand was shaking in rage. “That girl is more Velaryon than any of your daughter’s spawn! I will not allow it.”

The King leaned forward. “Allow it? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

“The boy is no true Velaryon!” Spittle flew through the air. “He is no nephew of mine!”

Rhaenyra was frowning. “Go to your chambers, you have said enough.”

“Lucerys is my trueborn grandson,” insisted Viserys. “What are you but a second son of Driftmark?”

He was much more than a second son. Vaemond was a father, a brother, an uncle, a grandfather. He captained two loyal crews and had sailed on four of the nine voyages with his brother and seen more of the world than anyone else in the room. He had taught Laenor how to swim with Corlys and knew how to make Baela laugh, even if her granddaughter found him overbearing.

“You may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine,” spat Vaemond. “My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations aside! I will not see it ended on the account of this bastard!”

He shouted that last word and it echoed over the stone violently. “And on account of his whore mother.”

It was over, Rhaenys realized. There was no chance any of them could escape unscathed. Viserys, as sickly as he was, climbed unsteadily to his feet and brandished the Valyrian steel dagger that had once belonged to their shared grandfather.

“I will have your tongue for that!”

But there was no need. With a single slice of Dark Sister, Daemon cleaved Vaemond’s head in two. Baela screamed and Rhaenys took her into her arms, staring at her goodbrother’s dead eyes. There it was. True Velaryon blood on display for the whole court to see, pooling over the stone.

Chapter Text

As Vaemond’s body lay cooling on the floor, Daemon came to retrieve his daughter. Rhaena trailed after her father and her knuckles were straining against the skin as she gripped the fabric of her skirt, lifting the hem safely above her great uncle’s blood.

“Baela,” said Daemon, his voice level and casual despite his display of great violence.

Her eldest granddaughter pulled herself free of her grip, raising her chin high. “Father. And hello, sister.”

A soft smile from Rhaena. “Good morning, Baela.”

A good morning it was not. The court had melted away between the chaos of Vaemond’s execution and the King’s collapse. Aemond One-Eye had escorted his mother and sister from the throne room with barely contained rage, while Aegon scooped up his twins with mild disinterest.

“You and your sister will speak to Rhaenyra and I in our chambers.”

“If you wish it, father.”

They stared at each other; eyes narrowed. Daemon broke first. “Off you go then. The both of you.”

Baela turned to her. “Grandmother, I—”

“Now, Baela,” his voice was sharp.

Her granddaughter had always hated to be bossed around, but she always obeyed her father. Displeased, she stomped away and Rhaena chased after her in a flurry of red silk.

Unlike his brother, the past six years had been kind to Daemon. A few new wrinkles settled in the corner of his eyes, but he still looked young and spry with almost no grey in his hair.

“You understand that Baela’s wardship is over now, yes? After the stunt you just pulled?” He even sounded the same as he did in their youth, dripping with arrogance.

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at him. “She is supposed to be with me until she is married.” That had been her consolation prize for the loss of both her children. “As we agreed.”

“Then I’ll have her married,” drawled Daemon, in that nonchalant way that oozed with cruelty. “You were lucky, cousin, that the King did not have the energy to address your own insinuation about the legitimacy of my wife’s sons.” A pause. “It best not happen again. Not in my presence and least of all in front of my daughters.”

There was little for her to say, at least not here, where unwanted ears were listening. Rhaenys straightened her shoulders and raised her head high. He could not hope to keep her from her granddaughters; Baela would rage and Rhaena would find ways to write in secret. And if it truly came down to it, she would mount Meleys and see how the Blood Wyrm fared against the Red Queen.

“You must excuse me, cousin,” she smiled coolly, lips closed. “But I must attend to the matter of my goodbrother’s body.”

Daemon scoffed, his petulant mouth twisting. “He should be fed to Syrax.” But he left her without further comment, sauntering from the hall.

She found herself alone in the throne room that could have been hers, once upon a time. Sighing, she crouched down next to Vaemond. Dark Sister had cut through his mouth and broken teeth were scattered along the floor. The blood would need to be washed from his locs. For six years, Vaemond had been her one of her only true companions, but Rhaenys found she could not muster up tears. Only a dull numbness. Perhaps the grief for her children had hollowed her out. She had so little left to give.

Quiet footsteps brushed over the stone. In a fluid motion, Rhaenys stood, smoothing out her coat. The Grand Maester hovered in the great doorway, garbed in grey.

“Princess,” he greeted. His chains clinked together as he bowed. “I am surprised to see you still here.”

“I would not leave him,” she said softly. “He was my family.”

“Ser Vaemond’s death was a great loss and a tragedy. The Silent Sisters have been called and he should be in their care by the evening.”

She nodded. “I will be there. To watch.”

“If you wish it, princess.” If he was surprised, he did not show it. But she supposed it was the job of a Grand Maester to look as unflappable as possible. “I plan to assist the sisters. I will send a messenger when the time comes if it is agreeable to you.”

“It is.” Rhaenys looked back to Vaemond’s mangled face. A question danced on her tongue. “Can you draw?”

This time, she did surprise the maester. His brows shot up nearly to his grey wimple before he schooled his features. “No maester forges a chain for artistry, but I can draw plants and anatomical diagrams with some accuracy, princess.”

“Make a copy of his likeness.” For Corlys and for Vaemond’s carved casket. Rhaenys recalled the bitterness when Laena was given to the sea and she could not know with accuracy if the carved likeness resembled her daughter after all the years spent apart.

The Grand Maester nodded. “I can stay with Ser Vaemond, princess. If you wish.”

With a flash of guilt, she left her goodbrother there on the floor. He was dead. It would bring Vaemond no comfort to have her watch his body start to decay. She returned to her rooms and regarded the table where they had shared dinner with a quiet sorrow.

She opened the windows and leaned out, trying to breathe in the familiar and comforting smell of the salty sea. Despite the wide expanse of the Blackwater Rush stretching before her, all she could pick out was the ever-present stench of the city.  

What would be worse? Telling Corlys that his baby brother was dead or returning to High Tide and finding him already gone? She sank into the mattress in a rare moment of vulnerability, her head in her hands.

Rhaenys did know how long she sat there, but her musing was interrupted by pounding upon her chamber door. Rising, she took only two steps before it banged open and Baela threw herself past the threshold and ran right into her grandmother.

The door clanged shut from the momentum. They nearly fell, Rhaenys stumbling under the weight before they steadied. Baela ripped herself from her grasp, chest heaving. Anger had twisted her features and her eyes were aflame.

“How could you do this to me!?” She buried her face in her hands and choked out a growling moan. “How could you!?”

“Baela!” Rhaenys grasped her forearms, pulling her hands away from her face. Slowly, she guided Baela to the bed and kneeled before her, ignoring the ache in her knees. “Child, what is the matter?”

The despair on her granddaughter’s face pulled at her heartstrings. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Baela asked. “Father thinks I was plotting against him! And Rhaenyra—they think I betrayed them!”

“Their anger will pass.” Even Corlys could never stay angry at Laena for long. That was the way things were between fathers and daughters.

“You did not see him, grandmother,” whispered Baela. Her voice cracked and it was that sound that made Rhaenys afraid. Her Baela never cried. “He said my wardship is over. That I will see you no longer.”

Rhaenys surged up and pulled Laena’s daughter into her arms. Baela fought at first, before sinking into her grandmother’s embrace, tucking her face into her neck. “I’d like to see him try to keep me away from you and Rhaena. I would come with Meleys and steal you both away and fly us together to Yi Ti.”

There was a wet little laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?”

“Oh, Baela—”

“I would have told you that I don’t want it.”

Pulling away, she cupped Baela’s jaw in her hands. Her granddaughter had not wept, but the lingering traces of anger and despair still marred her brow. “Child, can you truly say that you don’t want Driftmark? That it has never crossed your mind? You must have known there was a reason that I took you as my ward.”

“Father said it was to punish him,” her lavender eyes glanced away, as she bit down on the inside of her cheek.

“I have made my dislike of your father abundantly clear, but I would never punish him by depriving him of his child,” Rhaenys said. She knew that pain and would wish it on no one. “Baela, answer me. Do you want it?”

A silence seized her granddaughter. “I have never thought to want it,” she licked her lips. “It was never mine to want.”

“And if it was yours to want?”

“I would not be opposed to the idea,” Baela admitted at last. “Grandfather truly wanted me to succeed him?”

Rhaenys climbed to her feet and pressed a kiss against her granddaughter’s silver crown of curls. “He loves you,” at least that was not a lie. Corlys would see reason and if he passed, Rhaenys could find comfort in her loss by seeing Baela on the Driftwood Throne. “If you want it, then I will make it yours, darling. The King’s ruling today was a setback, but I will find some way.”

“Oh grandmother,” a small hand grabbed hers. “It is too late. Father has declared that I’m to marry Jace.”

“And Rhaena?”

“She will marry Luke,” answered Baela. “They plan to announce it to the King at dinner.”

A family dinner she was not invited to. They do this to spite me, Rhaenys thought, but she swallowed down her anger and held her granddaughter, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Betrothals can be broken. I will not stand to see you marry a—”

“Grandmother, stop,” her voice was sharp, as if she was worried Daemon would come bursting through the door with Dark Sister. “I could not—I could not bear to see anything happen to you.”

She had lived her entire life knowing her father as the type of man who always got what he wanted, unstoppable and absolute, but Rhaenys remembered the uncertain period of Daemon’s youth. Jahaerys had packed the poor boy away to the Vale, despite his tantrums; Otto, as slimy and unpleasant as he was, still managed to thwart Daemon’s schemes; and when push came to shove, even Viserys had been roused to keep him in check. It was not over, not yet.

“He should not punish you for my actions,” said Rhaenys softly.

Her granddaughter smiled sadly. “At least it is someone I know.”

“You’ve seen him only a handful of times in the past six years. How well could you know him?”

“I know him better than you,” Baela snipped. Rhaenyra’s sons had not stepped foot on Driftmark in six years, nor had Rhaenys ever mustered up the will to fly to Dragonstone, even if Rhaena was there. “He is…kind. And Rhaena speaks well of him.”

“Do you want to be queen?” The curiosity gripped her and she could not shake it, despite her best efforts.

Baela was quiet for long moment. “No.” A pause. “I don’t think I’m well suited, not like you would have been, grandmother.”

Little flatterer. Was she hoping she would give up and consign Baela to her fate? Where was her fiery granddaughter—the one who once sailed off in the night because she had forbidden her to have fruit tarts for dinner? The little girl who mounted Moondancer without a saddle and without supervision, simply because she believed wholeheartedly that her dragon would not let her fall?

“Your grandfather will recover,” Rhaenys spoke it aloud, so that the gods may make it true. “And he will not let you be sold into marriage so that someone else may take up your birthright.”

“But Father—”

“Forget your father, child. There is time. The King would never allow for his grandson, the future heir to the Iron Throne, be married off with no ceremony. I must bring Vaemond back to Driftmark,” grief marred Baela’s brow and Rhaenys longed to smooth it away, “but I will return with your grandfather. I will not submit without a fight, not if it’s for you, my darling one.”

She pulled Baela to her feet and her granddaughter stood tall. “Grandmother,” she began. “If you die, I will never forgive you.”

Despite everything, that made Rhaenys laugh and it even drew a small smile to Baela’s lovely face. “You should go, before your father decides to come and find you.”

“You’re right,” sighed Baela. She kissed her grandmother’s cheek and swept for the door, but paused in the threshold. “I love you, grandmother.”

“And I love you more,” Rhaenys said, and then she was gone.

There was much to do, but all she could do was sit and wait, for she refused to abandon Vaemond’s body. The Grand Maester’s messenger arrived as the sun began to sink down into the Blackwater Rush, lighting the bay aflame. Together, they rode in a wheelhouse with Vaemond’s body placed in a box on top.

The Silent Sisters greeted them at the stairs to the Sept and escorted them into a private chamber awash with the soft light of hundreds of candles. With the help of Grand Maester Orwyle, Vaemond was gently placed upon a stone slab. In the hours since his death, his body had begun to putrefy and the stench nearly brought tears to her eyes, even if the Silent Sisters remained unfazed.

As she stood there, the Silent Sisters washed the blood and bile and fluids from his body and hair, and a younger woman, perhaps an initiate, was soaking the stains out of his clothing. Vaemond looked smaller than he did in life, his purple eyes glassy and empty. In the absolute silence of the room, there was something nearly sacred about it. The candlelight, the soft splashing sounds of water, the clink of tools.

“The body will be ready for return to Driftmark on the morrow, princess,” Orwyle appeared from the shadows. “You may wish to leave the Silent Sisters to their work. The next part may be difficult to watch.”

“The Stranger has visited me more times than I can count, Grand Maester,” Rhaenys began, watching as one of the Silent Sisters began to cut open Vaemond’s chest. Black blood beaded around the incision. “I would prefer to recognize him when it is time for him to come for me.”

It was late in the night when the work was suspended—even the Silent Sisters needed their sleep. She returned to the keep with the Grand Maester, who fell asleep during the ride. Unlike Mellos, this man seemed more agreeable and far more knowledgeable, although that may have been because he was relatively young for his position. With the state that Viserys was in, it must have been a feat each day to keep the King alive.

In the castle, they parted ways and Rhaenys returned to her chambers, slipping into her lonely bed. Would she be able to watch Corlys be cut open, when the day of his death finally came? She was not sure if she would have the will. Somehow, she slept.

A great clattering awoke her in the morning and Rhaenys stepped out of bed and onto the cold stone floor. The door to her chambers was locked and did not budge regardless of how hard she banged at it. “What is the meaning of this?”

Had Viserys decided after all to punish her for the spectacle in court? But outside the window, hushed voices chorused together. She pushed open the windows to her room, blinking at the early morning sun, and looked down to the lower courtyard. Servants were being escorted by a group of guards in green, the chambermaids, the cooks, the page boys, even some of the Queen’s ladies in waiting. Grand Maester Orwyle stood beneath an archway, conversing quietly with Tyland Lannister, recognizable by his molten gold hair, and Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws.

All of this chaos could not be for her. Rhaenys was an old woman with a dying husband, the Queen Who Never Was. She had not even been invited to the family dinner with the king. If she was to be punished, it would be with little fanfare.

Yet she was still locked in here. And whoever it was that came for her, she would not face them in her nightgown. Rhaenys dressed and washed her face in a bowl of cool water. With great care, she unbound her hair and combed it neatly and spent nearly an hour pinning it back up intricately. Let her look as fierce and dignified as a woman locked in her room could be.

With a soft click, the door unlatched and Queen Alicent entered the room. The woman was dressed in a green gown so dark it nearly looked black, with her hands clasped together. Specks of blood had dried near her fingernails, a nervous habit the Queen had in her girlhood.

“I will give you the considerable courtesy of assuming that there is a good reason for the outrage of my treatment here this morning,” Rhaenys stood straight, the very picture of poise.

“My sincerest regrets for the lack of ceremony,” the Queen’s voice was soft, colored with weariness. An air of melancholy hung around her and her doe-eyes were wide as she inhaled.

Realization fell upon her. “The King?”

Swallowing, the Queen nodded shakily. Rhaenys nearly shuddered with relief, and then hot shame burned her. Her cousin was dead and here she was, thankful that he could interfere with her granddaughter’s lives no longer.

“And you are usurping the throne,” she observed. There could be no other explanation.

“It was my husband’s dying wish.” There was some fire in the young Queen, but still Rhaenys laughed in disbelief. “What you think is of no consequence. Aegon will be king.”

“Why tell me this? You could have left me locked up in my cage.”

Alicent took a step forward. “I came to ask for your support.”

“I must credit you for your boldness,” said Rhaenys, but the Queen was not finished yet.

“House Velaryon has long allied itself with the Princess Rhaenyra, and what has it gained you? Your daughter, dead. Alone in Pentos. Your son cuckolded and shamed before the realm.”

“Do not speak of my children.”

“And what of your granddaughters?” The Queen stepped forward and forcefully grabbed her by the hands. “You pushed for Baela’s claim before the court and Viserys still denied you. Daemon and Rhaenyra have conspired to have them married to bastards!”

Rhaenys ripped her hands away. “Enough! You have said enough.”

“Aegon will give Driftmark to Baela, as you and Corlys wish,” whispered the Queen. “This, I will swear to you upon the Seven.”

A serious oath from a woman as pious as Alicent Hightower. “And what of Rhaenyra? Of Daemon? You would have me go to war against the father of my granddaughters?”

“There will be no war,” the Queen spoke with such earnest conviction. “Terms will be sent to Rhaenyra. Aegon will offer her and her children Dragonstone in perpetuity, Daemon’s sons will be granted positions of honor in the court. Without the Velaryon fleet and your dragon, she will be pressured to sue for peace.”

Some of the Queen’s girlhood affection remained, despite all these years of enmity. Even Rhaenys, regardless of all the slights and hurt and loss, did not wish to see Rhaenyra dead, to see her granddaughters deprived of their father.

“You are more clever than I realized,” she said, and silence hung between them. If Rhaenyra could be convinced to sue for peace…it was a generous offer, and one that would not come again. “Driftmark will be Baela’s, with Rhaena as her heir until her sister has children of her own," she started. "They will be free to marry whomever they choose, and if I catch word of some plot to betroth either one of them to one of your younger sons, you will have to answer to Meleys.”

Hope bloomed in the Queen’s eyes. “I will speak to the Hand at once.”

“I am not finished. Corlys is not dead yet.” Or at least, a raven had not yet arrived to say otherwise. “You will give me leave to fly to Driftmark. My lord husband will need to be informed.”

“Ah, I am—I am unsure if my father will—”

“When will the boy be coronated?”

Blinking at the interruption, the Queen frowned. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Then you are Queen for one more night,” said Rhaenys. “And what your father wishes is of no consequence to us. Do you truly believe that I would betray my chance to secure my granddaughter’s birthright?”

Married to the king and made a mother four times over, yet Alicent Hightower was more beholden to her father than any other woman Rhaenys had known. The Queen swallowed nervously. “You are right,” she admitted. “If we are truly to be allies, then there must be some modicum of trust. You may leave when you wish, I only ask that it be under the cover of darkness. We do not wish for news to spread before Aegon is crowned.”

“So be it,” Rhaenys agreed. She would see Meleys tonight, and Vaemond’s body had already been sent to the Dragonpit.

With an understanding having been reached, the Queen nodded tightly. “The room will be unlocked, but the guards must stay for show.”

“As long as they are aware that I am free to go.”

The Queen swept from her chambers, leaving Rhaenys to her thoughts. Would Rhaenyra truly submit? Without Meleys, they had only two full-grown dragons, and she would never put Jace, Luke, and Joffrey in danger. And while Daemon had trained Baela with a sword, he would never willingly bring her into battle. Perhaps there would be a chance that things could be settled peacefully—all there was left to do was convince Corlys, which was the more daunting task.

Evening came and Rhaenys stood by the window, watching the moon rise, when steel clashed outside her door. With a muffled shout, something thumped against the door and clanged against the ground. She turned as it swung open and one of the twin Kingsguard stood there, his plate gleaming in the torchlight. A pair of guards in Hightower heraldry lay dead at his feet.

He did not seem to question why the door to her chambers was unlocked. “With me, princess,” he said, offering a cloak of roughspun wool. “I cannot let this treachery stand. There is a boat waiting at the Blackwater Rush.”

“I cannot,” Rhaenys exhaled. This was one of the kind and noble men who would die for Rhaenyra if the realm went to war. “I cannot leave Meleys, my dragon.”

“But princess—”

“No,” she insisted, and then noticed a bag around his waist. “You intend to go to Dragonstone?”

The knight, following her gaze, opened the bag and her cousin’s crown shone in the low torchlight. “Princess Rhaenyra must know what is happening here.”

“You have a better chance on your own, rather than dragging an old woman along with you.” His mouth puckered, as if he had tasted something sour. “I will not leave you empty handed. Bring a message to granddaughters. Tell them—tell them I love them. And that I will fight for them, always.”

“You have my oath, princess,” said the knight. He bowed low, obedient even if it clearly pained him to abandon an old woman to the enemy.

As he turned, she called out after him. “What is your name, ser?”

“Ser Erryk,” he replied. “Erryk Cargyll.”

“You are a good man, Ser Erryk. Now go, quickly.”

He vanished into the darkness, and she too would have to leave soon. She left a note on the table, lest Alicent and the Lord Hand suspect that she had betrayed them after all and fled into the night. Rhaenys counted the minutes—she did not want to run back into Ser Erryk again and give it all away—and then stepped out into the hallway with her bag slung over her shoulder.

To Meleys she would go, and to her husband after, to lay eyes upon him for the first time in six years.

Chapter Text

It felt like they were criminals fleeing into the night. Rhaena did not even have the chance to have a slice of custard tart before Father ushered the children from the dining room. Without ceremony, Aegon and Viserys were retrieved from the nursery and they all piled into a wheelhouse, as Rhaenyra and Father had a secret conversation entirely in raised eyebrows and meaningful glances.

Unlike their arrival, no ship had been called for their departure. It would take too long to arrange, and a family of dragonriders could find a faster solution. But, once again, Rhaena had been managed like a piece of extra luggage. Rhaenyra would fly with Joffrey, while Aegon was strapped into the saddle with Jace, and Baela laughed as Viserys was swaddled against her chest to ride upon Moondancer.

That left Father to deal with Rhaena. Her stepmother was pregnant and Joffrey’s dragon was too small to carry her brother. No other dragon was large enough to carry two riders apart from Caraxes, who made a cackling noise as Rhaena drew near.

“Come on, girl,” her father sighed. He leaned down and offered an arm, hauling Rhaena up into the saddle.

No one had ever bothered to make riding clothing for Rhaena. There had been no need. For frequent flyers like her father and stepmother, they had as many as two or three sets. Rhaenyra even had one made for when she was pregnant, sewn from scarlet dyed leather, and the color accented the glow she acquired when she was expecting. Caraxes’ scales tore at the hem of Rhaena’s gown, shredding the fabric.

Little scraps of red silk fell against the mud of the pit. She inhaled, a sharp thing. Rhaena had liked this gown. As her father strapped her down into the saddle, he sighed. “I’ll have another one made for you,” he said blandly. “Now hold on, Rhaena.”

He always said that, even though they both knew that, on the rare occasions where she flew with her father, he would not let her fall. With a roaring trill, the Blood Wyrm leapt forward, bounding in his snake-like manner, and took to the air. She wrapped her arms tightly around her father, burying her face into his back.

Shrieking, the other dragons followed. Rhaena screamed as Caraxes ascended and then her shouts turned into laughter. It had been nearly three years since she had last flown. An endless expanse of stars and sky stretched before her, as the wind whipped her hair from her face.

Moondancer settled alongside them, with Baela a bright star in the darkness. Her sister waved, reaching out her hand, and despite the great distance between them Rhaena returned the gesture, her fingers tracing the tiny, shrinking image of King’s Landing on the mouth of the river.

Her grandmother was down there somewhere, and Rhaena regretted that she had not even had the time to say goodbye. The last time they had seen each other before yesterday had been for her grandmother’s nameday two years ago, when Rhaena and Baela had joined up to convince their father to let her go to Driftmark. Despite the two years apart, her grandmother remained as gentle and steadfast as ever, and time had not aged her dramatically. There had been a few more wrinkles around her mouth, which Rhaena took as evidence that Baela had done well in making their grandfather smile.

If there was one good thing about this new betrothal with Luke, it would mean that she would spend more time with her grandmother. And perhaps that Luke himself seemed as apprehensive about the match as she did.

As it always did, her time in the air passed too quickly. Dragonstone came into view, the molten rock of the Dragonmont glowing against the black sea. Caraxes began his descent and Rhaena watched it grow closer, before her father unstrapped her and hoisted her back to the ground.

The skirt of her gown was in tatters and, now that she was no longer on Caraxes, Rhaena felt cold.

“Luke,” Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed as she saw Rhaena. “Lend Rhaena your cloak.”

Dutifully, he obeyed and very awkwardly clasped his cloak over her shoulders. It was reminiscent of the way a groom cloaked his bride at a wedding, and for good measure, Luke offered her his arm.

Her family left their dragons to the keepers and made their way up to the keep, crossing the treacherous zig-zag bridge in the moonlight. The lateness of the hour finally caught up to them. Poor Viserys was wailing and Aegon was restless, on the precipice of a tantrum himself.

When they entered the castle proper, goodnights were exchanged before everyone went their separate ways. Rhaena went to her rooms and changed into a nightgown, collapsing into the bed. She was nearly asleep when the door creaked open. Leaning up, she found her sister in the doorway, a candle casting dramatic shadows over her face.

“Rhaena?” She spoke in a low whisper. “Are you asleep?”

Despite the exhaustion and the sweet comfort of her bed, Rhaena smiled. “Not yet.”

The door closed and Baela’s bare feet padded over the stone. She set the candle on the side table and lifted up the plush sable blanket of her bed, slipping into the sheets to sleep together like they had when they were just little girls in Pentos.

“Your feet are freezing!” Rhaena hissed, halfheartedly kicking at her sister. Baela laughed, a sweet sound, and pressed her icy heels right against her shin.

In protest, Rhaena tickled her fingers against Baela’s side, where she knew her sister was most sensitive. Her sister responded by kicking her again with her ice block feet, and they scrabbled together, giggling.

It was the first time they had been alone together in two years. In King’s Landing, there was always someone else with them. Father, Rhaenyra, the boys, the servants. Rhaena reached out and grabbed Baela’s hand. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Baela rolled over and they laid face-to-face, their silver hair mixing together on the sheets.

“Can’t sleep?”

“No,” her sister admitted.

Rhaena smiled softly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“What? I thought twins were supposed to read each other’s mind.”

She reached out and flicked Baela’s forehead. “I would if there was anything in there.”

Her sister’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. “Show some respect to your elders,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about Driftmark. About the petition in court.”

Neither could Rhaena. “I was afraid.” She swallowed. “I was worried that they would take grandmother’s head too.”

“The King is no kinslayer,” said Baela. “Nor is Father.”

Vaemond was kin by marriage, but clearly that made little difference. “Did you manage to speak to grandmother? How was she?”

“She was fine, you know her.” Not well enough, thought Rhaena. Her sister paused. “She asked me if I wanted it.”

“Driftmark?”

“What? No. Claw Isle.”

“Baela!”

She huffed, blowing air into Rhaena’s face. “Yes, Driftmark.”

“Well, do you?” She asked, and Baela’s lavender eyes glanced away.

“It’s home,” her sister admitted. Rhaena filled with a bitter envy that she swallowed down. She felt out of place on Dragonstone, where she was everyone’s least favorite child. The only dragonless Targaryen. “More so than Pentos or here.”

Rhaena drew her brows together, thoughtful. “Grandmother was right,” she whispered. “If it does not pass to Luke…it should go to you.”

“Do you believe me?” Baela said abruptly. “That I knew nothing of it? Grandmother’s plot.”

“Of course.” It was not in Baela’s nature to lie, at least not about this. She might be prone to white lies about which boys she had been kissing, but matters of succession and state? Never. Rhaena did not think she had it in her to fake her devastation in the face of their father’s rage.

“Good. If only Father did as well.”

She did not recall ever seeing her father so angry, not at Baela, the favorite of his daughters. “He will come around in time. Once the anger has passed.”

Baela nudged her. “You sound like grandmother.”

“Thank you,” said Rhaena, genuinely flattered. “She is wise.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the soft sound of her sister’s breathing. “I think you would be a good Lady of the Tides.”

“Thank you, sister,” breathed Baela. “I’d like to think it would have suited me, if the king had allowed it to be mine.”

“It’s not too late,” Rhaena began, uncertainly. “Perhaps we could convince father to switch the betrothals.”

“Do you not want to marry Luke?”

“Do you want to marry Jace?” She shot back.

In the dark, Baela frowned. “I wanted my marriage to be my choice.”

Rhaena wondered if that would have been the case, if not for the scene at King’s Landing. Or had the marriages been her father and stepmother’s plan from the beginning?

Her sister yawned and sighed. “You should sleep, Baela.”

“Can I stay?”

She smiled. “You can.” Quietly, Baela rolled over, pulling half of the sheets towards her and Rhaena turned on her side, so that they laid with their backs pressed together. The sound of her sister’s breathing lulled her to sleep.

When she woke, Baela was gone. Dappled morning light streamed in through her gauzy curtains and cast dancing patterns upon the walls. The side of the bed where her sister had slept was rumpled and the sheets had been kicked down towards the footboard of Rhaena’s four-poster bed.

Her personal chambers were the one place in Dragonstone that felt truly hers. To compensate for her lack of a dragon, her father had always given her lavish and generous gifts. The thick woven rug he had imported from Pentos, the curtains were ordered from a workshop in Braavos. Her wardrobe was carved from ebony wood and featured a stunning inlay of mother-of-pearl and was stuffed with expensive gowns of silk and silver damask. It was a poor substitute for his affection and pride, but Rhaena felt some satisfaction in knowing that not even Rhaenyra could rival her in the sheer number of presents.

Since they had arrived so late, she still smelled of dragon and called for a bath to be sent to her quarters. Rhaena pinned her hair up, piling her locs safely atop her head, and scrubbed the stench from her skin. Once she had dressed, she walked towards the dining hall, hoping that someone had already called for breakfast.

She found Jace there, scooping out the black and white innards of a dragon fruit with a spoon. “Good morning, Rhaena,” he said.

“Good morning, Jace,” she replied. She sat down where she usually sat, in the last chair on the left seat of the table, and pulled a basket of bread towards her.

“Have you seen Baela?” She asked, right as Jace said, “Have you seen Luke?”

They laughed. While they were not terribly close, Jace was an eldest child and Rhaena was a younger sibling. She liked to believe that their friendship helped Jace understand Luke a bit better, and that he could help her could understand why Baela was the way that she was.

“I haven’t seen him. Sorry.”

Jace nodded and then took another spoonful of dragon fruit flesh. “I haven’t seen Baela, either.”

With her bread buttered, Rhaena reached for the carafe of orange juice. “Have father and your mother come by?”

“Not yet,” hummed Jace. “You’re the first person I’ve seen this morning.”

That was odd. Usually Father was here first, or Rhaenyra, who rose early to watch the servants tend to Aegon and Viserys. Jace and her settled into a companionable silence, snatching up the prime pieces of bacon and the ripest of fruits. It was everyone else’s loss.

With a shout, Joffrey burst into the dining hall, his attendant rushing after him. He came to Rhaena first like always and pressed a wet kiss to her cheek. “Good morning Rhaena!”

“Good morning, Joff.” She slid over the thickest slice of sausage from her plate to his. “I see you’ve been making things difficult for poor Elissa again, haven’t you?”

Joffrey’s attendant flushed. “The prince has been no trouble, my lady.”

“Nonsense,” Jace scoffed. “Leave him with me this morning, Elissa. I’ll bring him to you when it’s time for his lessons.”

The woman curtsied with barely concealed gratitude and vanished. “Have you seen Baela or Luke this morning, Joffrey?” Rhaena asked, pouring a cup of honey milk for him.

“I heard Luke arguing with mother, but I haven’t seen Baela. Will she be staying for long this time?”

Rhaena frowned, unwilling to tell him that Baela's wardship was over. “For a while, yes.”

“Arguing?” Jace asked, setting down his spoon. He wiped fruit juice from his fingers.

“I dunno,” Joffrey shrugged, and took a large bite of eggs. “He sounded sad.”

Before they could get more information from him, the door opened again and her father strode into the room, Dark Sister swaying from his hip. Baela followed after him, clearly upset, dressed in a pair of roughspun trousers and a billowing shirt.

Her father sat at the head of the table. “Daughter,” he greeted Rhaena. “Jace. Joffrey. Baela, sit.”

“Good morning,” they chorused, as Baela roughly pulled out a chair. Rhaena tried to catch her eye, but her sister was in the middle of stabbing open a fried egg.

An uncomfortable silence, apart from Joffrey’s loud chewing. Jace coughed. “Joff, how goes your Valyrian?”

Like a slow meandering beast, the conversation wandered meaninglessly and often paused altogether until Rhaenyra swept into the room with Luke at her side. “It seems we’re late, Luke,” laughed her stepmother. “Let us hope that they saved us some scraps.”

Father spooned fruit and meats onto her stepmother’s plate, while Jace passed Luke the basket of bread, his brown eyes full of worry. Rhaenyra had a talent of making her father gentle, of easing awkwardness and tension. She had her father laughing and Luke smiling and even soothed Jace’s concern. It was only Baela who remained sullen, still refusing to look up from her plate.

Once the plates were clean, they were dismissed. Baela kicked back her chair, feet screeching, and stormed away and Rhaena hoisted up her skirts and ran after her.

“Baela! Where are you going?”

“To the training yard,” she shouted over her shoulder.

At least she was not taking to the skies. To the yard, Rhaena could at least follow.

The training yard of Dragonstone was rarely used except for when Baela was here. Father did not need the practice, and Jace and Luke preferred to train on the beach with Ser Marbrand, where there was more space. Joffrey was still a bit too young for live steel and he had his heart set on learning archery anyways.

Unlike the yard of the Red Keep, the one on Dragonstone was built to only accommodate the handful of Targaryens left in the world, which was not very many people. Thick stone walls enclosed the oval shape of the narrow yard, which was full of mud and dust. A small walkway meandered over the top of walls for curious spectators, but Rhaena stepped into the mud, caking her red slippers in dirt.

“You spoke to father again?”

Baela ripped a sword from the racks, steel with a blunted edge, and attacked the straw dummy with a fury. “I did.”

“I assume it did not go well.”

“What do you think?” Her tone was short, voice irritated. She sounded a bit like father, although it would make Baela even angrier to hear that said aloud.

“Did you speak about grandmother? Your wardship?”

Straw exploded from the dummy. “No.”

“The betrothals?”

“No, Rhaena.”

She huffed. “Driftmark?”

“I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Gods, Baela!” Rhaena threw up her hands, dropping her skirt into the muck. “You’re acting just like Father.”

“What?” Her sister whipped around. “Oh gods, I am. Aren’t I? I’m sorry, Rhaena.”

“What did he say to vex you so?” Rhaena asked, and then looked down to her skirt, which was slowly staining with mud. Two gowns ruined in two days.

Baela dug the tip of the sword in the dirt. “We didn’t even speak really. I wanted to ride with him at dawn like we always do, but he refused me.” She paused, clearly upset. “He made this comment, as if he couldn’t trust me in the air with him.”

“He didn’t mean it,” she said quietly. “You’re his daughter. And what could Moondancer do to Caraxes?”

“No,” Baela agreed. “He didn’t mean it. He said it to hurt me.” Her sister’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I don’t know what to say or do to convince him to trust me.”

Their father had never been angry at Rhaena. Why would he be? She was obedient, dutiful, and unfailingly kind to her stepbrothers and stepmother. His disappointment at her inability to claim a dragon was already bitter enough—why would she court his anger? It must be worse for Baela, she mused. Her elder sister had always known his favor, and even when she disobeyed him or caused mischief. It seemed to amuse him endlessly, knowing that his daughter took after him.

“He needs time,” she explained. “When he gets angry at the boys, he needs a few days to calm down before he's ready to listen or hear apologies.”

“He’s never been angry at me before,” Baela said quietly. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, sister,” Rhaena stepped forward and took Baela’s free hand, squeezing it in hers. “It will pass, I promise.”

Baela stepped closer and leaned against her, pillowing her head on Rhaena’s shoulder. They stood together for a few moments, listening to the whistling wind and the distant roar of dragons.

“Did you end up going riding, like you had wanted?”

“No,” huffed Baela, her voice a bit lighter now. “I should have. It was a beautiful sunrise.”

Gently, Rhaena released her sister and stepped away. “You should go,” she smiled. “Go and give Moondancer a kiss for me.”

“Are you sure? You’ll be fine on your own?”

She laughed. “Baela, I’ve lived on this island for six years without you.” It had been so hard at first, but Rhaena had managed to carve out a life here, as mundane as it was. “Now go!”

Finally smiling, Baela bowed dramatically, sweeping her hand into the air. She threw the training sword back on the rack and together they left the yard. They parted ways in the hall; Baela heading onto the grassy moors of the Dragonmont, while Rhaena returned to her chambers.

Rhaena had finished her training with the maester a year ago and had a particular gift for sums and managing household accounts. Unlike other highborn ladies, her father had refused a septa, which meant that poor Gerardys had to juggle the education of Jace, Luke, Joffrey, and herself. While the boys continued with their studies, Rhaena had found herself with an abundance of free time. She embroidered when the weather was foul, and kept a small planter box where she grew flowers and delicate, red-veined ferns, but she particularly liked to read.

She disliked most histories, but found fables and myths to be interesting. If she was in the mood, a courtly romance could strike her fancy. Atlas books and geographies often caught her eye, tracing her fingers over the rivers and coastlines of Essos. What she enjoyed most were biographies and accounts of great people. After nearly a month of begging, Gerardys had sent for a copy of Maester Mathis' The Nine Voyages, which recounted the adventures of her grandfather, the infamous Sea Snake.

Rhaena had not seen him since her mother’s funeral, and even then they had exchanged few words, as both were consumed with grief. Yet, as she read more of the book, she felt that, in some way, she knew him. Rhaena could hear his voice shouting orders; she could see her grandfather at the prow of a ship, his silver locs streaming in the breeze, as he approached Asshai-by-the-Shadow.

Currently, she was in the middle of the Third Voyage, where her grandfather had sailed to the Shivering Sea, to Ibben and the Kingdom of the Ifequevron and to the Thousand Islands. If her grandfather managed to survive his wounds, Rhaena would find some way to get to Driftmark, to hear these tales from his own mouth.

She read until the late afternoon, mostly uninterrupted apart from Joff, who came to listen to her read aloud for an hour until Jace came and fetched him. As the sun started to make its descent from the sky, Rhaena finally shut the book, leaving a ribbon to mark her page. And she spent the next day in a similar manner, reading and spending time with her sister, until her stepmother summoned her to a feast.

Rhaenyra was fond of family dinners and great celebrations, and so she had summoned the family and much of the Dragonstone court to a great dinner to celebrate the betrothal of her sons to her stepdaughters. As one of the guests of honor, Rhaena would need dress nicely. She chose a gown of black silk from her wardrobe, and paired it with a necklace of gold and rubies and a number of golden beads for her hair.

After a while, Luke came to escort her, sheepishly knocking upon her door and flushing red. His mother had chosen to dress him in sable with red stitching. They did not speak as they made their way through the castle, joining with the rest of the family.

They were announced in groups. Father and Rhaenyra. Joffrey with Aegon and Viserys. Jace escorted Baela to the high table, followed by Rhaena and Luke. In a departure from their typical arrangement, Rhaena was seated to the left of Rhaenyra and Jace was next to her father.

No expense had been spared, despite the feast being arranged last minute. Plates of food covered nearly every inch of the table. Crabs cooked in garlic butter, chilled prawns served with tomatoes and onions and spices. In the torchlight, the buttered bread buns glistened. Sea fish lay braised on platters with delicately carved citrus flowers, a rack of lamb was rubbed with Braavosi spices. Savory meat pies and tarts were piled atop each other.

Of the court, members from Houses Bar Emmon, Celtigar, Rambton, Crabb, Massey, and Sunglass were in attendance. The great hall of Dragonstone was not as large as the Red Keep’s, but it felt fuller and warmer and raucous.

“I would like to make a toast,” Rhaenyra stood, raising a glass as the hall hushed. “To my sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, and to my lovely stepdaughters, Baela and Rhaena. It is my sincerest wish that you will find happiness in your marriages.”

Her father stood and raised his glass. “Hear, hear. To Jace and Baela, the future king and queen. And to Luke and Rhaena, the Lord and Lady of the Tides!”

But before Rhaenyra and her father could sit back down, the doors to the hall opened and in strode a kingsguard. Only two served her stepmother on Dragonstone, Ser Darklynn and Ser Marbrand, but they were already standing watch in other parts of the hall. A brief look of confusion twitched over Rhaenyra’s face, before her brow smoothed out. As he walked closer, the white knight pulled off his helmet, revealing long, unbound brown hair, and a pair of blue eyes.

“Ser Cargyll,” Rhaenyra began. Rhaena wondered if she knew which Cargyll twin it was. Her smile was strained. “Welcome to Dragonstone. I assume you have come to bring news from King’s Landing?”

The knight nodded and stepped up the dais to the high table. With a quiet hiss, Dark Sister was unsheathed. “I mean no harm, my prince.”

Slowly, he knelt down before Rhaenyra, the joints of his white plate armor creaking. He opened a leather satchel that hung to his side and fished out the golden crown of the king.

“What is the meaning of this?” Her father’s voice was soft, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I swear to ward the Queen,” Ser Cargyll said, ignoring her father. His voice boomed through the hall and Rhaena felt it in her bones. Raising the crown up, his eyes were only for Rhaenyra. “With all my strength, and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.”

The entire hall was hushed, as they all realized that the king had passed. Rhaenyra made a soft little noise of grief and pressed a hand against her stomach. “I shall guard her secrets,” continued the kingsguard. “Obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

Her father took the crown in hand and his eyes were very wet. Rhaenyra was shocked, her lips parted breathlessly, as the crown of her father, the crown of Jaehaerys, was placed upon her head.

Like a wave, the hall fell to their knees. “Long live the Queen!” Someone shouted, and the chant erupted wildly. Despite the noise, her father only had eyes for his wife, holding Rhaenyra’s gaze as he bowed, low.

Rhaena was frozen in her seat. She looked to Baela and found her sister already staring at her. This was not the death everyone had been expecting, and despite herself, Rhaena felt relief that it was not news that Corlys had passed.

“My father is dead?” Rhaenyra said at last, her voice soft.

“He is, your grace,” said Ser Cargyll. Hesitancy flickered in his eyes. “But there is more. Your brother, Aegon, has been crowned as his successor.”

The hall erupted into whispers, but below the sound, Rhaena heard her stepmother make a pained moan.  “They crowned him?” She said beneath her breath.

“How did Viserys die?”

Ser Cargyll stood slowly. “I could not say. It had already happened by the time the news had reached me.”

“How long ago?” It had only been two days since they last saw him.

“I do not know. At most, two days. Yesterday, I was dispatched to retrieve Prince Aegon from the city by the Hand. His coronation should have been this morning.”

“You should have struck the usurper down where he stood!” Her father raged. “They have slain my brother.”

“Along with the crown, I attempted to free Princess Rhaenys from the castle,” recalled the knight. “They had imprisoned her in her rooms, but I had to leave her. She would not abandon her dragon.”

Despair filled Rhaena’s mouth. “That foolish woman,” her father said, but there was some understanding in his voice. Like her grandmother, he would never abandon Caraxes. “They will use her,” he said to Rhaenyra. “To pressure Corlys to grant them the Velaryon fleet. They will have us surrounded!”

The guests in the hall knew not what to do at this public spectacle of loss and grief and anger. A low panic gripped the room, a frenzied fear. “The coronation.” Rhaenyra managed, unable to voice an unspoken question.

“It was to be in the Dragonpit, your grace,” answered Ser Cargyll, who mercifully knew what she wanted to know. “The High Septon was to crown him. I am sorry that I do not know more.”

Rhaenyra nearly buckled and Jace leapt out of his chair to support his mother. She made a keening noise of pain, half a sob, and gripped her son’s hand so hard her knuckles were white. And then, suddenly, Rhaenyra’s eyes went wide. Despite the crowds, she lifted up her gown and stuck her hand up her skirts. When it came back into view, her fingers were covered in blood.

“The babe is coming,” she whispered, before Rhaenyra collapsed entirely and the crown went rolling to the floor.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had fainted for only a few moments, but nevertheless her father swept up his wife and carried her from the hall, while Jace followed, carrying his mother’s crown.

That left Rhaena to preside over the remaining guests, for out of all of her siblings, she was the most suited. Baela and Luke returned Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys back to their chambers, trying their best to comfort the younger children. For those who wished to remain and finish their meals, Rhaena remained as a representative of the family, but she found that many had lost their appetite. A dark mood had descended upon Dragonstone, and many preferred to retire back to their guest chambers, to wait out the metaphorical storm. She bid goodnight to scores of their noble guests and promised to relay their concerns and well wishes to Rhaenyra and her father.

So much food had gone to waste, and so she instructed the kitchen staff to bring the leftovers down to the nearby villages. May someone find joy tonight, she thought.

Rhaenyra’s labors intensified later into the night, as the realization that it had not been a frightening false alarm or an isolated pain dawned on the castle. Briefly, Rhaena went to look in on her stepmother and found the new Queen half-crazed. Her shift was bright with blood and soaked against her skin, her typically straight hair curling from the sweat. She paced ceaselessly, slapping away the hands of her ladies, who looked close to tears. Even Maester Gerardys, the smartest man that Rhaena knew, stood there helplessly, his fist pressed against his mouth in worry.

Why had she come? Perhaps she had hoped to give Rhaenyra some comfort, but more likely she had come to comfort herself, hoping somehow that everything was going well, despite the fact that they all knew it was far too early.

From where she stood, half-hidden behind the wall, she saw Rhaenyra bend over, supporting herself shakily on the arms of a chair. Her stepmother bit out an agonizing cry. “Daemon!” Her voice cracked.

Where was her father? Rhaena blinked and searched the room, as if he was hiding in some shadowed corner. He had always been by Rhaenyra’s side when Aegon and Viserys were born, and he had been with Rhaena’s own mother on the night that she died.

She turned away as her stepmother nearly collapsed. What comfort would she be? All she would do would remind Rhaenyra of her father’s absence. She fled back into the dark shadow of the castle, chased by the sound of screaming.

Yet in her rooms, the sound still haunted her, even after she changed and climbed into bed and hid beneath the sheets, pressing a pillow against her ears. Despite her best efforts, Rhaena’s mind wandered back to her mother. She had labored late into the night, as Baela and Rhaena huddled together in bed, their excitement about their new sibling undercut by the agonizing sound of their mother’s crying.

She could not stand this. The horrific cries and wails. Even a dragon, likely Syrax, was screaming. Rhaena threw the sheets off herself and climbed out of bed. Fumbling in the dark, she pulled a soft linen cloak from her wardrobe and threw it around her shoulders to ward off the misty chill. She left her rooms and slipped through the hall. Only a handful of guards watched the entrance to the Stone Drum, where the family apartments were located, and none bothered to stop her as she slipped through the galley and two sets of walls.

Looming in the dark mist, the Sea Dragon Tower gazed east over the water. Rhaena passed beneath the massive shadow of its carved stone wing, which was so large it blotted out the stars. The dragon’s eyes, where the maester’s quarters were located, were dark. As she walked up the winding stairs, she passed by Dragonstone’s ancient library—nearly bursting with illuminated books and ancient Valyrian scrolls—and a rarely used infirmary and a solar that seemingly had stood empty for years.

Rhaena pushed open the door to the rookery, which sat at the crest of the carved dragon tower, half exposed to the biting winds of the Narrow Sea. The ravens crowed as she entered, flapping their wings in annoyance. Even though half of the room was directly exposed to the air, it still smelled of birds, musty and sour.

“Who’s there?”

She paused in the middle of shutting the door behind her. “It’s me, Rhaena.”

A figure shifted in the darkness, sliding out from around the corner of a table. Luke looked up at her through his eyelashes, his dark hair framing his pale face. He sat wrapped in a cloak the color of shadow, with his knees tucked up against his chest.

“Luke, what are you doing here?”

“It was too loud,” he said softly. “I couldn’t bear it.”

That, she could understand. “It’s horrible,” she agreed and carefully lowered herself to the ground. Luke shuffled over, making room so that Rhaena could lean against the leg of the table. “At least we can’t hear it from here.”

He hummed lowly, a half-hearted agreement. From the top of the tower, the wind and rhythmic crash of the sea against the cliffs drowned out any other sound. “It’s never been so bad before.” A soft exhale. “She didn’t sound like this with Aegon or Viserys or even Joffrey.”

“The babe is too early. And your mother is grieving.” Pity seized her. Luke had always assumed that his mother would survive childbirth, and she knew firsthand what it felt like to have that illusion shattered. “How long have you been up here?”

“An hour. Two at most,” said Luke.

“And Jace hasn’t come looking for you?”

“He’s busy. Daemon called a war council.” He glanced at her. “Without mother’s permission.”

Rhaena frowned. “He should be with your mother.”

“That’s what Jace said.” And her stepbrother was correct. How could her father think of war councils when his wife was screaming for him several rooms away?

They sat together, soothed by the sound of the sea, the wind, and the soft chirps and sleepy squawks of the ravens. The birds needed the sleep. Surely by tomorrow they would be dispatched across the realm, denouncing Aegon as a usurper and reminding the nobility of their sworn oaths.

After a while, Luke cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that this all might be my fault,” he said lowly.

“Why would you think that?” Her stepbrother’s brown eyes were bright, even in the dark.

“If not for me,” he began. “We would have never gone to King’s Landing, and maybe the king would still be alive. And mother wouldn’t have—the babe would be—”

“Oh, Luke,” she said kindly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You did not kill the king.”

“But you saw him! Grandfather shouldn’t have been walking, let alone be out of bed!” He sucked in a shuddering breath. “It never should have happened in the first place, the petition. I don’t want Driftmark,” he whispered it as though it was a terrible secret. “I never have.”

This did not surprise her terribly. Luke preferred the skies to the seas and Rhaena, who had wished for dragon for as long as she had lived, could not fault him for that. “What do you want, Luke?”

“I want mother to be proud of me,” he laughed, a tight manic giggle. “And I suppose being a knight wouldn’t be so bad.” Like a wilting flower, he curled into himself. “Driftmark should be Baela’s.”

Sliding closer, Rhaena wrapped her arms around him. “I know,” she murmured and held her stepbrother close. There was nothing either of them could do about it until they knew that Rhaenyra would survive the night.

They sat together in the rookery until the cold became too much, seeping in through their cloaks, and they rose, unsteady on freezing limbs. As they returned to the Stone Drum, Rhaena realized that the screaming had stopped and only a deathly silence remained. She left Luke to return to her own chambers and climbed into the sheets, trying to desperately warm her hands and feet. The silence was too much now, she realized. But sleep found her anyways.

In the morning, as dawn painted the sky in streaks of yellow and pink, she was summoned to the grassy cliffs of the Dragonmont that overlooked the sea. A pyre had been built near the ridge, atop the same stone platform where Rhaenyra and her father had been married. There, Rhaena found her sister and her stepbrothers and a number of other members of the household.

Rhaenyra and her father began the procession once the sun had cleared the horizon. Her stepmother’s face was splotched with grief but she held her head high, the crown of her father resting steady on her brow. In her arms, she cradled a tiny bundle wrapped in linens—the child who would have been Rhaena’s baby sister.

The babe burned and the smoke mirrored the plumes of dark smoke that spewed from the Dragonmont, as if the island itself was lamenting the loss. Her father, very gently, took Rhaenyra’s hand in his, and it was that small gesture that brought Rhaena to tears at last. She wept for her father, for Rhaenyra, for the unborn babe. For her grandmother and grandfather. For herself and her siblings and for all of the horrors that surely lay ahead.

Out of all the kingsguard, it was Ser Cargyll who found the courage to interrupt the burning. He made his way up the grassy cliff, his white cloak trailing behind him. “Your Grace,” he greeted Rhaenyra. “A ship has been sighted off the southern shore. A lone galleon flying a banner of a three-headed golden dragon.”

Rhaenyra stood still, her back towards Rhaena, and so she could not see her expression. But her father turned away from the dead babe, his hand flying to Dark Sister.

“Take the children back to the castle,” commanded her father. “Alert the watchtowers, and sight the skies.”

Her father left, with Rhaenyra following after him, her cloak flowing in the breeze. Firmly, but not unkindly, Ser Marband escorted them back to the castle, despite Jace and Baela’s protests. And while they could not follow after their parents, they could still watch the proceedings from a distance. Sending away Joffrey with the nurse, Luke, Rhaena, Baela, and Jace climbed up the southern ramparts, squinting through the fog.

Two parties met at the juncture of the zig-zag bridge, her father on one side and Otto Hightower, a small speck of green, on the other. Rhaenyra was nowhere to be seen, but that did not last long. Syrax screamed from behind them, flying over the castle and descending to the bridge. The yellow dragon landed behind Hightower’s party, growling so loudly they could hear it from the ramparts. Rhaenyra dismounted and pushed her way through the soldiers to the former Hand of the King. They spoke, the words unknown to them.

“Father just drew his sword,” said Baela. Syrax began to scream and Rhaena squinted, trying to get a better look.

“Why do you think Hightower is here?” Luke asked.

Jace frowned, biting at his cheek. “He came alone. As a messenger.”

“Probably bearing terms,” Rhaena said softly. “For our surrender.”

Reluctantly, the small figure that was her father sheathed his sword. Syrax calmed, looming threateningly on the bridge as Hightower and his envoy turned away. Rhaenyra pushed through the crowd, past her father, and swiftly walked up the steps back towards the castle.

Baela and Jace exchanged a look before they took off down the stairs to the yard. Blinking in surprise, Luke sprinted after them, and that left Rhaena to pick up her skirts and run—as fast as she could in slippers—in chase. They beat Rhaenyra and her father back to the Chamber of the Painted Table, greeted by the anxious lords of the Crownlands.

Her father entered the chamber first, his mouth twisted angrily. After an appropriate amount of time, Rhaenyra entered afterwards, announced and escorted by a group of four guards. She wore her crown with a grim determination, clutching a folded slip of paper in her hand.

“Let us begin,” the Queen said, and the men obeyed.

War chests were retrieved from storage. Gerardys and a steward lit a long, narrow tray of candles, which cast the room in warm rich light. With a pair of tongs, they slipped it into place and the Painted Table burst into flame, as light creeped through and lit up the map drawn by the Conquerors, Rhaena’s ancestors.

“What is our standing?”

Her father stood at the head of the table, eyes examining the map. Dragonstone was carved on the eastern side, only a short distance away from King’s Landing. “We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbow men, and three hundred-men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired.” Rhaenyra moved to speak, but he continued. “We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

“We already have declarations from Lords Celtigar and Staunton, along with Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon,” said Gerardys, smiling at his queen. The Lords in question, those few who had the misfortune of being guests at last night’s feast, bowed their heads in affirmation.

Jace quickly and quietly set their army tokens on the Painted Table. Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered towards her son and she gestured loosely to the north half of the map. “My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn their backs on their own kin.”

Gerardys nodded. “We should not forget Riverrun. They were always close friends to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

Rhaena narrowed her eyes in confusion. That should have been Rhaenyra’s command. Gerardys was a loyal man who respected her stepmother, but she also knew that it was very easy for her father to bully people into following his instructions.

“Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed,” Rhaenyra said coolly, looking at her husband. “He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position, and that we will support him if it comes to war.”

Her father cleared his throat. “I’m going to treat with him myself.”

“Only at my leave, Daemon.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Breaking the tension, Lord Celtigar spoke. “And what of Storm’s End and Winterfell?”

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath,” said Lord Sunglass, a bit disdainfully, as if it was not something to be praised. “With House Stark, the North will follow.”

“And Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises,” Rhaenyra sighed. “And our enemies?”

“We have no friends amongst the Westerlands,” said her father. “Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him, and Otto Hightower will not risk losing the Lannister fleet. He will do anything he can to ensure their loyalty.”

The Queen watched as her father moved a token on the table. “Without the Lannisters, we are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.”

“No,” he answered. “The Riverlands are essential.”

“Please forgive my bluntness, Your Grace,” began Lord Celtigar. “But your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria! Dragons!”

“The Greens also have dragons,” said Rhaenyra.

“Three adults, by my count. Four, if you count the youngest Hightower’s runt,” her father smiled, sharp. “But we have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys, once we recover Rhaenys from the city. Your sons fly Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.”

“None of our dragons have been to war, husband. And over half of them are flown by our children.”

“There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark,” her father looked at Rhaena intently. The weight of his expectation was sudden and uncomfortable to bear. “Vermithor and Silverwing nest on the Dragonmont. All still riderless. And that still leaves the three wild dragons.”

Rhaenyra nearly laughed. “And who will ride them?”

“There are thirteen to their four,” insisted her father, ignoring the question. “I have a score of eggs incubating. We need a toehold large enough to house a sizable host. Harrenhall is best suited. We can cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with dragons. And have every Green head mounted on spikes before the moon turns.”

A silence fell over the room. It sounded remarkably easy when her father said it. “When dragons flew to war, everything burned,” her stepmother began. “I will not rule over a kingdom of ash and sorrow.”

Lord Celtigar frowned and leaned forward. “Are you considering the Hightower terms, Your Grace?”

If she was, Rhaenyra did not show it on her face. “My job is to defend the realm, to keep it stable and united, not cast it headlong into war.”

“They have already declared war!” Her father slammed a hand down against the table. “Would you have us do nothing?”

“If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.” The Queen raised her chin, challenging her husband. “Taking caution does not mean standing fast, and we must know who our allies are before we can decide to go to war. We need to first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”

Her father nodded. “And Driftmark. We do not even know if Corlys is alive. And if he is, he likely does not know that his wife has been taken captive.”

“Then we shall send a message to Driftmark as well.”

Gerardys nodded, his maester’s chain clinking. “I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace.”

“We should bear those messages,” Jace said. He looked to his mother with determination and devotion brimming in his eyes. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they are more convincing. Send us.”

“The prince is right,” her father laughed, nearly amused.

Rhaenyra looked at her sons for a long moment, her brow furrowed beneath the weight of the crown. “Very well,” she said at last, with something akin to pride. “Prince Jacaerys will fly north. First to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell. Prince Lucerys,” her stepbrother jolted at his name, “will fly south to Storm’s End to treat with Lord Borros Baratheon.”

“I’ll go to Driftmark,” Baela stepped forward. “Moondancer and I could be there and back in a handful of hours.”

“No,” said her father, exchanging a glance with Rhaenyra. “Baela will stay.”

Her sister was put out, confused and angry all at once. “But—”

“No, daughter. You will stay.”

“Your Grace,” she turned to Rhaenyra, pleading. “Please—”

Rhaenyra smiled sadly. “Your father is right, Baela.”

Baela opened her mouth to speak, to shout, to scream, but Rhaena stepped in front of her. “Send me,” she said, quietly, and realizing that almost no one could hear her, she found her courage. “You can send me," she said louder.

Her voice echoed through the room and she nearly shrank back from the sound of it. Rhaenyra blinked and looked at her father, who was looking at Rhaena as if he had never seen her before. Wordlessly, he tilted his head, silver hair falling over his shoulder.

“I could have a ship prepared in an hour,” he said at last.

“Then it is decided,” the Queen nodded; Baela stormed from the room. “Rhaena will go to Driftmark. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore, and the cost of breaking them.”

And so it was her father, two hours later, who walked with her down the zig-zag stair to the docks. A schooner, built for speed, bobbed in the water and flew the colors of House Targaryen. Baela had not come to see her off and that hurt overshadowed the rare pleasure of having her father’s undivided attention.

Carefully, he helped her up the gangplank and took her hand in his. “You have Rhaenyra’s message?”

“I do, father,” she said, nodding.

“If you decide to stay the night with your grandfather, you must send a raven. Otherwise, I'll expect you back by sundown.”

“I will write as soon as I know more, I promise.”

“Good.” His lilac eyes bored into her, the same eyes as her own. “You should try and find Seasmoke while you’re on the island.”

His command was unspoken but very clear. Rhaena swallowed and looked away. “I will try, father.”

Suitably assured, he released her and she boarded the ship. The crew immediately set to work, pulling the bridge back and raising the anchor. With a whooshing noise, the sails dropped and the ship began to crawl into the sea.

“Rhaena!” She turned and looked back to the docks. Her father stood there, a figure growing ever smaller as the boat sailed away, with his hand raised. A simple farewell. She raised her own arm and waved in response, and wished suddenly that Baela was there.

Her father turned away first and made the long ascent back up to the castle. Rhaena waited there by the railing for some time as her home for the past six years shrank behind her. With a screech, Vermax and Arrax shot up from behind the castle. Jace’s dragon, forest green with copper wings that were gleaming in the sun, turned north, while Arrax flew down low towards the water. The pearlescent dragon came up along the ship, blowing a gust of wind into Rhaena’s face, and chittered playfully. Luke waved at her once, a hesitant smile on his face, before Arrax angled upwards, circling around the ship three times before her stepbrother flew ahead of her.

With a sigh, Rhaena went down to the hold; she would only get in the way of the crew. There was a small, cramped cabin that would serve as her quarters for the handful of hours they would spend at sea. As she shut the door behind her, a pair of hands seized her, clapping over her mouth. Rhaena managed a muffled scream as Baela laughed and released her.

There stood her sister, grinning widely, self-satisfied like a cat who had just caught a particularly irritating mouse. “Baela!”

“Rhaena,” answered her sister.

“You—you should be on Dragonstone!”

“I know,” she said, shrugging. “Let’s hope we get to Driftmark before father discovers where I’ve gone.”

Chapter Text

By dawn, Meleys brought her to Driftmark. The newborn sun glittered over the Narrow Sea and cast the isle in dramatic shadow. A few early rising fishermen had already set sail in the calm waters around the port of Hull, little flecks of color against the expanse of the sea. Nestled between two cliffs, Castle Driftmark loomed over the trading town. Corlys’ childhood home was a squat, ancient castle, originally built from dark shale that had long been stained white from centuries of salt.

Rhaenys urged Meleys forward to the northern tip of the island. The interior of Driftmark was relatively barren, apart from a carefully managed forest reserved for shipbuilding. Sheep grazed in the open fields, alongside the new saplings which would one day grow into trees and be turned into ships.

They passed over Spicetown, separated from High Tide by a tidal beach which made the castle inaccessible during certain times of the day. Rhaenys squinted down and brought Meleys over, watching the water. The tide was coming in, slowly drowning the causeway, but the water was not yet so high that Rhaenys could not land.

With a roaring groan, Meleys skidded over the sand, sending up a wave of water. Rhaenys dismounted into the sea, rubbing her hand over the warmth of the Red Queen’s scarlet scales. In the sun, the membranes of her wings glowed a brilliant pink and her copper horns flashed. An ash wood box was strapped to her back, which contained Vaemond’s body. The pair of Dragonkeepers who had been assigned to Driftmark to steward Meleys and Seasmoke—and Vhagar, once upon a time—would know to untie it from her dragon. She would send a steward to recover the body once she had laid eyes upon her husband.

They parted; Meleys took to the sky, shaking water from her talons, while Rhaenys waded across the submerged beach to the great white gates of High Tide, praying that she would get there before the water rose high enough to get in her boots.

As she stepped through the gates, the steward and the maester greeted her. “Princess,” the steward bowed low. “We received your news of Ser Vaemond. I have already commissioned his casket to be carved.”

“Thank you, Aeron,” she said, taking off her riding gloves. “I brought his body back with me on Meleys. You should send a rider across the water once the tides go down. The dragonkeepers will keep him safe until then.”

Aeron was a distant Velaryon cousin and she could see Vaemond and Corlys reflected faintly in his face. “A rider will be sent as soon as the tide recedes,” he nodded..

Her first task was done, now came the more difficult one. “Maester, how fares my husband?”

“He arrived yesterday, princess.” A pause, before the stoic old maester’s mouth twitched up. “I am happy to say that his fever broke in the night.”

Once, when Rhaenys had hoped she would be a queen, she had trained herself to hide her emotions. It was already difficult enough to convince men of her capability, and they would not respect a queen who cried and laughed and raged when she was angry. But both these men had known her for years. Not as a queen or a princess, but as the lady of the house, a mother and wife, as family. As relief flooded through her, Rhaenys shut her eyes, exhaling softly, and smiled.

“Is he awake?”

“Not yet,” he answered. “But I imagine soon. Lord Corlys was conscious very briefly in the evening, but he was not lucid.”

Her blasted husband was determined to make her wait for a while longer. “He is in his chambers?”

“Yes, princess. He is stable, but I would ask that you send word when he is awake so that I may examine him once more.”

“You have my word,” said Rhaenys and without further delay she entered High Tide. Some girlish excitement seized her and she nearly ran through the castle, taking the stairs two at a time, until she found herself outside the door to their chambers.

Opening the door felt like coming home. When was the last time she had come to their bedroom, knowing for certain that Corlys would be waiting for her? Her husband had not been home in six years, leaving her only with letters and her grief for company.

She entered and was hit immediately with heat. The hearth was roaring, spitting fire like a dragon. Asleep in their marriage bed was her husband. As she came to his bedside, she realized that the past six years had not been very kind to Corlys. A weariness marked his brow even in sleep, his beard was shot through with grey, and his hair was more white than it was silver. Irrationally, Rhaenys found herself angry that she had not been there to see him age. Had they not sworn to grow old together?

A linen bandage was pasted around his neck. Apart from that one detail, she could almost believe that he was sleeping and he had not come perilously close to death.. Rhaenys quietly dragged a chair from their table and brought it to the bedside, oddly excited at the mundane task of looking upon her husband in sleep.

Despite her best efforts, her own sleepless night caught up to her and she drifted off in her chair until a familiar voice roused her. “I’ve had men flogged for falling asleep on their watch, you know.”

Rhaenys jolted awake and there he was, his striking violet eyes against the rich black of his skin and the silver of his brow. He had the gall to smile at her! His lips quirked up, and she wondered if he was as pleased at the sight of her as she was to see him. He exhaled softly, almost a laugh. “But you are no man.”

I’ve missed you, Rhaenys thought. I love you. You’ve gotten old. Our granddaughters are wonderful. “You abandoned me,” she said instead, her voice a hoarse whisper as grief and anger suppressed her love. “When I most needed you.”

Corlys’ salt-worn face shuttered. She watched him swallow, a painful twitching motion beneath the bandages. “Both of our children stolen from us. I needed you.” He looked away; his face hidden in shadow. “Baela and Rhaena needed you, and you abandoned us for more adventure at sea. As has always been your way.”

“I had no other place to turn.” So he did not deny that he had gone off on a grand adventure while she aged into a bitter and sad old woman. “I lost everything.”

“We lost, Corlys,” she snapped. “We.”

Even in her anger, she was still his wife. Rhaenys took up a linen towel and dipped it in a bowl of cool water. She settled on the bedside and gently wiped the sweat from his brow. “Viserys is dead, and Alicent Hightower has crowned her son as king.”

He locked eyes with her, and Rhaenys resigned herself to be the bearer of bitter news. “Your brother is also dead.”

Corlys sucked in a breath, his eyes widening. Desperately, he tried to push himself up and failed, groaning in pain. Rhaenys placed a hand on his chest, relishing the sensation of his heartbeat beneath her palm, his warmth, the steadiness of his body. “What happened?”

“While you lay dying, he stood before Viserys and pressed his claim to Driftmark, denouncing Laenor’s sons as illegitimate. Daemon took his head for it.”

Her husband winced, as if Dark Sister had cut into him, and shut his eyes for a long time. He did not cry, but Rhaenys was not surprised. The fever had likely burned all the water from him.

“His body?”

“I brought him home,” said Rhaenys, taking his hand.

He squeezed her fingers and looked at her, defeat in his eyes. “Ambition has always been a Velaryon weakness.” It was not Vaemond he was speaking of, but himself. “You were right, Rhaenys. I reached too far. And for nothing.” He shook his head, a resignation in the shape of his mouth. “Our pursuit of the Iron Throne is at an end.”

Our pursuit? She was vindicated and pitied him all at once. A tear slipped down her cheek, as Corlys continued. “There will be war for the throne, that much I know. We shall declare for no one. We will retire to High Tide to be content,” he bundled her hand to his chest. “To be with our grandchildren.”

Rhaenys leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. “When Vaemond pressed his claim to Driftmark, I did not support him.”

“As you should have.”

“Rather, I petitioned the king to have Driftmark to pass down through Laena’s line. To Baela. I'm sure you can guess how that went, but Alicent Hightower has assured me that if her son has the support of the Velaryon fleet, they will grant it to her.”

Corlys made a strange expression, utterly baffled. “Baela is just a girl.”

“A girl you do not know,” Rhaenys said shortly. “And for that, I pity you. She is a wonderful and clever thing, that girl. All spitfire and storm squall. Your own brother taught her to sail and she knows Driftmark like the back of her hand.” She paused, overcome by love. “I haven’t seen a child so suited to sky and sea since Laenor and Laena.”

“And how can you trust Hightower’s word? They swore their oaths to Rhaenyra and broke them as soon as the opportunity allowed.”

She did not, but what else could she hope for? It would be worth it, it must. “It is too late, Corlys. I already agreed.” Her husband’s brows drew together, a strange mixture of emotions on his face. “You cannot fault me for not consulting with you,” she said before he could speak. “You were dying, and you have long known that I have wished for Baela to inherit.”

“What of Rhaenyra and Daemon? You truly wish to go to war?”

“There will not be a war.” She had to have faith. “Without our support, Rhaenyra will be forced to accept peace terms.”

“Peace is never guaranteed, Rhaenys,” Corlys said. The agony of the Stepstones, for a moment, appeared in his eyes. “There may still be war.”

Rhaenys frowned. “Then I would fly to battle.” A pause. “And if I did, would I have your support?”

“Have you forgotten?” He traced his thumb over her knuckles, over the silver seahorse ring on her pinky finger. “You were to be my Queen, Rhaenys. I swore to follow you anywhere.”

“So Baela will have Driftmark?”

“If it is your wish,” he said, exhaling. It was an apology and an atonement and a declaration of love. “I have always known you to be a good judge of character, and it was you, wife, who stayed to lead our house while I fled.”

She kissed him then, her hair falling over his pillow, and took great care not to put too much pressure on his still healing neck and chest. His lips were salty and still pungent with fever and sickness, but were never sweeter.

Corlys smiled at her briefly as she pulled back before his face became serious. “I must know—what of the boys?”

“They are not Laenor’s sons,” she began, voice accusatory.

“Not by blood,” he said softly, admitting it for the first time. “But he loved them all the same—I love them, Rhaenys. Baela will have Driftmark, but I will not see those boys cut down on the battlefield.”

She glanced away. “They are innocents, and I don’t wish to see them dead, but Rhaenyra will never let Baela have Driftmark. To her, the cost to Luke is too great. We must ally with the Greens, even if it comes to bloodshed. I owe it to Laena, to Baela.”

“So be it,” Corlys said. “But I will not harm them, if we meet in battle." A pause. "Where are the girls? My granddaughters.”

“With their father, mostly likely. On Dragonstone.”

“We must find some way to retrieve them,” her husband made to sit up, and she pushed him back down softly. “Before word reaches them of our support.”

“In time,” said Rhaenys. Daemon would not harm the girls, and they could afford to wait an hour or two. She cupped his jaw in her hand. “First, the maester must see you.”

Corlys groaned, reluctant, and Rhaenys rose and summoned the maester to their bedroom, who came to look beneath his bandages. Stretching up into the meat of his jaw, the wound arched from beneath his ear to his throat. It was angry and red, flesh sutured together, and if it had been any deeper it would have slit his throat.

“The wound is healing well, my lord,” said the maester. “Although, I am afraid it will scar.”

“And what of my knee?”

“Your knee?” Rhaenys asked, confused. No one had told her about his leg.

Corlys smiled wryly, his eyes crinkling. “I’m an old man now. In battle, I made to dodge an attack and my body conspired against me. My knee gave out.”

The maester looked thoughtful. “It is still inflamed, but it is only a sprain. It will heal with time and rest. Once your strength has returned, a cane will help support you until the leg has recovered.”

Satisfied, the maester left, and Corlys and Rhaenys were alone. “Tell me of the past six years,” he said softly, kindly. “Tell me of our of granddaughters.”

And so she did. She spoke of Baela’s sharp laugh and her fiery nature, how when she was angry her nose screwed up in the same way that Corlys’ and Laena’s did. Of Rhaena’s elegant penmanship and her love for stories and her preference for pink. That Baela liked the sound of fiddles and harps but hated to play and had the singing voice of a shrieking dolphin. Rhaenys spoke until her voice went raw and her husband, despite his valiant efforts, slipped back into sleep, body exhausted by fever and sickness.

Once he slept, she called for a bath to wash away the smell of Meleys and changed into a night shift. Rhaenys knew that the maester would caution against it, but she climbed into the sheets next to her husband, relishing the feeling of his body next to hers. For six years, this bed had been cold. Even if it was soaked with his fever sweat and blood, Rhaenys did not want to be anywhere else.

She slept easier than she had in years and woke to a hand stroking at her hair. Cracking open an eye, she found her husband watching over her, his silver hair bright in the morning light. Sleep had eased away some of the weariness in his face and returned his skin to a healthier pallor. “You are beautiful,” he said.

“I am an old woman,” Rhaenys replied, and lifted herself up on her arms. “And we have much to speak about, husband.”

She helped Corlys sit, checking his bandages for any sign of bleeding, and called for a bath, half-carrying her husband to the tub as he tried to find his footing. As he bathed, Rhaenys dressed herself in Velaryon blue, wearing a deep aquamarine tunic with silver stitching. Freshly bathed and dressed in the colors of his house, Corlys looked strong, healthy apart from the bandages that peeked out from beneath his collar.

Together, they went to the Hall of the Nine. As Corlys slowly made his way down the spiral stair, unsteady on his cane, he glanced thoughtfully at the treasures of his famous voyages on display. She wondered what he thought of them now, these relics of his youth, as an old man who has lost his children and nearly his life.

Daeron, Vaemond’s eldest son, was summoned, along with the maester and Aeron, and all seemed relieved to see Corlys on his feet once more.

“Uncle,” began his nephew. “It is good to see you well.”

“Not quite well, but close enough. I hear you’ve become a father, Daeron.”

“I have.” He smiled brightly, despite the grief in his eyes. “A daughter, born three years ago. Her name is Daenaera.”

Corlys nodded in approval, managing a quick smile. “A good Valyrian name. She will miss her grandfather, I am sure.”

A moment of silent mourning for Vaemond, as Daeron looked down, blinking. “She will. As will I. My father did not deserve to die the way he did.”

Corlys sucked in a silent breath, shutting his eyes. “We share in your grief,” Rhaenys said kindly, allowing her husband his sorrow. “Ser Vaemond served our house well.”

“Served it perhaps better than I did,” her husband said bitterly, and Daeron’s eyes went wide. “But I’ve called you all here to address another matter. I have altered the succession.” All the men leaned closer, listening intently. “Driftmark will pass to my granddaughter, Baela, instead of Lucerys.”

Rhaenys was pleased to see no sign of displeasure or anger. All of them knew Baela, and likely felt at least some degree of affection for her, as her granddaughter was nearly as charismatic as her husband.

“What of the princess?” The maester fiddled with the sleeves of his robes. “She is not likely to go down without a fight, and if she becomes queen, she will not let her son be set aside.”

“My wife has made an agreement with the Dowager Queen to support her son.” Corlys inclined his head towards her. An invitation to speak.

“In exchange for the support of the Velaryon fleet, Baela will be granted Driftmark," she began. "The young king and his mother should have already sent terms of surrender to Rhaenyra, and without our support she will be forced to agree. She can do nothing.”

Daeron rubbed his palm over the pommel of his sword. “A clever plan, as long as it does not come to bloodshed.”

“Daemon will push to fight,” Corlys said flatly, pragmatic. “And the realm may yet descend into war. Daeron, you must go to Castle Driftmark and spread word among the family there. I want the southern half of the fleet to muster at Hull. The same will be done for the ships in Spicetown. Even if Rhaenyra submits, we will be better off preparing for the chance that she does not.”

“I will send word to the captains in Spicetown,” said Aeron, making a note on a sheet of paper.

The maester glanced to Rhaenys. “What of your granddaughters, princess? I see that the Lady Baela did not return with you.”

“They are likely with their father on Dragonstone.” The thought disquieted her, even if she knew Daemon would not harm them.

Aeron cleared his throat. “Do you think he intends to use them as hostages?”

“They are his daughters,” Corlys began, thoughtful. “Even if they were hostages, he would not harm them. But I must admit I do not like the thought of leaving them there. At least until this is over.”

“It is Rhaena I worry about,” said Rhaenys. “Baela has her dragon, but Moondancer cannot carry two.”

“Perhaps we could send a ship, or a messenger in disguise,” offered Aeron.

Shaking his head, Corlys readjusted his weight on his cane. “No. Dragonstone will be on high alert. Any ship would rouse too much suspicion.”

They talked in circles, tossing out any idea that came to mind. A secret messenger, a letter in code, Rhaenys riding over in the night to steal her granddaughters away. Corlys sank into his chair, as the hours passed and he could no longer bear to stand. Regardless of their efforts, no clear solution presented itself.

In the afternoon, as they all sat frustrated around the table, a guard entered the Hall of the Nine, his armor clanging as he ran down the stairs. “A ship has docked in Hull!” He cried, breathless. “Flying the Targaryen banner.”

“A lone ship?”

“Yes, my lord. Just the one.”

“An envoy, most likely,” Rhaenys said, glancing to her husband.

Corlys nodded in agreement. “Bring them bread and salt once they arrive, and escort them here. We will at least hear what they have to say.”

Dismissed, the guard bowed and laboriously ran back up the spiral stair. “A messenger by ship. Rhaenyra and Daemon could not even come to beg our help in person,” her husband said coldly, pride on his features.

Rhaenys wondered who they sent to treat with them, waiting patiently alongside the rest of her husband’s councilors. All conversation died, as the dread and expectation mingled in the air.

Finally, the doors opened and footsteps echoed down the spiral stair. Two figures came into view, rounding the bend, and there were her granddaughters, Rhaena in a gown of sable and Baela in a set of roughspun trousers.

Rhaena paused as she saw them, her mouth parting in soft surprise, but Baela sprinted forward and Rhaenys surged to her feet, catching her eldest granddaughter in her arms. Even though she was an old woman, she spun her granddaughter around with all her strength.

“Grandmother!” Baela pulled away, and then Rhaena was there, pulling her into a sweet-smelling embrace. “We thought—we were told that you had been imprisoned in the Red Keep.”

She laughed, cupping Rhaena's face in her hands. “Do I look like a prisoner to you?”

“Rhaena. Baela.” With great effort, Corlys struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. While his voice was strong, Rhaenys could see the hesitancy in his eyes and an undertone of grief. The last time he had seen their granddaughters, they had been frightened and grieving children. Now they were on the cusp of womanhood, nearly strangers to him. “You cannot know what a sweet sight you are to this old man.”

Their younger granddaughter stepped towards him, and Rhaena kindly offered out her hand. “Grandfather,” she said, oddly starstruck, as if she was meeting some character from a storybook rather than her own grandfather. “I am so glad to see that you have recovered.”

With his free hand, Corlys squeezed at Rhaena’s fingers. “We were not expecting you.” His eyes flickered to Baela, taking in his heir for the first time, the future Lady of the Tides.

“We come as envoys from Dragonstone,” Baela met her grandfather’s gaze, tilting her chin up. Her lavender eyes were proud and Corlys seemed pleased by it, his mouth twitching. “The King is dead, and the Hightowers have usurped the throne.”

“Leave us please,” Rhaenys said to their councilors, and with murmured farewells Daeron, Aeron, and their maester left the hall. “And what message has your stepmother sent you with?”

Rhaena pulled a rolled up note from her sleeve and presented it to Corlys, who took it gingerly. “We thought you were dying, grandfather. I was sent—” She paused, glancing quickly to Baela. “We came to check on you, and share with you that grandmother had been captured.”

“But clearly that wasn’t true,” said Baela, a bit suspiciously.

“And Rhaenyra wishes for my support?” Corlys eased himself back into his chair, rolling the scroll in his fingers.

Rhaena nodded. “She does. Along with the other lords. Jace and Luke have been sent to the Arryns, the Baratheons, and to the Starks.”

“She means to fight,” said Baela. “To win back her throne.”

Corlys caught her eyes, his mouth twisted downward. They needed to know where House Velaryon stood. “Girls,” Rhaenys put a hand on their shoulders. “You should sit.”

Baela sat but narrowed her eyes, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “How did you escape, grandmother?”

“They let me go,” she answered, sitting down beside her husband.

“They let you go,” Rhaena repeated, incredulous. “Why would they do that?”

“Maybe she asked nicely.” Baela’s voice was casual, teasing, but it echoed with a sneaking accusation that reminded Rhaenys suddenly of Daemon.

“Your grandmother and I have decided to declare for King Aegon,” Corlys said, in a blunt way that bordered on cruel. Baela jerked back as if struck, while Rhaena’s lilac eyes flickered between them.

“The usurper?” Their eldest granddaughter began, voice rising. “Are you mad?”

Rhaena, calmer, spoke thoughtfully. “Why? What did they offer you?”

“I am removing Lucerys from the succession.” A brief flash of fear washed over Baela’s face. “Baela, you will be my heir. Once I am gone, Driftmark will be yours.”

“This is treason,” she began. “Do you think I’d want Driftmark if the cost is throwing my lot in with the Hightowers? You have not met Aegon recently, grandfather. The man is a drunkard and leech.”

Rhaenys reached for Baela, who flinched away. “It is your birthright.”

“I don’t want it!”

“That’s a lie,” Rhaena said, not unkindly. “You do.”

“It should be Luke’s!”

Her youngest granddaughter shook her head, her locs slipping over her shoulder. “Luke doesn’t want it either. He told me last night that it should go to you.” Rhaenys blinked at that revelation. If only the boy had said that in court, perhaps Vaemond would still be alive.

Baela was getting angry, her brow furrowed, her eyes flashing. “Then he can step down and let it pass to me. I don’t see why we must support the Hightowers.” That was her father speaking, Rhaenys thought, all the way down to the vitriol in her voice.

“Even if Lucerys removed himself from the succession, Rhaenyra would not allow it,” she said. “It would cast the shadow of illegitimacy over all her children. More so than it already has been. She would ensure that Joffrey inherited it instead.”

“I cannot go to war with my father, my family, over this,” Baela insisted stubbornly. “I refuse.”

“Your grandmother is confident that there will not be war,” said Corlys. “There is no guarantee that the Starks or Baratheons will fight for her claim. Without Velaryon support, she will be pressed to accept the terms. She and her children will get Dragonstone, and Driftmark will pass to you.”

“I can’t listen to this.” Her chair screeched over the stone as Baela stood. “Rhaena, come. We’re leaving. Father needs to know what’s going on.”

Yet Rhaena remained where she was, folding her hands together. “I’m going to stay,” she said lightly.

“What?”

“It’s your birthright, sister. You should be Lady of the Tides, and I think that’s worth fighting for, even if you don’t think so.” A pause, and Rhaena steeled her shoulders. “And it’s what Mother would have wanted.”

That was a death blow, and Baela staggered, angry and touched simultaneously. “Father will never forgive me,” she whispered.

Rhaenys stood, resting her hand on the back of Corlys’ chair. “If you wish to leave, then that is your right. We would not stoop so low as to imprison our granddaughter, our heir. But you must know this, Baela. Even if you fly back to Dragonstone, back to your father, to tell him everything, House Velaryon will still fight for your birthright. Nothing short of death will stop me.”

Baela was shaking, and Rhaenys could not tell if it was from rage or anguish or something else altogether. “I’m going to my rooms,” she said at last, and she stormed out of the Hall of the Nine, slamming the great doors behind her.

“I should go after her,” Rhaena said wisely, rising to her feet and pressing a kiss against her grandparent’s cheeks. “She’ll come around, she just needs time. I am truly so happy to see you both.”

Their youngest granddaughter left the hall, her hem sweeping over the stone. Corlys sat there, a strange expression on his face. Affection mixed with exasperation and agony. “I forgot what it was like to have teenagers in the home.”

Rhaenys threw her head back and laughed, but she did not laugh the next morning, when the maester came grim-faced to their door in the grey hours before dawn. He handed a note to Corlys, who unfurled it, eyes scanning through it quickly. Blood drained from his face and he sank down into the chair in the bedroom, his cane clattering to the floor. Wordlessly, he handed it to Rhaenys, who read it quickly and pressed the parchment to her chest.

Lucerys was dead. There would be war.

Chapter Text

Perhaps because she was now their heir, they came to tell her first. Her grandparents slipped into her rooms—the same chambers that had once belonged to her uncle Laenor—and Grandmother shook her awake gently as Grandfather stood behind her, a solemn silver-haired shadow in the pre-dawn light.

Both still wore their night clothes, having hastily pulled on woolen cloaks. Baela could count the times she had seen her grandmother’s hair unbound and loose around her face on one hand. At the sight of it, she felt like a child again, returning to the night of her mother’s funeral. The smell of iron as Luke’s nose bled onto the floor, while the maester scooped Aemond’s ruined eye into a small wooden bowl.

“What has happened?” She had slept very little, endlessly turning over thoughts of Driftmark and her father, and so she sat up easily, alert. Fog had seeped in through her shuttered windows and left the room hazy and cold.

“Lucerys is dead,” said Grandmother bluntly, and her grandfather looked away, anguished. His expression confirmed the truth of it.

Jace will be devastated, she thought first. And then a low wave of grief seized her, followed by anger. Luke was just a little boy. What had he done to deserve death? “How did it happen?” That was all she could manage, shocked.

“Arrax washed up on the shores of Shipbreaker Bay.” A pause. “Mangled and in pieces.”

She winced, imagining Arrax’s pearlescent body bloody and in pieces. Only a dragon could rip apart another dragon, and there was only one who was large enough to do it easily. And only one rider who was willing. “I see,” Baela said at last, voice level. “Have you told Rhaena?”

“No,” her grandfather shook his head. “Not yet.”

They went together down the hall, once Baela had pulled a shawl around her shoulders, trying to chase away the frigid sea chill that had fallen upon Driftmark. A thick grey fog blotted out the ocean entirely and the sound of the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs, echoed muffled and strange throughout the castle.

Her sister, if she was able to fall asleep in the first place, was a heavy sleeper and had been since their childhood. Tangled up in her blankets, Rhaena slept through the sound of the door opening, of Grandfather’s cane clicking against the stone, their quiet muttering as they debated who should wake her, and the dip in the mattress as Baela climbed beside her.

After murmuring her name and shaking her five times, Rhaena’s lilac eyes fluttered open, the corners of her eyes wet with sleep. “Baela?” She mumbled lowly, barely awake.

“It’s me,” she answered, as their grandmother sat down beside her. “There’s something we need to tell you, Rhaena.”

Grandmother smoothed her hand over her sister’s hair. “Lucerys is dead. I am sorry, darling.”

She had not apologized to Baela, but that made sense, for it was Rhaena who knew their stepbrothers best. Baela had loved Jace and Luke immediately, the very moment they had come to blows to protect Rhaena, but it was a distant kind of love. Her sister lurched up, caught in the sheets. “Dead? That can’t be—I saw him two days ago!” She looked towards their grandfather, who nodded solemnly.

For a heartbeat, she sat unnaturally still, before the tears came. She threw herself into Baela’s arms, a terrible cracking sob coming from her throat, and wept bitterly. Their grandmother gently rubbed Rhaena’s shuddering back, but there was little to do in the face of such grief. Their grandparents withdrew quietly, peppering kisses against the top of her sister’s head, but Baela remained. She was the elder, her mother had once told her. It was her job to take care of Rhaena. To help her up when she fell and to wipe away her tears and make her laugh when she was sad.

No joke in the world would make her laugh now. All Baela could do was be there for her sister, who wept as if she was the one dying. Her tears were soaking into Baela’s shift, leaving the fabric wet and warm against her skin. “It can’t be true,” she managed between heaving breaths. “It can’t be.”

“Grandmother wouldn’t lie to us,” Baela bowed her head down, pressing her cheek atop the crown of Rhaena’s head. Her anger simmered low, a suppressed grief.

“No,” echoed her sister, sniffling, and finally her tears seemed to slow. “She wouldn’t.” She swallowed painfully, sighing into Baela’s shoulder. “My head hurts.”

Baela huffed, managing a smile. “I’m not surprised. You’ve nearly soaked me to the skin, sister.” Her teasing roused a tremulous smile. “I can call for some tea, or something else if you’d like.”

“Juice, please. That would be nice.”

Gently, she untangled herself from her sister and sent for a chilled glass of orange juice, but by the time it arrived, Rhaena had slipped back into sleep, having utterly exhausted herself. Crying had swollen her eyes and left her face marred by tear tracks. It made her look young. Baela blinked and saw her sister six years younger, crying herself to sleep after losing Vhagar.

She could not bear to wake her and so Baela set the glass of juice carefully on the bedside table. Gently, she pulled the blanket up over Rhaena’s shoulders, tucking it beneath her chin, and slipped from the room.

Once she had dressed, she found her grandmother alone in the Hall of the Nine, bending down over an unfurled map of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Are these the kind of people you’ve thrown our lot in with? Kinslayers?” Baela began, voice cracking like a whip. Her grandmother whirled around, her silver hair flying out behind her. “We both know that only one dragon could have ripped up Arrax like that.”

“The dowager queen swore to me that there would be no bloodshed,” said her grandmother. A poor excuse.

“Clearly her children swore no such thing.” She snapped, crossing her arms and recalling the great size of Vhagar. Luke would have stood no chance; Arrax was the size of a fly to a dragon like that. “Is it not too late to declare for Rhaenyra?”

Her father might just forgive her if she came back to Dragonstone triumphant, with the Velaryon fleet sailing behind her. Idly, she wondered if her father had realized by now that she was no longer on Dragonstone. Moondancer had remained, as Baela commanded, to make it seem like she was simply hiding away somewhere on the island.

Grandmother smiled sadly. “Your grandfather has already sent ravens. One to King’s Landing declaring our support and one to Dragonstone.”

“You wrote to them? To father?” That surprised her. It did not seem the way of war to warn your enemies.

“To Rhaenyra. She deserves the courtesy of knowing where our loyalties lie. And she will let your father know that you and your sister are safe with us.”

Baela ran her fingers over the fabric of her sleeves, cradling her elbow in her palm. “He will not be happy.”

“No,” her grandmother said wryly. “He will not.”

Waves crashed in the distance, as gulls screamed and the grey seals that nested in the rocky cliffs barked to one another. Breathing in, she tasted salt and seaweed and brine. The smell of home. The Driftwood Throne was bathed in faint white sunlight and Baela tried to imagine herself seated upon its worn and gnarled wood. Certainly, it would be more comfortable than the Iron Throne.

“I want it,” Baela muttered, admitting it to herself with irritation. “Driftmark. But to go to war for it? Against father and Rhaenyra and my stepbrothers?” She swallowed, suddenly and oddly nervous. “Do you truly think mother would have wanted this?

“I do not know,” answered her grandmother, and Baela was grateful for her honesty. “Every mother—no, good mothers want their children to be happy and cared for, to know that they are healthy and secure and safe. Laena and Rhaenyra were fast friends in their youth, but even I do not know if she would have been able to stand aside to install Luke as Lord of the Tides if it came at the cost of your own inheritance.”

“Father could,” she said softly. “He wanted to make me a queen.”

“A father sees the world differently. Not because he loves you any less, but simply because he was raised as a man.” A bitter expression crossed her face. “He thinks of his legacy, of his name, because he has the luxury to. Most men do not know what is like to leave your family behind, to shed your old name and take on that of your husband’s, to know that all anyone expects of you is to become a mother and have children. And I suppose that your father might understand that better than most, if you know anything about his first marriage.”  

She stepped forward and cupped Baela’s face in her hands. “But even then, Daemon is the Rogue Prince. Brother to a king. The Prince of the City. He captured the Stepstones and rides Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.” A painful pause, as a sorrowful look crossed her grandmother’s face. Gently, she brushed Baela’s hair behind her ears. “How do you think they remember your mother? They will write of Laena simply as his second wife. A mother to his daughters. I am sure that even now most have forgotten that she was the rider of the largest dragon in the world. You would be queen, yes, but that is all you would be. You would be Jace’s wife, the mother of his children. They will write down that you were gentle and pious and dutiful. Everything that you are, your passion, your fire, would be lost to memory and time. I would have them remember you, Baela. As you are. A ruling lady in her own right.”

It appealed to her, despite her reservations. To lead and rule and to finally have a place of her own. A home. Her childhood in the Free Cities had been defined by transience, of short-term rentals and being hosted as guests. When she went to Dragonstone, it had only been for short bursts of time. For namedays and Aegon and Viserys’ births. Despite the past six years, Baela had been hesitant to even think of Driftmark as home, knowing that eventually her wardship would end.

A thought occurred to her, sudden and unbidden. “I’ll have to change my name, won’t I?”

Grandmother blinked, stepping away, and a delicate smile stretched over her face. “You will. After Corlys passes and you ascend the Driftwood Throne.”

“Baela Velaryon,” she said aloud, lingering on the way it felt in her mouth.

“Baela Velaryon. Lady of the Tides,” echoed her grandmother. It sounded sweeter when she said it. “I know war is the last thing you desire, but I cannot promise that we will be able to keep you safe from the fighting.”

“I would be offended if you tried, grandmother.” She smiled and it was more of a snarl. “If we are going through all this effort for my birthright, I will not sit idly by while other people die. I plan to fight.”

Her grandmother smiled, and Baela nearly spoke, irritated at not being taken seriously. “Sometimes, you look so much like your mother,” she said, eyes bright. “Your grandfather and I have been plotting. There is much to tell you, but it also concerns Rhaena, so we must wait until she joins us.” A pause. “How did she seem?”

“Absolutely wretched,” sighed Baela. “She cried herself back to sleep.”

“Your uncle was like that when he was young.” She was still lost in the past, reminiscence smoothing away the age on her face. “He would cry himself sick and only Laena would be able to calm him down.” Suddenly, her grandmother shook her head. “I should go to her and help her get ready. We all must speak sooner, rather than later.”

Baela raised an eyebrow. “Is it truly that urgent? Rhaena should rest.”

“It is,” her grandmother answered. “You should fetch your grandfather. He is down by the water, seeing to Vaemond.”

And so she went and Baela found her grandfather near the shore, standing atop a flat rock that jutted out dramatically over the sea—exactly where she knew he would be. Years ago, Baela had stood here as they lowered her mother’s body into the water; now a lone stonemason stood near the cliff face, carving a fresh casket from salt-worn shale. Only a nose had been fully rendered from the rock, but Baela could see the vague impressions of a face slowly emerging from the stone.

“Grandfather,” she greeted, and he turned away from the horizon.

“Baela.” Despite being kin, they were essentially strangers to each other. She remembered him as the strong and sturdy presence that protected her on the night of her mother’s funeral, but she knew him best as the distant figure that existed only in letters, bringing her grandmother anguish and loneliness.  Here he stood now, a man worn down by grief, leaning heavily on his cane. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Yet he was taking it harder than she was. Baela accepted the sentiment anyways. “And I am sorry for yours.”

“A brother and a grandson lost in the span of days,” he shook his head wordlessly, the breeze pulling at his locs.

“Uncle Vaemond was a good man,” said Baela, a bit stiffly. He was gruff and unyielding, but gentle when it truly mattered. Despite her temper, her great uncle had great patience in teaching, weathering Baela’s anger like a ship in a storm, as she struggled to first learn the ways of the sea. “He taught me a great deal. I will miss him very much.”

“As will I. He endured many trials at my hand, and I was not always the best brother to him.” A low sigh, as his fingers twitched over the head of his cane. “I was the elder. I should have been there to protect him.”

“What could you have done? It’s not like you asked to have your throat slashed.”

Her grandfather barked out a surprised laugh. “No, I suppose not.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, as he managed a small smile. “All I can do now is make sure that he is given a proper Velaryon funeral.” A curious pause. “Do you know why we bury our dead at sea, Baela?”

When her mother died, she had asked her father, who could not answer, unfamiliar as he was with Velaryon custom. “I do not,” she answered, irritated as a brief flash of embarrassment ran through her. An heir should know these things. What if he already found her wanting?

Instead, he smiled, extending his free arm to her. “Come then, child, for your first lesson as my heir.” She walked towards him, and her grandfather pulled her close, resting an arm over her shoulder. He pointed east to the grey stretch of the Narrow Sea. “Tell me what you see.”

“Water. Sea and sky.”

“And beyond that?”

She thought for a moment. “Essos.” The place of her birth. “And Valyria.” The long-fallen empire where her ancestors were from.

“Exactly. Most forget that the Velaryons were the first Valyrians to settle on these shores, long before the Targaryens came. But it was not prophecy or dreams which saved us from the Doom, it was ingenuity. In Old Valyria, we were not a dragonriding family. Rather we were people of the sea. A lesser house. Monterys Velaryon saw opportunity here. To make a foothold in trade across the Narrow Sea.” A pause, as her grandfather looked out to the water. “He packed up his family, their household, and all of their worldly possessions in three ships. Two were lost in a storm, and the third was nearly lost as well until Monterys beseeched the Merling King for safe passage.”

“The Merling King?” Baela fought to suppress a scoff, and did a poor job of it.

Her grandfather chuckled. “Is he any less real than the gods of Valyria? Or the Seven? The Old Gods of the North? The story goes that our house made a pact with the Merling King, who in return granted the third ship safe passage and marked our covenant by leaving the Driftwood Throne on our shores. At the end of our lives, we go to his eternal waters. For from the sea we came, to the sea we shall return.”

Baela edged forward, craning her neck over the stone platform, as if she could somehow spot her mother’s face underneath the waves. “One day, you will rest here,” said Grandfather. “Alongside your mother and Vaemond and myself. And perhaps Rhaenys if your grandmother chooses the Velaryon rites.”

“Grandmother,” began Baela, bringing herself back from the edge. “She sent me to fetch you, so that you can tell Rhaena and I what you’ve been plotting.”

“Plotting? Did she phrase it like that?”

“She did,” she grinned, and her grandfather’s teeth flashed in the grey light.

“Then will you be so kind as to escort this old man to his wife?”

She rolled her eyes, laughing, and, for once, played the lady and took his offered arm. With the sea breeze at their backs, they walked up the narrow stair together, with Baela supporting her grandfather’s weight. When they entered the Hall of the Nine, Rhaena was there, eyes still red, and cradling a steaming cup of tea in her hands.

“I found him, grandmother,” Baela called out. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting.”

Her grandmother murmured something into Rhaena’s ear, squeezing her shoulder gently. “Not at all. We only arrived a short while ago.”

“Rhaena,” began Grandfather, voice kind. “Are you feeling better?”

Her sister nodded slowly, even though exhaustion marred her face. “Yes, grandfather. I am. Grandmother said there is something you need to tell us?”

“With Lucerys dead, war is unavoidable.” Leaning over the table, the Sea Snake unrolled an illuminated map with the cities and seas written in shimmering gold ink. A silver mermaid was painted over the Narrow Sea, pointing at Driftmark with a sharp trident. “We must act quickly, before Dragonstone can respond.”

“I will be going to King’s Landing,” her grandmother said. “To represent the interests of House Velaryon and provide counsel. And if Meleys is to be of any use to the crown, I will need to be close.” A pause, as her eyes flickered to her sister. “Your grandfather and I think it would be best to take you with me, Rhaena.”

The teacup clattered against the table with an ugly sound. “To King’s Landing?”

“Why?” A flash of irritation seized Baela. “You would separate us again?”

“It is too risky to keep you both in the same place,” said Grandfather. “Daemon will not pass up the opportunity to capture you both.”

Capture was not the word she would use. “He wouldn’t hurt us,” she said confidently.

“Not physically,” her grandfather said. “But he will not let your disobedience go unpunished.”

“Corlys.” A warning hung in her grandmother’s voice.

“What use is it to hide the truth of it, Rhaenys? Daemon would marry them off and keep them as prisoners in all but name.”

With his words, a painful pause hung in the air. Rhaena shuffled, wringing her hands together. “But what of Baela?”

“Your sister will stay on Driftmark,” Grandfather answered. “Word has been sent to muster the ships, but it will take some time. The fleet will be easy prey for a dragon, especially without the protection of the Red Queen.”

Her grandmother turned to her. “Moondancer is still on Dragonstone?”

“For now.” Distance had made the dragon bond taut, a thread tugging her north to Dragonstone. All she had to do was pull and Moondancer would come to her. “But she will come if I call her.”

“Won’t that be dangerous?” Rhaena asked. “Moondancer is so small.” Baela resented that, even if it was true. “Do you expect Baela to hold off an attack on her own?”

I won’t need to, she realized. Baela smiled, a bit amused. “You’re very confident they won’t harm me, aren’t you?”

“Your father wouldn’t risk you. Not in a fight with Caraxes at least, and I imagine Rhaenyra feels the same. You are her stepdaughter, and she would not risk losing Daemon’s support by killing you,” said their grandfather. “There will be no attacks on the fleet, as long as you are the one guarding it.”

“When do you plan to leave, grandmother?” A nervous note hung in her sister’s voice.

“By midday, if possible. We must get there as soon as we can.”

So soon, Baela thought, a bit dismayed. She looked to Rhaena and found her sister looking back at her, frowning.

“You brought little from Dragonstone,” continued Grandmother, “so I’ve asked the steward to unpack your mother’s old gowns and send them over on a ship with mine own things. It should be enough until we can have new clothing made in the city. And I do believe—" She paused for a moment, a strange soft look on her face. “I do believe that one of Laena’s old riding outfits might just fit you.”

Swift as the sea breeze, Grandmother whisked Rhaena away; Baela followed and lingered, full of curiosity, as her sister was laced into a well-loved and time-faded set of riding leathers. The jerkin was dyed a delicate sea-green and sewn with tarnishing silver thread, with a seahorse impressed onto the chest. It was difficult to imagine their mother so small and delicate, but, bitterly, Baela recalled that the last time they had seen her they had been half her height.

Rhaena wore it well, even if it looked a bit too tight in the shoulders. As she peered at herself in the looking glass, Baela caught sight of their grandmother with tears bright in her eyes. While everyone had always told Baela she looked more like their mother, in this moment it was Rhaena who looked like Laena reborn, with her silver hair bound up and dressed in Velaryon colors.

When the tide was low, Meleys landed at the beach, signaling her arrival by roaring and circling High Tide twice. They walked out together, Rhaena and Baela and their grandparents, leaving wet footprints over the sand. As their grandparents said their private farewell, Baela pulled her sister aside.

“It suits you,” she nodded towards the riding clothes, realizing suddenly that it was the first time she had seen Rhaena wear anything like it.  

Rhaena huffed. “Don’t tease.”

“I mean it,” said Baela. “You look like a proper dragonrider.”

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, for Rhaena’s face shuttered and she crossed her arms over her chest, digging her foot in the sand. “Here, I have something for you,” she said, happy to change the subject. Baela leaned down and pulled a dirk from her boot. The blade was simple, with a plain leather hilt. “I want you to take this.” Firmly, she pressed it into her sister’s hands.

Rhaena laughed hesitantly, turning it over in her fingers. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It makes me feel better,” she grumbled. For all of the horrible and frightening things in their life, they had always been together. Now, war was coming and taking Rhaena far away from her. “If anything happens—if you ever feel in danger, you must write me, and I will come for you.”

“Grandmother will protect me.”

That was not good enough. As much as she loved her grandmother, the only person Baela truly trusted to take care of her sister was herself. “Promise me, Rhaena. You are going to a pit of vipers.”

“That is father talking,” sighed Rhaena, but all the same she tucked the dirk into her belt. Then, she was beset by hair and the smell of roses as her sister pulled her in for a hug. “I promise, Baela.”

When she pulled away, Grandmother was there to say goodbye, as Grandfather embraced Rhaena. Meleys chittered impatiently and, with a mix of reluctance and excitement, her sister was helped up onto the Red Queen. With a great whoosh of sulfur-scented air, the dragon took to the sky. Baela stood on the beach until they disappeared beyond the clouds and she could see them no more.

Chapter Text

Rhaena returned to the Red Keep and found herself greeted with an invitation to a feast.

Meleys brought them down into the Dragonpit late into the afternoon, bordering on evening. The city was bathed in brilliant gold and rich orange light; the Red Keep shone like blood, a jagged dagger stabbing into the sky.

When they arrived at the castle courtyard, the Queen Dowager herself received them, radiating a nervous tension. She wore a gown of deep green with dropped sleeves that tried valiantly to obscure the bloody gouges on her fingers. “Princess Rhaenys, Lady Rhaena,” she nodded her head, auburn curls falling around her face. “I am glad to welcome you back to King’s Landing.”

They had arrived on short notice, and even then she was still courteous. “I’m sure you are,” said her grandmother dryly. “Are there quarters prepared for us?”

“Your raven arrived several hours before you did,” the former queen answered. “We have had ample time to prepare.”

“You have my thanks, especially considering the short notice. Rhaena and I plan to retire to our rooms. We shall not disturb you further tonight.”

Lady Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” The tips of her fingers twitched. “When the King saw Meleys over the bay, he requested that you join him for dinner. He has planned a feast for this evening.”

“Tell my cousin that I—” Her grandmother paused, a strange expression flickering over her face. She exhaled. “King Aegon honors us. We will bathe, but unfortunately, my granddaughter’s wardrobe is still on Dragonstone. She will need a gown.”

The former queen turned to Rhaena; her wide, brown eyes were oddly calculating as they skimmed over her, glancing to her borrowed seahorse-stamped riding leathers. She hummed and nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I may have some gowns that would fit you, Lady Rhaena. If it pleases you, I can send one of my ladies to your chambers after your bath.”

Was she truly the same size as every woman from twenty years ago? First her mother, now the Queen Dowager. But remembering her courtesies, Rhaena bowed her head in gratitude. “I would appreciate that very much, Your Grace.”

Alicent Hightower escorted them through the great doors, where a pair of serving maids took over, leading Rhaena and her grandmother through the keep. In her rooms, which faced south and overlooked the green shadow of the Kingswood, hot water had already been drawn for a bath. It would not surprise Rhaena if they had started boiling the water as Meleys descended over the Blackwater Rush.

Someone scented the bathwater with jasmine—not her favorite, but it would have to do—and she washed the smell of dragon from her skin. With a polite knock, a serving woman entered, laden down with a pile of gowns.

“Hullo, m’lady,” she said kindly. Her face was worn with age, wrinkled benevolently, with a gap-toothed smile. “My name is Jeyne. I’ve brought you some gowns, by order of Queen Alicent.”

“Thank you, miss.” Rhaena stood and slipped behind the divider, drying herself off. With a soft thump, a white linen shift was carefully hung over the top.

“Will you need any help dressing, m’lady?”

She would if the gowns were complex. “Yes, please. I would like that very much,” Rhaena answered, pulling the shift over her head. The fabric stuck slightly to the skin between her shoulders, which had not been completely dried.

A selection of three gowns were laid carefully upon the bed, all nearly two decades out of style: one of Targaryen red and black, with a cape sewn into the sleeves; a gown of vibrant jade green with golden embroidery; and a simple gown the color of a robin’s egg, with delicate leaf appliques on the collar and sleeves.

“The blue one would be best, I think.” Blue, for the sea. For House Velaryon, even if this blue was the wrong shade.

Without prompting, Jeyne helped her into the gown, lacing her in carefully. “You are very lucky. These gowns once belonged to the Queen herself, when she was but your age.”

“It is very pretty,” Rhaena said politely, struggling to imagine the Queen Dowager in anything but green. She thought of her dresses at Dragonstone and privately mourned their loss. The black velvets, the red silks, the lace, the pearls, all of her jewelry. Even with the best seamstresses working from day to night, it would be at least a moon until she would have a full wardrobe. Rhaena would be borrowing gowns for some time.

She still felt a bit windblown and the swelling around her eyes had not completely gone down, but at least she was presentable. Out her window, the Kingswood was on fire, dappled with fading red light.

Grandmother came for her as the sun dipped below the horizon, wearing a familiar gown of Velaryon sea-green, slashed with silver and blue. "You look beautiful,” Rhaena said, and the Queen Who Never Was shook her head.

“Not as beautiful as you, sweetling.” The fondness slipped from her face, as she steeled herself against some unseen foe. “Let us grace this mummer’s farce with our presence. Whatever your cousin has planned, you must maintain your composure.”

This, above everything else, was easy. On Dragonstone, composure and courtesy was all she had. “As long as you maintain yours,” Rhaena joked, summoning some of Baela’s courage. Together, they would hold their heads high. “You have my word.”

They made their way out of the Holdfast and down the serpentine stair, all the way back down to the lower courtyard and to the reception hall of the throne room. As the oak doors opened, a herald announced them with a great shout. “Princess Rhaenys Velaryon, and her granddaughter, Lady Rhaena Targaryen!”

By design, the throne room could hold nearly a thousand people, but only a few hundred filled the cavernous hall. Long cherry wood tables had been carried into the room, placed between columns and flaming braziers. Most guests sat clustered at the tables near the dais, while those closer to the doors were deserted. The feast would not have looked so pathetic if it had been held in the Small Hall, which was intended for smaller gathering like this, but Rhaena imagined that it had been a deliberate choice to feast before the throne. The black jagged mass of metal and slag loomed oppressively over Aegon, who sat at the center of the raised table.

Rhaena and her grandmother, arms interlinked, walked slowly down the impossibly long corridor. The food had already been served and the other guests turned from their plates and watched them silently, eyes suspicious. Many were minor courtiers or noble-born members of the royal household, although several wore the sigils of minor Reacher houses.

When they stopped before the high table, the new king raised his cup to them. “Cousin Rhaena!” The crown of the conquerer, all wrought Valyrian steel and blood rubies, sat askew on his head. “And my…” He paused, searching for a word. “My Princess Rhaenys!”

“Your Grace,” Grandmother bowed her head, and Rhaena followed suit, echoing the greeting.

On the king’s right side, Aemond One-Eye was seated in the place of honor. The man who had claimed her mother’s dragon sullenly stabbed at the peas on his plate and refused to look at them, his ears an angry red. Oddly, the new queen was not seated to her husband’s left, and instead ate beside her younger brother.

“You must forgive us for beginning without you,” drawled Aegon, his cheeks flushed with drink.

Her grandmother looked equally irritated, underwhelmed, and disgusted. “There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace,” Rhaena smiled.

“You are too kind, cousin.” A crooked smirk sat on his lips. “Come sit and eat at my table.”

Befitting her status, her grandmother was escorted to the seat at the king’s left, next to the Queen Dowager, who looked vaguely nauseous. Rhaena was brought to the right side of the table and sandwiched between her cousin Helaena and her two twin children, who both peered at her with wide indigo eyes.

The table was laden with food, fresh and still steaming despite their delayed arrival. Sausage cooked with pears and chicken served with grapes and figs, doused in hot Arbor Gold wine. Green peas cooked with diced bacon and bread rolls brushed with honey butter. Fresh fruit tarts and mushroom meat pies. Helaena’s children sipped clumsily at warmed milk sprinkled with cinnamon, while dark glass bottles of red and white wine dotted the high table.

Separated from her grandmother, Rhaena cut a chunk of sausage from the porcelain serving dish, hoping to prevent awkward conversation by eating. Her plan was foiled by the little boy at her side, who squinted at her.

“Who are you?” He asked curiously. It was a relief to not be immediately treated with suspicion. His face was entirely Helaena’s, round and delicate. A narrow golden circlet rested over his brow, highlighting the warm undertones of his hair.

She smiled. “I am Rhaena. Your cousin.”

“A cousin?” The little boy titled his head, a bit like a puppy. Then, embodying the habits of an elderly man, his left hand came to cup his chin, lost in thought, and she realized that he had a sixth finger. “Is that different from an uncle? I have two of those.”

“Very different,” Rhaena laughed, spooning blanched string beans onto her plate.

A different voice, quieter, spoke. “But we’ve never met you before.” The boy’s twin sister had the same indigo eyes as her brother, but she was frailer, with a pale pallor to her skin. She must have been born the smaller twin; Rhaena knew that from experience. “I would remember if we did.”

“Jaehaera would,” nodded her brother vigorously. “She has a good memory.”

She took a bite of sausage, making sure to get a piece of pear with the meat. “I come from very far away.” Not really, but with the political situation Dragonstone felt like a different world. “That’s why we haven’t had the chance to meet.”

“How far?” Jaehaera asked, blinking. “Grandfather told us that we were from Valyria. Have you been there?”  

“Or are you shadowbinder? From Asshai!”

“Oh no,” Rhaena said. “Nothing like that. I’m just a normal girl.”

The children looked incredibly put out, frowning. “So there’s nothing special about you at all?” The little boy pouted; she wished suddenly that she could remember what his name was.

“Well, I have a twin, you know,” she whispered conspiratorially, trying to redeem herself. “A sister.”

Immediately, they brightened, immensely pleased. “We’ve never met another twin,” said the little princess.

“Do you have a dragon as well?” Her brother beamed, tugging at her sleeves as Rhaena’s amusement curdled. “Mine is named Shrykos, and Jaehaera’s is named—"

“Jaehaerys,” a dreamy voice cut in. “Your cousin needs to eat, and you have yet to finish your peas.”

The prince deflated, eyeing the untouched vegetables on his plate. “But mother—”

Helaena smiled, very softly. “Jaehaerys,” she repeated, voice as gentle as her smile. There was nothing strict in her voice, yet her son obediently followed her unspoken command. “You as well, Jaehaera.”

“They were no bother, Your Grace” Rhaena said to her cousin. The new queen’s mouth twitched at the title, and she could not tell if it was a smile or a frown.

Queenship had changed Helaena little. Her gown was a light sage green, and her silver hair was unadorned, no crown in sight. As always, there was some dreamy, otherworldly quality about her. Rhaena privately thought that it might have been her eyes, which felt almost too large for her face. They were a much darker shade than anyone else in their family, a deep purple so dark it sometimes looked black.

“My mother says that I should take you on as my lady-in-waiting,” said her cousin, blinking owlishly. “I’ve never had a lady before.”

Taking a moment to recover from the swift shift in conversation, Rhaena took a sip of sweet wine. “If it would please you,” she said, always courteous. “I would happily accept.” The queen said nothing, dark eyes unsettlingly fixated on her. “And I must admit that I doubt I will have much else to fill my days.”

“We all will play our part when the dragons dance,” Helaena peered over at the twins, who were quietly flinging peas at one another. “The children like you. That is rare.”

That oddly pleased Rhaena. “We understand each other. It’s a twin thing,” she teased. “Two sets in two generations. I wonder if it runs in our blood.”

“I think I will take you on as my lady,” the queen continued, ignoring her and lost in thought. “If you agree. I don’t like to be touched, so there will be no need to help dress me or do my hair.”

“You only want my company?”

Helaena tilted her head, as if she was unsure of the answer. “Yes. For the children. The twins like you,” she repeated.

“Then I accept.” Jaehaera and Jaehaerys were not too far in age from Joffrey, Aegon, and little Viserys. “You have another child, do you not?”

“Maelor.” A smile quickly flashed over the young queen’s face. “My baby. His second name day is coming up.”

She was only four years older than Rhaena, yet Helaena was a mother three times over. If the twins were six, then the young queen had been married and pregnant younger than Rhaena was now. It put a bitter taste in her mouth and she sipped at her glass of sweet wine. Who did she have to thank for keeping her unwed for so long? Was it Father? Grandmother? Perhaps Rhaenyra? 

Before she could think on it more, the king stood shakily, a crooked smile on his lips, and raised his goblet high into the air. Two seats to his left, the Queen Dowager hid her fingers in her sleeves, watching her son’s spasming hand. Wine sloshed onto the table, pale like bile. “Let us raise a toast to my honored guests! As always, the Velaryons have ever been the crown’s staunchest allies!”

Something cruel curled in the angle of his smirk as looked down to his right. “And may we toast to the man of the hour, my honorable brother, Aemond Targaryen.” There was a smattering of applause that violently died as he continued. “Tonight, we celebrate the greatest of his many accomplishments—the slaughter of our nephew Lucerys. You have made all of us, especially our mother, very proud.”

Rhaena sucked in a sharp breath, as if she had been slapped. Leaning forward, she tried to catch sight of her grandmother. The left side of the table was obviously appalled; her grandmother glared up at the king, displeasure marring her mouth, while Queen Alicent looked positively thunderstruck, her brown eyes wide and watery. Sitting next to his daughter, Otto Hightower’s face was serene and Rhaena guessed that meant he was absolutely furious.

To his credit, Aemond sat very still, his face stony and hard, and his remaining eye burned like fire. “I thank you, Your Grace,” he said, voice low and soft. “All I do is for the good of my family.”

The king’s smirk fell into a petulant frown as the courtiers politely and pathetically applauded. With a shrug, Aegon threw the wine down his throat and sank back into his chair. “Music!” He commanded and the minstrels began to play, a fiddle and a lute singing together.

Helaena rose, her soft hands fluttering to smooth down the fabric of her gown. “Mother,” she said, voice soft. “Will you help me say goodnight to the children?”

“Of course,” Queen Alicent stood, curtsying low to her son. “Shall we go to bed, Jaehaera?”

The little princess went off with her grandmother, but Jaehaerys needed convincing, as Helaena knelt down beside his seat. “I don’t want to go to bed,” the boy said. “Father told me there would be apple pie, made special for me.”

“You can have your pie tomorrow, Jaehaerys,” said his mother.

As his face grew red and tears shone in his indigo eyes, Rhaena leaned over, trying to aid Helaena. “Don’t worry, my little cousin. I’ll save you a slice.”

“Truly?”

“I promise,” she managed a smile, earnest. The little prince hugged her, awkwardly raising himself over the arm of his chair.

Helaena gently ran her fingers over his silver hair. “What do you say, Jaehaerys?”

“Thank you, cousin Rhaena. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, Jaehaerys, and goodnight, Your Grace.” Helaena bowed her head and escorted her children from the hall, as the dowager queen took her granddaughter’s small, pale hand in hers.

Their departure left the high table in shambles with too many empty seats. Shifting in his chair, Aegon turned to speak to her grandmother, who raised her chin with resolute determination as the king stumbled through his words. Otto Hightower took a sip of wine, tilting his head as if he was trying to eavesdrop.

That left Rhaena alone, one empty seat between her and Aemond, the man who killed her brother. Yet, the first thing that sprang to her mind was that the last time she had spoken to him was six years ago, when she accused him of stealing Vhagar and he, in turn, spat out she was more suited to ride a pig.

Well, at least it couldn’t get any worse than that, Rhaena thought, oddly comforted, but still, she did not particularly care to feign niceties. “Prince Aemond,” she said coolly.

He turned his head slightly, his good eye facing her. It was the same shade of violet that Aegon and her uncle Viserys had, but lacked all warmth. “Lady Rhaena. Welcome back to the city.”

“I am afraid that I have lost my appetite—the exhaustion of the day seems to have caught up with me,” she stood slowly, trying to make eye contact with her grandmother, who was listening to Aegon ramble on about something with a flat expression. “Please give my apologies to the king. And I hope that you enjoy the remainder of the feast.”

Before he could answer, Rhaena fled, abandoning her grandmother to the terrible fate of idle chatter and dinner-time small talk. She would apologize in the morning. When there wasn’t danger of being forced to converse with the king and his brother. Or the gods forbid, the Lord Hand.

She reported to the new queen the next morning in another borrowed gown. As promised, Rhaena did not need to dress Helaena or style her long, slightly wavy, silver hair; they walked down to the nursery instead, where Jaehaerys ran up and hugged her by the legs and Helaena introduced her to Maelor. Her youngest child took more after Aegon, with his violet eyes and pouting expression.

Despite the whispers of war and the hordes of ravens flying from the Tower of the Hand, her days passed in peace. She broke her fast alone each day and then spent the morning with Helaena and the children. The boys took to her quickly, especially Jaehaerys, who pulled her around and showed off his toys and demanded that she play the pirate queen to his storybook knight. At midday, they retreated to the godswood to picnic in the sunlight. It was here where Rhaena could coax Jaehaera out of her shell, reading to the princess as they sat on a quilted blanket. Unlike her mother and brothers, she had no interest in digging for insects, which suited Rhaena just fine.

In the mid-afternoon, Rhaena would part ways and tend to her own responsibilities. She wrote to Baela and her grandfather, was fitted for new gowns, and, once a Velaryon ship arrived in the bay carrying her grandmother’s belongings, she set to unpacking and managing their small household. She ate with her grandmother in the evenings, making up for years of lost time, and gleaning what little information she could about Dragonstone and her father.

She spent the next seven days after the feast in such a manner, and, like always, Rhaena arrived at her grandmother’s chambers as the sun was slipping beneath the sky. Arriving before her grandmother, she saw to dinner, sending the serving girls down to the kitchens. The table was set with a hearty beef and vegetable stew, with bright carrots and white potatoes swimming in dark broth.

The Queen Who Never Was came, thankfully, while the food was still warm. Her grandmother burst into the room, hair braided half up behind the crown of her head. “I’m sorry for the delay, Rhaena,” she called absentmindedly, sinking down into the chair with a sigh.

“No worries, grandmother,” she replied, ladling soup into her bowl. “The small council seems to have exhausted you today.”

“If you could only see the state of it! They argue in circles. Lannister is convinced that the Clubfoot is spying for the enemy. Jasper Wylde and the Grand Maester and the Lord Hand debate endlessly over hypothetical troop numbers and battle plans, while the Queen Dowager continues to advocate for peace!” Noticing that her voice was rising, her grandmother exhaled and pinched at her nose. “And the king is little help. If anything, I think Aegon encourages it because he is still angry that they crowned him in the first place.”

“Do you think he will be a good king?” Perhaps a handful of weeks was not enough to judge someone’s worth, but Rhaena was curious.

Her grandmother sighed. “It is too soon to say. He is petulant and disagreeable and unschooled in the ways of statecraft. I must assume that his mother and the Hand planned to crown him and hoped to rule through him, but unlike his father, Aegon is not content to politely preside over feasts and ceremony.”

“Helaena speaks about him. Very rarely,” Rhaena said, after swallowing down a mouthful of broth and vegetables. “I do not think she has very high hopes.”

“Truth be told, the girl herself seems ill-suited for queenship.”

“She is a good mother,” she answered, oddly defensive.

“A good mother does not make a good queen,” Grandmother shook her head. “I imagine that Queen Alicent will continue the charity work and organizing the feasts and balls until she grows too old for the task. By then, she might be able to pass it on to her granddaughter, or whoever the crown prince marries.”

She reached for her glass of juice, oranges with cloves and cinnamon. “Helaena will avoid betrothing the twins together, I am sure.”

“That does not surprise me,” her grandmother took a sip of broth. “The whole court knows that their marriage is unhappy. Why would they force their own children together? It does not bode well. The people enjoy great love stories. Like Aegon and Rhaenys, Jaehaerys and Alysanne, Baelon and Alyssa. Even Alicent, if she despised Viserys, still acted like a woman in love.”

“Do you think she did? Love him, I mean,” Rhaena speculated, imagining the rotting visage of the former king. “He was so old.”

“Old?” A bright laugh. “Child, Viserys was three years younger than I am!”

A bit flustered, Rhaena shifted in her seat, lacing her fingers together. “You knew what I meant! He was rotting away—you, grandmother, are still very beautiful.”

“You and your sister flatter this old woman,” Grandmother said, a smile dancing on her lips. “But to answer your question—I do not know. He loved his first wife deeply, and it is not difficult to imagine that he was an absent husband, at best.”

“Aegon seems much the same with Helaena. In the past seven days, I do not think he has called on his wife or the children even once.”

With a sigh, Grandmother dropped her spoon into her mostly empty bowl. “His mother berates him for it during the council meetings—how far the prestige of the Small Council has fallen! Truly, Aegon is still a boy at heart, excited that his mother and wife and grandfather can no longer tell him what to do. But he cannot remain a boy forever. Not in the face of war.”

An anxious feeling churned in her stomach, as the conversation veered to darker topics. “I heard that father has taken Harrenhall. Is it true?”

“It is.” Her grandmother nodded solemnly. “He landed Caraxes upon the Kingspyre Tower—no doubt to remind them what happened when Aegon and Balerion burned the place down all those years ago. If the report is true, Simon Strong surrendered the castle immediately.”

“Without bloodshed?” That did not sound like her father.

“It’s why Lannister is suspicious of Lord Larys, although the Clubfoot claims that his great-uncle acted without his leave. The Hand is more upset about the situation in the Riverlands. We have little support there, now that Harrenhall has fallen.”

“The fighting will start soon, won’t it?” Rhaena swallowed, hesitant at the thought. Perhaps, even after Lucerys’ death, she was still holding her breath for peace. “I worry about Baela and Grandfather.” A pause. “My stepbrothers and Rhaenyra,” she nearly whispered. “And my father, too.”

Her grandmother leaned over the table and took her hand in hers. “It will,” she said, voice firm but not unkind. “And I cannot promise that I will be able to keep you away from the worst of it. It will be bloody and awful and many people are going to die. But I can promise that your grandfather and I will do everything in our power to try and keep you safe.”

Rhaena could not hide the nervousness on her face, and her grandmother squeezed her fingers. “Or perhaps I am wrong,” she said lightly. “And we will have peace after all, and prove Queen Alicent right.” Even at her most optimistic, she knew it would not happen. Rhaenyra would never allow it. Nor would her father. And honestly, even if there was peace, she doubted that Aemond One-Eye wouldn’t fly off and try to kill them all anyways. 

“Perhaps so, grandmother," said Rhaena, pulling her hand away. “Let us stop this talk of war. I know you must be exhausted—I can send for a serving maid to draw you a bath and take care of the dishes.”

Her grandmother swatted at the air, shaking her head. “Nonsense, child. It is my job to take care of you, not the other way around. Go—off with you! To bed.”

Laughing, she left the room and flagged down a serving woman to request a bath, fleeing before her grandmother could come out and scold her. Rhaena returned to her rooms and found the hearth already stoked to a roaring flame. Shadows danced strangely on the walls of her room.

She had found little time to read since leaving Dragonstone. At least anything more substantial than a children’s fairytale. Rhaena changed into a night shift and climbed into bed, pulling a borrowed library book onto her lap. She read until the hearth burned low and all she had was candlelight, tracing her fingers over the delicately inked script.

When the candle burned out, Rhaena took it as a sign that it was time for bed. She set the book on her bedside table and burrowed down into the sheets, rolling onto her stomach. Spending her days playing with children had made it easier to fall asleep, but it had not completely cured her insomnia. In some ways, she was glad. Sleeplessness was the one thing she shared with her father.

Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, a low creaking noise echoed through her room. Rhaena exhaled into her pillow, feeling her warm breath, and tried to nestle deeper into the sheets. Half-awake, she shifted, pulling the sheets closer to her chest.

A rough hand pulled the sheets back down, calloused fingers ripping them away. Disoriented and sleepy, she tried to roll over when someone pushed down on her back, locking her into place and covering her mouth. Rhaena blinked sleep from her eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness of the room.

Barely visible against the dying coals of the fire, a man stood silhouetted in the gloom. He looked impossibly large, his chest as thick as a wine barrel, with a blood-splattered hand resting on his sword. The second man was the one leaning over her, smaller and thinner. So close, it was difficult to see his face, but Rhaena could smell him. A rancid odor of blood and sweat and meat.

“Don’t scream, girlie,” the smaller one whispered. His breath was hot and humid against her ear. “Your daddy sent us.”

“Mhm, he’s not lyin’ to you.” The larger man shifted his weight, adjusting a large wet bag that was secured to his belt. “We’re all friends here. I’ll even tell you m’name, all friendly-like. You can call me Blood, girl.”

Rhaena made a muffled little noise and tasted salt and iron on her lips. A hand reluctantly slipped away from her mouth. “My father?” Her voice was a frightened, breathy whisper. “He sent you?”

“I thought these highborn girls were supposed to be smart,” laughed the larger man. “Tell ‘er again, Cheese.”

“Your daddy sent us.” He enunciated the words clear and slow, swapping out his accent for some mocking impression of the nobility. “We’ve come to rescue you, little lady, and take you home.”

“Don’t you miss ‘im? Lord Daemon?” A smirk revealed sharp teeth, with bits of food still stuck against the bone. “He certainly misses you.”

Rational thought had fled. Only fear remained, icy cold and sharp. “My father is confused. I don’t need to be rescued. Please.”

Blood shook his head. His hair was long and greasy, shining like ink in the low light. “That ain’t how it works, girl.”

“Please.” She felt like vomiting, chest heaving.  “Just go. Leave me here. I don’t want to go with you.”

“Get ‘er up, Cheese.”

The smaller man obeyed, trying to haul her up out of the bed. Yelping, Rhaena latched onto the mattress, fingers digging into the sheets. She kicked blindly, catching the man named Cheese in the jaw.

“Fucking bitch kicked me!” His voice was a hissing whisper, angry and short.

Heavy footsteps drew near, as Rhaena desperately tried to claw to the other side of the mattress. They wouldn’t hurt her, not if father had truly sent them. Then, a colder realization. Her father probably only wanted her alive. Any other injuries could be written off as accidents.

“Suck it up,” said the larger man, his voice deeper. He grabbed her by the ankle right as she tried to tumble down to the floor, hauling her roughly back over the bed. As he hoisted her up by the waist, her hands scrambled over the sheets, reaching desperately under her pillow and—there! Blood flipped her, trying to the throw Rhaena over his shoulder, and Baela’s dirk spun in her fingers, plunging into the meat of his shoulder. Hot blood sprayed from the wound, splashing her in the face.

He dropped her to the ground, landing on her knees hard. As she fell, her leg caught the wet, warm bag on his belt, bringing it down to the floor. “Fuck!” He yelled, loud enough for the guards in the hall to hear.

“Help!” Rhaena screamed, crawling over the floor. Cheese ran after her, trying to haul her away. He grabbed her by the ankle and she fell face-forward onto the stone. “Help!”

Distantly, she could hear the sound of armor coming from down the hall, beneath the groans and curses and her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

“Dammit, girl!” Cheese pulled on her locs, dragging her towards the far wall. “You’ve ruined everything!”

The door slammed open with a clang, as Rhaena tried to grip onto the floor. A guard wearing the silver Velaryon seahorse charged into the room and the pressure on her scalp was suddenly gone, as blood rained down on her. Like a panicked child, she crawled on her hands and knees towards the window, where she curled up in fear and squeezed her eyes shut.

Steel clanged, footsteps pounding against the floor. When it was all over, someone knelt down beside her. “Lady Rhaena?” The voice was kind, familiar. “Are you alright?”

Slowly, Rhaena raised her head. One of her grandfather’s household guards was there, sporting a faint, kind smile. Behind him, Cheese, the smaller man, lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood. There was no sign of the larger man—only a splatter of blood, Baela’s dagger on the floor, and the dark doorway that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere in her bedroom wall.

“Ser Wyll,” managed Rhaena, before the tears came. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet, my lady.” His face grew solemn. “Ser Gale is chasing after the other man. I must go and guard the door. In case he tries to come back. Will you be alright for a moment, until Pypar brings your grandmother? I will be standing right over there.”

Rhaena could not manage words, so she nodded slowly. The guard stood and walked over to the hidden door in the wall, a sword raised against the dark shadows. Sucking in deep breaths, she tried to calm herself, to find something to ground herself to.

Oddly, it was the bag that caught her eye. The one worn on Blood’s belt and now abandoned on the floor. It was mishappen and dark with some unknown fluid. A grotesque curiosity seized her. It was better than fear. Numbly, Rhaena dragged herself over the floor and leaned over it, her hands fluttering around the burlap.

She opened it and was hit with the smell of iron, so strong it almost made her sick. Jaehaerys looked up at her. His indigo eyes were pale and glassy. Blood was beneath his jaw and at the stump of his neck. There were still tears running down his face.

“Oh,” Rhaena managed softly, before she screamed and slumped to the floor. The darkness, after everything, was a gentle mercy.

Chapter Text

“How could you have let this happen!”

Otto Hightower struck his hand against the table of the Small Council, the slap of his skin as sharp as the crack of a whip. Perhaps for the first time in in all his years of long service to the crown, the man looked unkempt. Strands of his chestnut-colored hair were falling into his face; the rest was wildly disheveled, as he pulled and tugged at it in frustration.

To his credit, Ser Criston Cole took the barrage calmly, head bowed. “I will make no excuses. I failed to protect the Queen Alicent, her daughter, and her grandchildren, my lord.” A deep breath. “I will gladly accept any punishment the council demands.”

“Are you not my daughter’s sworn protector?” The Hand continued, ignoring the kingsguard’s response. Clearly, grief had driven him into some agitated, emotive state, and Rhaenys felt an odd sort of pity, as decades of dislike melted to sympathy. He had lost his great-grandchild; his only daughter assaulted and tied up by a pair of criminals. He was raging because there was nothing he could do to fix it. “Where were you?”

“It is not his fault,” Queen Alicent’s voice was very soft, raw from screaming. She sat at the head of the table, with her father looming over her like a vengeful shadow. “I had dismissed him for the night.

Ser Cole frowned deeply, shadowing his face. “My apologies, Your Grace. But your father is correct. I should have—”

“Please, Ser Criston.” Her eyes were red from crying and swollen. Brown curls tumbled around her face, having been ripped out from her hair pins with an ungentle hand.

With a tight, short nod, the white knight submitted to his mistress. Tyland Lannister cleared his throat. “Tonight’s tragedy aside,” his voice was simultaneously serious and almost offensively nonchalant. “What I want to know is how these two criminals made it all the way to the Tower of the Hand unnoticed.”

“And who paid them to do it,” said Jasper Wylde.

“We already know who did it,” the Hand answered bitterly. “It was Daemon.”

“They were already in my chambers when I arrived,” began Alicent. “They knew that Helaena always brought the children…” She paused, clearly overcome by emotion. “They said that they had come to collect a debt. A son for son. Once it was over, they left through the wall.”

“Through the wall?” Lannister’s voice was incredulous. “Like a ghost in the night? Are you sure that’s what you saw?”

Ser Criston shuffled, his enamel plate clanging softly. “You doubt the word of the Queen?”

“The Queen Dowager,” corrected the Hand. “I saw it myself, Lord Tyland. The two Velaryon guards who captured the assailants,” a sharp look at Ser Cole, “can also testify to the false wall found in Lady Rhaena’s chambers.

“I do find that interesting,” said the Master of Laws, thoughtfully raising a hand to his dark beard, “that these criminals killed a prince in cold blood and, instead of fleeing the city, went straight to the rooms of Daemon Targaryen’s daughter.”

Rhaenys bared her teeth in a bitter smile. “What are you implying, Lord Wylde?”

“Do I really need to say it?” He sniffed dismissively.

“If you are accusing my granddaughter of some crime, I would have you say it." Her voice went low and sharp, a tendril of anger curling around her heart. None of them cared about Rhaena, even if they had summoned Rhaenys in the first place to spare the poor girl the agony of coming to recount her experience to the council.

They had not seen her, shaking in her nightgown and covered in the blood of the dead man who lay on her bedroom floor. How she had stumbled to her feet as Rhaenys burst into the room, her aged knees protesting at the strain as she ran down the hall, and threw herself into her grandmother’s arms.

Lord Wylde was a man who did not know what do with a woman who did not respect or fear him. “How do we know that the girl isn’t feeding information to her father?” He looked away from her, speaking to Otto. “Acting as a spy?”

“Lady Rhaena is a sweet girl,” defended the Queen Dowager, before Rhaenys could speak. “Helaena had spoken highly of her.”

A laughing scoff. “And is it not suspicious that she managed to find herself in Queen Helaena’s service only a week after arriving to the city? There would be no better place to learn the habits and schedule of the Queen and her children. If she anything like her father, then she is a duplicitous—”

Blood rushing in her ears, Rhaenys stood, chair screeching against the stone floor. “I would kindly advise the Master of Laws to keep his thoughts about my granddaughter to himself,” she spat, wishing she could breathe fire like Meleys. “If the council doubts our intentions, then I shall take my granddaughter back to Driftmark, along with my dragon and the power of the Velaryon fleet!”

The threat hung in the air for a moment, as Wylde winced and glanced down to the speckled green and yellow marble that sat before him. “We accuse you of nothing, princess,” said the Hand, even though Rhaenys knew that he did not trust her.

“I do believe it to be a worthwhile question,” Lannister said lightly. At her sharp look, he laughed. Only slightly nervously. “More specifically, why did they go to Lady Rhaena’s rooms? Did they harm her, or say anything?”

She almost laughed. What were the odds that the first person to ask about what happened to Rhaena was Tyland Lannister? “They came to capture her, to take her from me, and bring her back to Daemon’s custody. Willingly or not.”

“What kind of father would entrust his daughter into the care of such men?” Horrified, Alicent ripped open a ragged, fresh scab on her thumb. Blood beaded over her pale skin, matching the angry red rope rash around her wrists.

The Hand sank into his chair, trailing his fingers over the clouded jade marble that sat before him. “We must track down Daemon’s informants. Someone in the city must have supplied him with a map of the tunnels.”

“Daemon had no need for an informant, at least for the tunnels," she said idly. "He used to play in them as a boy, along with Viserys and I. He knows them like the back of his own hand.”

“You knew about these tunnels?” Otto’s voice was curious and sharp.

“Of course I did,” said Rhaenys, considering if she should elaborate. It was their family secret, but Daemon was the one who shared it with common criminals. “Every Targaryen knows about them. Maegor built them as a failsafe for the royal family, so that we might escape if the city were to fall. Surely, Viserys shared it with his own children.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Alicent quietly blotted the blood on her fingers against the fabric of her dark green dress. “How far do they run?” Her father asked.

“I do not know. Extensively, for sure. One goes as far as the Dragonpit. But not every chamber has them, like the one I was locked into after Viserys died, for example.” She smiled, mockingly polite.

“So you knew about the tunnels?” Wylde threw the accusation at her. “What else do you keep from us?”

“Lord Jasper,” Otto’s voice cut through the room. “That is enough.”

Rhaenys leaned forward. “Tell me—what have I done to earn your distrust? Despite my imprisonment, I have returned here, bringing my granddaughter, the Velaryon fleet, and another dragon to your cause. Do you think I would throw my lot in with Daemon now?”

“You Targaryens do stick together,” said Lannister, voice level. His expression was a bit amused, as though he did not distrust Rhaenys, but instead enjoyed stirring conflict.

“Is your king not a Targaryen? You might have dressed him in green, but he is not a Hightower.” Rhaenys relished in the momentary silence. “And where is Aegon? Shouldn’t the king be leading the Small Council?”

Fidgeting in her seat, Alicent spoke, quietly. “He is abed.”

“He is not with his wife? Or his children?”

“King Aegon has not been informed about what has transpired,” said the Hand.

Rhaenys blinked. “What?” He did not know? “You mean to say that you have not told him that his son has been murdered?”

“The security of the keep is paramount,” Otto replied, ignoring the sharp judgement in her tone.

“If that were true, the king would be here.” Nearly scoffing, she waved her hand dismissively. “All you have done tonight is berate Ser Cole and accuse my granddaughter of treason. But I have said my piece. There is no other reason for me to stay. You will excuse me, my lords.”

Without protest, they watched as Rhaenys stood and left the council chambers. She made it halfway down the hall before the door reopened, throwing a thin line of light over the stone floor. Two sets of footsteps followed after her. One soft and light, and the other loud and brisk.

Alicent stopped by her side, her loyal dog following behind her; Cole’s face was completely hidden by a helm of white and silver. “Princess Rhaenys,” she greeted. “May I walk with you?”

“You may.” And they set off together with Cole looming behind them.

“I must apologize.” Alicent smoothed a hand down the green velvet of her bodice. “Lord Jasper was out of line with his accusations.”

Rhaenys huffed. “And yet it is you who are apologizing, not he.”

A thin, tight smile appeared on the Queen Dowager’s face. “Despite Lord Wylde’s actions, I wished to remind you that the Small Council finds your counsel very valuable—”

“Those men care for nothing except my dragon and my husband’s ships.”

“I care for your counsel,” insisted Alicent. “And I shall do my best to convince them that you are trustworthy.”

“How much longer do you think they will respect you and keep you on the council now that you are not Queen?” Rhaenys asked, not unkindly. Her power had rested with Viserys, who was gone. “But if you value my counsel, let me offer some advice. Go to your son. Tell him what happened.”

“I cannot.” At the quickness of her answer, Alicent flushed and reached up to grasp at her Seven Pointed Star. “I—I cannot. Helaena needs me. I must go to her.”

Never had Rhaenys seen a mother more inconstant about her own son. Love and anxiety mixed with disappointment and disgust. Alicent Hightower was a woman who had once brandished a knife to seek vengeance for one son, but now she could not muster up the courage to tell her eldest that his son was dead, to hold him close and comfort him in his grief.

“It would be kinder for him to hear the news from his mother, rather than some stranger,” said Rhaenys. When her own children had died, the news had been delivered distantly and cold, by letter or by a nervous stranger. How she wished that she could have had the luxury of crying the arms of her mother then, as she did when found out her father had died.

There was a quiet silence, apart from the sound of Cole’s armor. “My father will tell him.”

“When? In the morning? It has already been hours. If you will not go, then I shall.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Alicent might protest, as her brows furrowed. Her mouth parted before she bit down on her bottom lip. “If you think it best, I will allow it.”

Allow it? No one allowed Rhaenys anything, not anymore. But regardless she followed the Queen Dowager up into the Holdfast.

“I assume you know the way,” said Alicent and, at Rhaenys’ nod, she slipped away to the Queen’s chambers.

Rhaenys trekked the rest of the way to the king’s quarters, an extensive set of apartments that overlooked the city. After announcing herself to the guard, she entered quietly. The room looked almost unchanged in the darkness—the same tapestries, the same cavernous four-poster bed, the chairs and tables and the bookshelves—but Viserys’ great model of Valyria was gone, leaving behind an empty stretch of floor. That, more than anything else, hammered home that her cousin was dead, lost to her now.

To her surprise, the king was awake. Aegon laid sprawled upon a velvet chaise before a dying fireplace. His head was thrown back over the armrest, staring up at the ceiling, with a glass of wine loosely cradled in his fingers.

“Your Grace,” she said, voice cutting through the darkness.

He jolted up, slopping wine to the floor. His hair was a messy tangle of curls and he was dressed in a loose pair of trousers and a green silk robe that was untied and slipping down his right shoulder.

“Cousin!” He smiled brightly, words slurring, and then made a pouty expression. “That sounds so strange. You’re practically my father’s age. Y’know I was thinking—you were the closest thing my father had to a sister, so perhaps I should call you my aunt.”

She blinked in surprise at this unexpected turn. “My aunt Rhaenys,” Aegon said it aloud and nodded vigorously, pleased. “What brings you here, auntie?”

Rhaenys pitied him too much to be angry. “Your son, Jaehaerys, is dead.” She kept it brief and direct. “I am sorry.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” The king whispered, as the glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the floor. “I do not find it very funny.”

Wordlessly, Rhaenys pursed her lips and shook her head. “Several hours ago, two men broke into your mother’s chambers and waited for your sister to bring the children to visit her before bed, as was her custom. Jaehaerys was killed, as they said it, in payment for the death of Lucerys.”  

“Several hours ago?” He tried to stand, stumbling. “Hours ago!? Why did not one tell me?” His voice rose into a vicious shout. “Am I not his father? Am I not the king?”

With a great crash, he lost his footing and fell to the floor. “He was my son,” he moaned, face pressed against the rug, and then the tears came. A great wracking sob burst from his chest, as he crawled over wine and glass to slump against the chaise. Rhaenys, gripped by some strange compulsion, came and sat next to him, stiff-backed.

“I know your grief,” she said. Sympathy softened her voice, as she recalled the shock and agony when the letter came announcing Laena’s death. The howling pain that burst out of her as she fell to her knees beside Laenor’s charred and stinking corpse.

Perhaps because they were alone, in the lonely and too empty apartments of the king, because she was the only family there with him, Aegon pressed his forehead against her knee and wept bitterly. She lightly placed her hand atop his greasy and tangled hair, summoning some of the gentleness that she typically reserved for her granddaughters.

She said nothing. For she knew intimately that there were no words that could ease such a loss. Once the tears had passed, Rhaenys gingerly eased herself free, guiding Aegon’s head to the cushion to her side. It lolled weakly onto the chaise. This wretched boy looked nothing like a king, but for the first time, she thought he looked like his father, wearing grief like a crown.

“I must leave you, Your Grace,” she said. “My granddaughter needs me.”

As she approached the door, he spoke. “I barely knew him,” admitted Aegon. “I did not know what to do with babes, but I was hoping once he was older, we could—” His voice trailed off, as he processed that his son would always and forever be six, long dead before his time. There would be no boyhood bonding; he was deprived of the singular joy of watching a child blossom into adulthood.

“Go to the children, those that remain to you, and perhaps you will find that they will be a small comfort. And if you wish to say goodbye, they have taken Jaehaerys to the Silent Sisters.”

The king made a small whimper, and Rhaenys slipped through the door, leaving him to his sorrow. There was someone else who needed her, far more important than anyone else in this cursed castle.

In the aftermath of the chaos, Rhaena had been moved to the safety of her own quarters. Her granddaughter sat in a fresh nightgown, curled up in an oversized chair with her knees tucked to her chest. She sprang to her feet as Rhaenys entered, and noticeably slumped with relief as she recognized her grandmother.

“What are you doing awake, child?” She said, coming to cup Rhaena’s face in her hands, smoothing a thumb over her soft skin.

Her granddaughter’s lilac eyes were wide and watery, like a startled deer. “I was afraid to sleep.”

Rhaenys pulled her into an embrace, swallowing down a wave of painful grief. “You are safe here, Rhaena. I promise.”

She had the graciousness to not mention that her grandmother had already failed to protect her. That those vile men had snuck into her rooms and nearly stolen her away. A brief flash of fear rose within her suddenly. Was Baela safe? What if something had happened at Driftmark as well? But she swallowed it down, unwilling to frighten Rhaena more .

Gently, she guided her granddaughter to bed, tucking her into the silk sheets. “Sleep, child. I will watch over you.” The poor girl was so exhausted that she fell asleep immediately, and in slumber, she looked so much like Laena.

“I failed you,” Rhaenys whispered, not knowing who she was speaking to. To Rhaena? To Laena and Laenor? Tears came unbidden to her eyes. In the privacy of her chambers, she let the fear wash through her, muffling the sound into her fist.

It would not happen again. Not while she drew breath. And if she ever saw him again, Rhaenys would kill Daemon herself or die trying. She sat there at Rhaena’s bedside, taking comfort in her sleeping face, in the rhythmic sound of her breathing. And, as always, age caught up with her and she succumbed to sleep in the chair.

In the morning, Rhaenys rose with a groan, as her aged joints protested at a night spent sitting up, and quietly woke Rhaena, peppering her with kisses as she did when Laena and Laenor were small children. The Red Keep was in full mourning, as the bells tolled at daybreak to announce the death of the Crown Prince. No doubt the Hand had already sent men to regale the smallfolk with the gruesome tale and Daemon’s misdeeds.

“How is Helaena?” Her granddaughter asked quietly, breaking open a hard-boiled egg with a spoon.

“I do not know,” admitted Rhaenys, mixing cream into her oats. She felt a flash of pity for the poor girl, whose loss had been overshadowed at the Small Council by talks of treason and Daemon’s actions. “The Hand reported that they had to sedate her. She was there, when it happened.”

“I did not know that.” A pause. “If she is awake, I would like to see her. Perhaps I could be some comfort.”

Her wonderful, precious, kind-hearted girl. She did not know the new Queen well, but Rhaenys was skeptical. “She may, but you must prepare yourself, Rhaena. To lose a child is to know a most terrible grief. She might not be the woman you know, at least not now.”

A frown appeared on Rhaena’s delicate brow. “It is worth a try. If not, then I should find Jaehaera. They were twins,” she paused painfully. “I—I would not know what to do if I lost Baela.”

“If the gods are kind, you shall never know.” The thought pained her, a sharp stab into her chest.

When breakfast was finished, Rhaenys escorted her granddaughter to the Queen’s apartments, where they parted. The grief radiating from the door was almost too much to bear and she instead went to the wide-open balconies of the rookery, where she penned a quick letter to Corlys and prayed for Baela’s safety.

The summons came in the early afternoon, while Rhaena was still away. A guard had reported that her granddaughter was still in the royal nursery, which was the only reason why Rhaenys had not run off in search of her. Worried irrationally that someone else might have come to steal her away.

Out of breath, the red-faced page boy bowed low, throwing his brown hair into disarray. “The King has summoned you, princess! To the Small Council chamber.”

“I shall go right away.” She fished a gold dragon from the pocket sewn into her jacket and pressed it into the hand of the small child. “For your service, and your swiftness.”

The boy beamed and bowed again, before running off down the hall. Envying his youth, she began the long journey through the castle, descending the serpentine stair to the Great Hall in the lower courtyard.

Chaos could be heard from the end of the hallway. The young king’s shouting mixed with the exasperated tones of his mother and the clipped voice of his grandfather. As Rhaenys entered, there was a sudden quiet.

Aegon stood at the head of the table, having donned his crown, which made him look sickly pale. Blackfyre was propped up lazily against the wall behind his chair, the black scabbard bright in the light. He was clearly hungover. Dark shadows undercut the smirk on his face. “Auntie!” Aegon called, and Otto Hightower’s face grew very pinched. “How glad I am to see you.”

“You honor me, Your Grace,” she said levelly, pointedly ignoring his term of endearment. Lady Alicent had her head in her hands and her father stood near the king, the tips of his ears red. Jasper Wylde was pulling on his beard, almost nervous, as Grand Maester Orwyle remained calm and still. Tyland Lannister turned as she entered and bowed his head, flashing a smile over his shoulder. “How can I be of service?”

“I seek your counsel,” Aegon said plainly. He loosely waved a hand at the rest of his Small Council. “The rest of you may go now.”

Alicent’s head jerked up sharply, but, before could speak, her father spoke over her. “Your Grace, there is still so much to discuss—”

Drawling lazily, the king interrupted his grandfather. “I said to go. Your king commands it,” an abrupt little giggle burst from his mouth. “Off with you, grandfather.”

“Aegon,” began the Queen Dowager, voice warning.

“Mother,” he replied, with a sing-song lilt to his voice.

Offended, Alicent rose and left the room, snapping her skirts, and the rest of the council filed out after her, a dark air surrounding them. Lord Otto lingered by the door before Aegon made a shooing motion, casual in his cruel dismissal. This was not how a king should act.

There was a frenetic energy about him. With a sweeping gesture, Aegon pulled a chair out for her, sitting her down where the Hand of King typically did. He then fell into his chair and kicked his legs up onto the table, rolling the rich golden marble of the king in his long fingers.

“So you seek my counsel,” Rhaenys began. For a moment, she almost took up the Hand’s jade green marble, wondering how the weight of it would feel in her palm. “What do you think this old woman has to offer you that experienced statesmen do not?”

“You’re nicer to look at, for one,” laughed the king, as her face grimaced into a frown. Then, he grew serious as the façade dropped. “You told me about Jaehaerys, when no one else bothered. I need your honesty.”

“Then you shall have it.” She glanced to the table, which was covered with battle maps and various letters that bore wax seals stamped with the scarlet horse of House Bracken. Others bore seals of the Reach and the Crownlands, a vast rainbow of colors. “Something has happened.” It was not a question.

“I have lost the Riverlands. The Brackens were routed by the Blackwoods, and during the battle, my uncle went and captured their castle for good measure.”

“They have surrendered?”

“Yes, and declared for Rhaenyra.” Aegon spat his sister’s name like a curse. “I suppose I can’t blame them. If I had to stare down Caraxes, I would surrender too.”

Rhaenys gave him a searching glance. A perverse curiosity seized her. “Would you, if the opportunity was presented to you?”

“Surrender?” He barked a bitter laugh. “They killed my son.” A spasm went through his hand. “I am going to kill them and feed them to Sunfyre. There will only be peace if one of us is dead.”

Personally, she was unsure if Rhaenyra would have ordered Jaehaerys to be killed, but Daemon had done it in her name regardless. “Good,” she said instead. “I was worried that you would roll over and quit once it got hard.”

He looked oddly pleased, as though she had ruffled his hair and told him good job. “Now,” Rhaenys pointed to the war map. “Your hold on the Riverlands has always been weak. Losing one house will not tip the scales against you, and truly, it is likely that the Brackens only declared for you because the Blackwoods chose Rhaenyra. They care little about you or your claim.”

“That’s not all.” Aegon swallowed down a mouthful of wine and pulled over a map of the Crownlands. “Staunton and Darklyn have raised their banners for Rhaenyra.”

She hummed. “That is uncomfortably close to King’s Landing, but, like House Bracken, it is manageable.” Still, there was something anxious about him, and it did not explain the dire atmosphere of the Small Council. “There is something else? What is it?”

“The Reach is divided.” A sharp, desperate laugh, as though he was amused and terrified. “Mother was so confident we would have their support, and grandfather—he is livid. Only the Redwynes and the Hightower stand with us. Tarly, Mullendore, Costayne, and Rowan have declared black.”

That would cut off the Hightower host from marching north, leaving what few forces they would amass from the Crownlands and the Westerlands, along with the Velaryon fleet. “What of House Tyrell?”

“Their lady has declared that they will remain neutral. So, tell me, aunt. Are we well and truly fucked?”

It was dire. But all hope was not lost. “Not yet,” she answered. Even though he asked for her honesty, Aegon’s face fell, as though had hoped she would have told him that all was well. "And stop calling me that."

“What should we do?” He paused and flashed a grimacing smile. "Aunt."

Rhaenys stared at him, raising a brow, and ignored that last part. “You are the king. Tell me what you think you should do.”

Sucking in a breath, he frowned. She wondered idly if anyone had ever asked what he wanted to do. His violet eyes flitted over the mass of paper and scrolls on the table. “Start close to home, I suppose. If we can secure the Crownlands, we have a better chance of protecting the city until the Hightower host can arrive.”

“And how would you go about that?” To her surprise, he was doing better than expected.

“Capture Duskendale and Rook’s Rest. But we don’t have enough men to siege their castles unless the forces from the Reach arrive.”

“I will send word to the Velaryon fleet. We have more sailors than soldiers, but they all know how to fight. They can supplement the city defense.” A pause. “And you have forgotten our greatest strength. Are you not a dragonrider? A dragon is worth hundreds of men.”

Aegon leaned back in his chair, frowning at his empty goblet of wine. “The council will not be pleased if I ride to war.”

“No one will respect a king who hides away in his castle. And besides, you would not be alone,” answered Rhaenys. “Meleys and I would go with you.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure to see the Red Queen up close.” His smile was sharp, eyes sweeping out the window to the looming shadow of the Dragonpit.  “Let’s see if she can hold a candle up to my Sunfyre.”

Chapter Text

On clear days like today, when the sea reflected a cloudless sky, Baela was sent scouting.

She walked down to the sandy beaches near High Tide in the mid-morning, once the sun had risen high enough that it would not blind her. Baela stuck two fingers into her mouth, whistling into the wind. A high-pitched, familiar roar answered in kind, as Moondancer lazily poked her little head over the ridge of the neighboring cliff.

She had flown to Driftmark two days after her grandmother had left for King’s Landing with Rhaena, and the young dragon still seemed a bit unsure in the absence of the Red Queen. For the first time in Moondancer’s short life, she was a lone dragon. Smoke green scales flashed in the light as she spread her wings and coasted down to the beach, kicking up a horde of sand. As always, Baela pressed a wet kiss to her steaming snout, breathing deep the scent of sulfur and sea.

Moondancer was small. As many people liked to remind her. Vermax and Arrax had surpassed her in size long ago, and little Tyraxes seemed on track to outpace her within the year. And though Baela fantasized that her dragon would one day be as large as Meleys and Caraxes, or even Vhagar, she knew it would likely not be in her lifetime. Still, she did appreciate that it remained very easy to mount Moondancer. She climbed up into the saddle effortlessly and strapped herself in. Neatly and tightly, as her father once taught her.

With a laughing roar, they took to the skies. Wind and salt kissed Baela’s face, as Moondancer flew east over the Narrow Sea, playfully dipping her talons into the water. An arrow of wake trailed behind them, and, as Driftmark faded into the distance, Moondancer angled upwards.

The sea stretched endlessly to the horizon, like a bolt of blue fabric rolled over a table, wrinkled with waves. Her job was to keep watch for any ships attempting to sneak to and from Dragonstone, although Baela had yet to find any. It was only when Driftmark disappeared from view that Baela gently guided her dragon back south, spinning into a wide arc that would gradually bring them to the tip of the island.

She skirted towards Hull, where a quarter of her grandfather’s fleet kept anchorage. Twenty-five warships and eighteen longships bobbed on the water and Castle Driftmark, squat and salt-stained, sat between two sea-worn cliffs.

As she always did, after circling the southern harbor, she veered west towards the Gullet, coasting low over dozens of unnamed and tiny islands that were too small to settle. Somewhere far over the Blackwater Bay, where the sun came down each evening and kissed the distant horizon, lay King’s Landing. And sometimes, as she did today, she brought Moondancer down onto a rocky island barely large enough to hold them both.

Baela slid out of her saddle and landed in a puddle of stagnant seawater, some sort of pool left behind from when a large wave washed over the rocks. Looking west, where the city lay unseen, she considered the merit of continuing on. To King’s Landing, to Rhaena.

Her sister was alone there, with their grandmother having flown off with the new king, and it bothered Baela relentlessly, even though Rhaena wrote that she was fine. That she was safe and unafraid. That had been days ago. What if something had changed? She had nearly mounted Moondancer when the news first arrived, incandescent with rage, torn between going to the city to rescue her sister or to fly north to Harrenhall to rage at her father for what he did to Rhaena.

He was not the sort of man who killed children. Nor the kind of father who would knowingly endanger his daughters—or so Baela had thought. Where was the playful man who taught her to fly? Who chased them around the courtyard of their manse in Pentos and read Valyrian fables at bedtime? It disturbed her to think that she had never known her father at all, that everyone was right and Daemon Targaryen truly was a monster.

“What do you think, girl?” Baela bumped her shoulder against Moondancer’s flank, feeling the heat through her riding leathers. “Should we keep going? To visit Rhaena?”

Her dragon chittered and pawed at the stone. White claws left deep rends in the thick film of salt that encrusted every surface of this rocky outcropping. She tilted her head, cream-colored crests twitching, as though she was lost in thought, and a great wave came from behind them. Water splashed against the small island, soaking them both. Moondancer made an irritated shriek, shaking the seawater from her wings.

“I suppose that’s a no,” laughed Baela, as she reached down to pour seawater from her boots. Unless she wanted to swim. And even if she was a dragon, she felt that Moondancer knew what to do better than Baela did most of the time anyways.

She climbed back into the saddle, adjusting the straps. Her dragon was still small enough that Baela did not need to use a whip; she simply clicked her heels into Moondancer’s scaled hide. They leapt up together into the sea breeze, which pushed them west until Moondancer righted herself, flapping her cream-white wings and turning north.

Perhaps another hour passed before they came upon the northern tip of Driftmark, where High Tide glittered like a pearl in the sunlight. From the sky, the Velaryon fleet resembled a horde of small ants invading the inlet bay of Spicetown. Fifty great warships were anchored in the deep water, while an almost uncountable number of smaller longships, galleys, and trading cogs overwhelmed the wharves. Almost all flew the sea green and silver banners of Baela’s house, bright spots of color against the sea of white sails.

Moondancer angled into a steep dive, pulling up a short distance above the water. They weaved through the labyrinth of ships, her talons skimming the sea, and approached the wharves of Spicetown.

A few of the smallfolk had noticed her already. “Seven bless you, Lady Baela!” A fisherwoman called, waving a sun-tanned arm.

Slightly surprised, Baela waved back. Moondancer pulled up, half-flying and half-leaping over the rooftops of the town. She roared twice, to signal to her grandfather that Baela was alive and well. The smallfolk were familiar with dragons, having known the sight of Meleys, Seasmoke, and even fearsome Vhagar, and a great cheer went up at the sound.

Heads popped out from windows, soldiers and traders on the street waved. Children tried to chase after Moondancer in the street, shrieking with laughter. The bakers and the cobblers, the weavers and fishermen, the laundrywomen and carpenters all called out to her.

“Our Heir to the Tides!”

A small platoon of sailors raised a cup to her as she barreled over them. “Lady Velaryon!”

The name sent a prickling down her spine, a reluctant eagerness. These would be her people, to lead and safeguard, and increasingly she felt more excited than anxious at the thought.

Her dragon turned back over the water. One ship stood out amongst the others, sitting large and low with two towering masts. The Sea Snake was old, but stalwart and trustworthy, with an aura of aged grandeur. Her sea green sails billowed in the breeze, almost a match for the shade of Moondancer’s scales. They circled around the mast of her grandfather’s flagship; on the upper deck, Corlys Velaryon was a silver-haired speck looking up at her.

A warhorn sounded once from the stern with a questioning note. All clear? Baela nudged Moondancer, who replied with a trill. All clear. Her first circuit of the day was over.

For the fun of it, she landed Moondancer on the main mast of the Sea Snake, and the ship’s namesake barked out either a curse or a laugh. “Watch the sails, Baela!”

Moondancer keened and, as if she had understood Corlys, gently rested over the crossbeam like a cat on a windowsill, white talons curling carefully around the wood.

“I watch for sails all day, grandfather!” Baela shouted in reply, and her grandfather shook his head in exasperation, turning back to his sea charts.

The only man brave enough to climb up to her was Daeron, Vaemond’s son and Baela’s second cousin. Almost casually, he settled into the rope ladder, a short distance beneath Moondancer; since she had last seen him, Daeron had cut his hair and braided it back, his father’s ghost echoed in his face.

A serpentine grey eye watched him cautiously and Baela ran her hand over her dragon’s neck. “At ease girl, you know Daeron.” She had introduced her cousin to her dragon on Daenaera’s third nameday, for the little girl was enamored with Moondancer and had begged to meet her.

Her dragon squawked and blew a gust of hot air into Daeron’s face, making a noise that almost sounded like a laugh. His nose scrunched up at the smell of sulfur, but he lightly threw a cheesecloth bundle up to her. “Cousin,” he said, nodding. “Moondancer.”

“I thought you were mustering the fleet at Hull.” Baela unfolded the cloth and found a thick slice of rye bread and a handful of jerky strips. Sailor’s rations.

Daeron swayed in the breeze. “I was,” he replied. “But I left Daemion in charge for a few days so I could escort Hazel and Daenaera back to Castle Driftmark.”

“Aw, you should have told me. Moondancer and I could have Daenaera back in Hull in an hour.”

“Hazel would die of fright if she saw our daughter on dragonback. And I much prefer if my wife remained alive.” A laugh. “Your grandfather wants to know if you’re going out again?”

Baela popped a bit of bread crust into her mouth. “Might as well. After all that rain, Moondancer could use the exercise.” The she-dragon grumbled, swatting her lightly with the fins of her tail. “If I leave now, I’ll be back before dark.”

“I’ll let Lord Corlys know,” Daeron smiled, his teeth flashing. “See you at supper?”

“You will. Thanks for the meal.” She threw the cheesecloth down at him, holding the last piece of jerky in her fingers. “Now hold on to the rigging. Tightly.”

Dutifully, he twisted his legs and arms further into the rope, grasping on with his fist clenched. Moondancer launched up into the sky, the momentum shaking the ship in the water. Baela could hear her grandfather cursing again somewhere far below her, but the roar of the wind deafened her.

They flew eastward once again, which was easier now that the sun was inching its way down to the western horizon. Baela took the time to enjoy the feeling of the sun warming her back, of Moondancer’s lean muscles twitching beneath her thighs, the salt on the sea breeze. But just before she reached the point where she would turn back and head south, something appeared on the distant horizon.

What was it? Baela squinted. Nestled between the sea and sky, a small grey colored mass was barely visible. She gently guided Moondancer up, ascending quickly. 

As they approached, the mass broke apart into a small fleet of ships. Ten war dromons, with countless oars that beat the sea white with froth. Most boasted a single-masted sail, while some were rigged with two, but all were dyed the color of rich amber. Baela could recognize those sails anywhere, a remnant from the distant dream of her childhood. These ships were from Pentos and clearly prepared for battle.

If you spot ships, you must not engage, her grandfather’s voice echoed in her head. Do you understand, Baela? You must return and let me know at once, so that we can send ships to intercept. Her hands twitched on the reigns, and with a groan she pulled sharply. Moondancer spun and turned back around; Baela lay as flat as she could, urging her dragon to go faster.

As fast as a streaking comet, they came back into the harbor of Spicetown and beelined for the deck of the Sea Snake. With a rough landing, Moondancer slammed on top of the prow, tearing a gouge in the carved serpent figurehead. Sailors threw themselves out of the way, scrambling backward from her snickering dragon.

“Grandfather,” Baela called, guiding Moondancer’s head away from a basket of fish.

Corlys Velaryon came down from the upper deck, his cane clicking against the deck briskly. A question lingered in his violet eyes and his silver brow was furrowed, already suspecting that something was amiss. “Baela, what did you see?”

“Ships. East of here. Pentoshi war dromons.” Part of her was a bit excited, thrilled that she had something to report. “Ten in number.”

“Their heading?”

She frowned, biting the inside of her cheek. “Northwest.” There was only one place in that direction that ten war ships would sail. “To Dragonstone, most likely.”

“Where else would ten warships go in such times? And Daemon was friend to the Prince of Pentos.” Her grandfather confirmed, briefly lost in thought. “Can we catch them?”

“If we’re fast about it, yes.”

“Weigh anchor!” Her grandfather commanded, his voice firm and schooled from years of experience. Without question or hesitancy, his crew obeyed, throwing themselves against the chain winch. “I want nine ships with me. Send word to the Red Queen, Seasmoke, and the Lady Laena!” Many years ago, that last ship had been named Vhagar, or so Vaemond had told her. “And any others who can follow swiftly.”

He turned back to her. “Baela! You—”

“Don’t you dare ask me to stay behind!” Moondancer reared up, displeased with the sudden movement and chaos.

“You are so like your father,” his mouth twitched, jaw set. The comparison would have pleased her once. “You can follow at a distance. But you must promise me—give me your word as my heir that you will not intervene unless absolutely necessary.”

“I promise,” she swore, trying her best to be serious.

A smile twitched in the corners of his mouth. “Then go! Your dragon is intimidating my men.”

“My Moondancer, intimidating?” She grinned, elated. “You truly think so?”

“Baela!” He sounded a bit like grandmother then, and she threw her head back, laughing, as Moondancer returned to the skies.

They circled over the bay until enough ships successfully pulled out from the harbor. Once they had entered the open sea, Baela led the charge, leading them northeast. She did her best to stay in sight, circling back so that the ships could catch up. All the way in the sky, she could hear the rhythmic beat of the oars against the sea.

Within the hour, they came upon the Pentoshi ships, which had made progress on their journey north. Baela pulled back reluctantly, following her grandfather’s ships at an acceptably safe distance. The Sea Snake raised a white flag, a banner for peace. A signal for parlay.

Her grandfather was being cautious, but Baela could not fault him. Grave repercussions would follow if they attacked Pentos without cause, even if they were confident they were sailing for Dragonstone.

But the Pentoshi ships raised no white banner in response. As the Velaryon fleet slowed, they swiftly paddled onward, with six dromons splitting off to meet her grandfather’s warships. They did not stop, maintaining speed, and Baela heard the men below shout in warning. At her grandfather’s distant command, two of his larger ships split off from the Velaryon forces, chasing after the escaping vessels.

Until now, Baela had not realized the sheer size of the Essosi ships. One dromon was twice as long as one of the Velaryon war galleys, with a thicker hull. The Pentoshi ship that led the charge slammed into the prow of the Red Queen with a sickening crunch. A terrible silence, before a chorus of shouts. It must be taking on water. But despite that, Pentoshi boarders launched themselves over the railing and onto the deck. She circled anxiously, listening to the faint clangs of steel.

Seasmoke and Lady Laena pulled up alongside Meleys’ namesake, attacking the dromon from either side. Blood was pooling over the deck of the ship and Moondancer grumbled, scenting the iron in the air. Determined, her grandfather’s flagship pushed forward, slow and steady, cutting through the water to the remaining five ships.

Oars snapped as a dromon skidded along the hull of the Sea Snake, with a crack that sounded like shattered bones. Exploding from the hold, the Pentoshi sailors traded their oars for bows, picking off the Velaryon rowers and the sailors above deck. Inhaling smoke, Baela turned in her saddle and saw that The Merling King was on fire, ignited by flaming pitch launched by a Pentoshi ship.

Because she was turned around, Moondancer saw the arrow before she did. Her dragon veered roughly to the left and plunged down, shrieking. Instead of burying itself deep into her chest, the arrow sliced past her arm, tearing a rough gouge in her leather sleeve. There was no time to check if she was bleeding; Moondancer rolled over as more arrows flew past them, and for a moment Baela felt like she was falling before her saddle straps caught her by the thigh.

The world righted itself and she choked on dizziness. Arrows? Clearly, someone had decided that the girl on the dragon was fair game. Where was her grandfather? Baela searched for sea green sails and found herself swept up in the chaos. Men were dead and dying; some she recognized and others she did not. Iron and salt and smoke assaulted her senses. There was a great groan as the Red Queen listed to her side, accompanied by a chorus of moans and shouts.

Loyal, good men were dying and Baela was safe in the skies. Anger bloomed, hot and red. Impulsively, she clicked her heels and brought Moondancer into a dive, screaming. “Dracarys!”

Fog colored flame burst out of Moondancer’s slender throat, swirling almost like smoke around the mast of a Pentoshi dromon. When the flame ignited the wood, it abruptly turned the color of normal fire, orange and yellow and furious.

Manic, she screamed the command until her voice was hoarse, the world was aflame, and all Moondancer could produce was a pitiful burst of smoke, thoroughly exhausted. But still, they did not stop. They plucked men from flaming decks and threw them into the sea, and defended injured sailors until their comrades could pull them to safety.

She did not know how long it lasted. Time blurred, and Moondancer and Baela felt as if they were one entity. Their wings ached and their throat burned with sulfur, until they collapsed onto the deck of the Sea Snake. Baela undid the saddle straps, sliding onto the deck, and gradually returned to herself.

The Red Queen had disappeared beneath the water and The Merling King was a pillar of flame, but the Pentoshi fleet had not fared any better. The two Velaryon ships that had split off had seemingly returned and the remaining dromons were either burning or were dashed to pieces. Her crews bobbed in the water, resigning themselves to imprisonment.

From the smoke, her grandfather appeared, blood on his face. He threw down his cane and ran to her, limping painfully. “Baela!”

“Grandfather,” Baela managed weakly; her head was pounding. His violet eyes were furious with worry as he hauled her to her feet, checking her over for injuries.

“You reckless girl!” Her grandfather roared, with the energy of a man twenty years younger. “You could have been killed!”

And then he pulled her into a hug, lifting her off the ground. He stank of blood and sweat and salt. Baela collapsed into him, as the adrenaline abandoned her entirely. “I’m fine,” she mumbled into his jerkin.

“Thank the gods for that.” He pulled away and she felt more grounded, more like Baela and less like Moondancer. A huffing sigh escaped him, as he surveyed the battlefield.

Daeron appeared from the upper deck. A blade had left a vicious mark over his brow and his violet eyes looked unnaturally bright against all the blood. “We would not have fared nearly as well without you.”

“You did well,” said Grandfather. Briefly, she thought she heard pride in his voice. “My brave girl.”

“Baela the Brave,” quipped Daeron, and then something strange happened. The other crewmen repeated it, and it rippled through the crowd. Baela the Brave. And it turned into a shout, spreading to the other ships, deafening. Baela the Brave!

Dumbstruck, she turned to her grandfather, who was grinning. Moondancer managed an exuberant roar, nudging the back of Baela’s leg, and the men cheered. Her name echoed over the water, and it rattled around in her head, as some strange triumphant feeling seized her.

Raising his arms, her grandfather joined the shouting. "To my granddaughter, my heir! Baela Velaryon! Baela the Brave!"

Chapter Text

For a distance that Meleys could fly in a handful of hours, it took nearly a fortnight to march two thousand men from King’s Landing up the Rosby road up to Duskendale.

Part of Rhaenys wished that she had remained in King’s Landing with Rhaena or had at least waited and flown to meet the forces after their march was over, but she knew that she was a crucial component of this great spectacle. It was the first show of force by Aegon as a new king, a marshalling of his strength. He had ridden through the streets at the head of the column, wearing the conqueror’s crown and a cape of blood red velvet. Lord Rosby and Lord Stokeworth, two of Rhaenyra’s supporters who had been bullied into swearing fealty, reluctantly rode by his side until the young king had traded out his destrier for his dragon, a great beast that looked shaped from molten gold.

Rhaenys was there to grant him an additional marker of legitimacy. A Targaryen from the old guard, the eldest living one—unless her Aunt Saera was still alive across the Narrow Sea. She had ridden through the city behind the king, the only woman marching to war, and observed the crowd. Nervous and unsure faces watched from the streets and alleys. Many seemed to know, whether if they were wealthy merchants or the wretched of Flea Bottom, that this war was one for the throne, for the city, and conflict would eventually arrive to King’s Landing.

Once Sunfyre took to the skies, the Red Queen and the Queen Who Never Was shrieked into the air. The two dragons, one glittering gold and the other a crimson red, danced over the city. That was when the cheers began. Hesitant at first, but they grew louder, until Vhagar’s great shadow inspired a fearful silence.

They had landed outside the city and waited for the army, led by Alicent’s sworn shield. Then, the arduous slog began. It took five days to reach Rosby, draped in banners of red chevron and ermine. Its lord, a nervous man with mousy hair and vivid green eyes, commanded the gates to be opened and gently informed his household that he had been made to see the light, denouncing Rhaenyra and waxing poetic the virtues of Aegon. It was a polite way to say that Otto Hightower had threatened to behead him, Rhaenys thought idly, but she was glad to have a soft bed and a warm meal.

Lord Stokeworth had been escorted to his own holdings, perhaps a two-hour ride west of Rosby, to muster his own forces under the watchful eye of Vhagar. And two days later, they departed the castle with nearly a thousand more swords, swelling their forces to an impressive three thousand.

Beyond Rosby, the road to Duskendale was bordered by a picturesque landscape. Rolling hills covered in barely, orchards of trees heavy with sweet fruit. Rhaenys was confident that if the dragons had not crushed it all beneath their weight, their host of three thousand picked it clean until nothing was left. On the morning of their seventh day of travel, Duskendale came into view.

The port town sat on a particularly jagged stretch of coastline, precariously built into a terrace of ridges and hills. Dun Fort, the castle of House Darklyn, loomed over the port, balanced on the edge of a sea cliff. A modest wall enclosed the town and funneled all foot traffic through a wide gate.

“We can’t just walk right in, Aegon,” sneered Aemond. Half of his face twisted with the expression, while the half with the eyepatch remained oddly still. “They will bar the gate as soon as we exit the forest.”

The young king rolled his eyes. “Obviously, I’m not an idiot,” he turned to his kingsguard. “We have a battering ram, do we not?”

“We do, Your Grace,” answered Ser Cole flatly.

“See? We’ll just break the door down.”

Aemond One-Eye scoffed, crossing his arms. “That is no strategy!”

“We’re sacking the city, brother,” Aegon said. “It’s not very complex. Just burn the place down and run your sword through anyone who survives.”

“You barely know how to use a sword.” A single eye flickered to Blackfyre, which hung loosely on the king’s belt. There was more bitterness than usual in Aemond’s violet eye, and Rhaenys was momentarily reminded of Daemon. Although her cousin at least had the honor of wielding Dark Sister.

Ser Cole was clearly used to this kind of brotherly bickering, staring blankly at a tree branch, but Rhaenys was not. “You two are grown men,” she said shortly. “Not green boys. Bickering like this is unkingly…and unbecoming.” The last part was said pointedly to Aemond, who seemed suitably chastised.

“How is it unkingly if a king does it, auntie?”

“She means to say that you aren’t inspiring much confidence, brother,” said the prince.

“Do not put words in my mouth, Aemond.”

Aegon snickered, turning to her. “What do you think? Do I lack strategy?”

“Duskendale is a modest town, Your Grace," Rhaenys began. "You are right that it will not be difficult to simply break the gate down, but I must express some concern. Do you truly plan on razing it to the ground? The smallfolk are innocent; it is Lord Darklyn who has committed treason.”

“They are loyal to a treasonous lord,” said Ser Criston, harshly. “That makes them guilty of treason as well. They deserve to die.”

Aemond nodded tightly, in agreement with his mentor. “That was the whole point of marching out here. To make an example of them.”

“Of the lord, perhaps.” Rhaenys frowned. No one in the realm wanted a second Maegor. “But the common people know little of politics and treason. All they understand is mercy.”

“They will think him weak,” said the king’s brother.

She was silent, for Aemond was right. Some would call him weak. Gentle and soft. “Daemon took Harrenhall bloodlessly,” Aegon began. “Surely no one calls him weak.”

“The Rogue Prince has an established reputation,” Ser Criston said, blunt but not unkind. Grief and anger marked Aegon’s face, as this thoughts surely turned to Jaehaerys. “You are untested, Your Grace.”  

A moment of quiet silence, broken by the soft whisper of wind through the trees. Distantly, Rhaenys thought she heard Meleys calling to her. “Give the order to march,” said the king.

“Duskendale will be yours by sunset, Your Grace.” The kingsguard bowed low, his dark hair sweeping over his forehead, before he straightened and turned deeper into the forest, where some three thousand soldiers impatiently awaited orders.

“By sunset?” He huffed quietly. “Certainly, we can have it sooner. Rhaenys, I want you to take the bay with Meleys.” She nodded silently. “And Aemond—”

“I’ll ride with Ser Criston,” interrupted his brother. Aegon narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but Aemond remained poised and stoic.

Finally, the king looked away. “If you wish it. Try not to get killed, brother.”

“I’ll do better than try.” Aemond flashed his teeth in snarling smile. Neat and straight and sharp at his canines. Without ceremony, he turned on his heel and hurried after Criston Cole.

Alone with her, Aegon slumped against a tree trunk. “Rhaenys. You were not cursed with siblings, were you?”

“No,” she said levelly. “I am afraid I was never granted that blessing.”

The king said nothing, but his mouth twitched. He pushed himself up to his feet, scuffing his leather boots against the forest undergrowth, and walked deeper into the forest.

By the time Rhaenys had called Meleys to her, a war horn sounded on the distance. Men poured from the cover of the forest, swarming onto the grassy plain between the woodlands and the coast. The Red Queen warbled as Rhaenys ran her hand over her scales. Neither of them knew war, and yet here they were, old women flying into battle.

They took to the skies as Sunfyre did. Dancing on the breeze, the young dragon flew to battle casually, spinning delicately into aerial loops and twirls. Vhagar watched lazily from the meadow, where she had landed with an intimidating boom, and laid beside the port city, the walls minuscule compared to her great size.

As expected, the gates had been hastily barred. But as Rhaenys flew over the town, she noticed that the walls were lightly guarded. The battle that was to follow would be quick, she was sure. Meleys turned out over the water, her crimson reflection glittering over the sea. Duskendale held no candle to the grandeur of the port of King’s Landing, or even the one at Spicetown and Hull, but it was bustling for its modest size, with a number of ships docked at the wharves and anchored in the water.

“Dracarys,” commanded Rhaenys, and a great gulf of scarlet fire exploded over the ships of the bay. Flame consumed the wood, the sails, and the ugly yellow, red, and white banners of House Darklyn. With a shriek, Sunfyre let loose a blast of golden flames on the wealthier quarter of the city.

Faintly, she could hear screaming. Steel hitting steel. A great shout as the wooden doors of the gate buckled open and their forces pushed into the town. She shouted the command to burn another handful of times, feeling oddly distant from herself. Numb and subdued. She spared some ships, those that did not fly the Darklyn standard, and idly flew in a loose loop around the bay.

It was too dangerous to keep burning Duskendale, now that their own men were inside, so Aegon landed Sunfyre upon the walls of the Dun Fort. Growling, the golden dragon clawed himself into the courtyard of the castle. The reckless fool! Sunfyre would not be enough to protect him. Just one lone arrow could end Aegon’s short reign.

Urging Meleys ahead, they sprinted forward on the wind and landed roughly atop the stone wall of the Darklyn castle, overlooking the narrow courtyard. Aegon had dismounted from Sunfyre and almost casually greeted the approaching guards.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” He drawled, stroking Sunfyre’s neck. His golden dragon preened and then snapped at a guard that stepped too close. “I’d like to see Lord Gunthor. Please.” The platitude was tacked on at the end. An afterthought.

The Darklyn guards stood still, confused. One young knight’s hand was shaking so badly that even Rhaenys could see it. “Now.” Aegon commanded, voice sharper. “Or Sunfyre and my lovely aunt’s Meleys will burn you to ash where you stand!”

Despite his voice rising into a shout, the guards remained, frozen solid with fear. It was only after Sunfyre roared, gusting them with heat and sulfur, that they fled. “Wait!” Aegon called, teasingly, and they all stopped in their tracks, some falling over. “Bring the rest of the household as well. Tell them they will burn in their castle if they do not come. And open the gates.”

They fled at his leave and Aegon laughed to himself, glancing up to Rhaenys. There was not enough room in the courtyard for two dragons, and so she remained perched up on the walls like a looming bird of prey, watching for any aspiring kingslayers. Once the gates to the Dun Fort were open, Aemond and Cole rode in frantically and seemed relieved to see that Aegon was not dead.

Slowly, the courtyard filled with people. Nervous chambermaids and small page boys, cooks and laundrywomen. Stable hands and butchers and a pale-faced kennelmaster. Common guards were squashed beside a handful of knights in steel plate, shielding their small squires from Sunfyre’s maw.

The nobility of House Darklyn was ushered in last, with great reluctance. Lord Gunthor came with his wife, a lovely woman with traces of grey in her dark hair. Their youngest son clung to his mother’s skirts, while their daughter and eldest son hovered behind their father.

“Lord Darklyn,” greeted the king.

“Prince Aegon,” Gunthor answered. “Princess Rhaenys.”

She nodded at the acknowledgement, and silently admired his bravery. What must they look like? A young king and his golden dragon, with the Queen Who Never Was and Meleys looming behind him. In a single command, they could reduce everyone in the yard to ash.

“You will address the king with his proper title,” threatened Ser Criston, a hand on his sword.

“You have a lovely castle,” Aegon said, lightly. “Quite quaint. Do you know why I’m here?”

A bitter laugh. “I can hazard a guess, my prince.” He stressed the lesser title and she could see that Aegon’s shoulders had stiffened. Ser Criston stepped forward and it was Aemond, to Rhaenys’ surprise, who gently pulled the kingsguard back.

“Even now, you would support my sister?” Sunfyre growled lowly, and Aegon idly placed a hand upon his flank.

“House Darklyn recognizes a Queen, not a king.”

“You have committed treason, Lord Gunthor, and dragged your entire household into it alongside you.” Aegon's voice was clipped, before it became something a bit lighter, almost playful. He angled his head and glanced to Rhaenys. “But let it be known that I am merciful. Those who kneel and swear fealty now will be spared.”

Immediately, almost the entire yard fell to their knees. Lady Darklyn sank to the ground, tugging her children down alongside her. The lord regarded his wife with a resigned understanding, but he remained standing tall. Only a handful of loyal knights remained on their feet with him, having pushed their squires down to the cobblestone.

“Father?” The Darklyn heir looked up at him in fear, kneeling down beside his mother.

“At ease, Jonos,” answered Lord Gunthor. “You are ready. And so am I. If it is treason to support the rightful heir, then I am a traitor.”

Aegon frowned deeply, petulant. “Ser Criston, would you like the honor?”

“Gladly, Your Grace.” And he stepped forward, pulling out his shining steel sword. He roughly hauled Lord Gunthor away from his wife and children. Aemond silently forced the man to his knees as Ser Cole raised his blade.

A terrible shriek burst out of Lady Darklyn’s mouth, as she broke down into bitter cries. Resting on the stone of the courtyard, her husband’s head stared blankly at the ash filled sky. Rhaenys noted that Aegon had looked away, pointedly staring down at Sunfyre’s claws.

The king’s forces executed the remaining knights with little ceremony and by midday, Duskendale was theirs. The young heir to House Darklyn knelt before Aegon, alongside his mother and siblings and all of the other members of their house, and swore fealty.

True to his word, Aegon left the remainder alive and he had the courtesy to leave the city altogether, rather than impose himself on the mourning household. Meleys took to the sky once Sunfyre did, coasting over a town that was half-burned and smoking.

Their host lingered for the remainder of the day, before setting out the next morning further north. To Rook’s Rest. The seat of House Staunton sat another seven days north, on the coast just west of Crackclaw Point.

As they marched, the weather grew increasingly grey and miserable closer to Dragonstone and Claw Isle. Sunfyre behaved like a menace. Unlike Meleys, and Vhagar, to some extent, he was used to more temperate weather.

Rook’s Rest was silent as a grave when they arrived. The gates were barred and even through the fog Rhaenys could see archers and crossbowmen posted upon the battlements. Unlike Duskendale, House Staunton boasted no ports, nor an associated town. Farms and small homesteads dotted the landscape and all of the ramshackle huts and cottages were empty, shuttered and dark.

“They knew we were coming,” said Rhaenys softly. All of the smallfolk must have been brought inside to safety.

Aegon cursed, Sunfyre growling with him. “How?”

“A warning from House Darklyn perhaps,” she answered. “But speculating will be no use. It will not be as easy this time.”

Their army made camp about a mile away from the castle walls. Far enough to be safe, but close enough to still intimidate. If the three thousand men were not enough, then it would have to be Meleys, Sunfyre, and Vhagar, who made their presence known by roars and shrieks.

“We did come prepared with siege equipment, Your Grace,” Ser Criston said. They all had gathered in the king’s tent, a great sprawling thing with Myrish rugs and wooden furniture.

Rhaenys frowned at the map on the table. Guessing from the yellowing paper and crinkling edges, it was at least fifty years out of date. “A siege could take months. We cannot afford to leave the capitol undefended much longer.”

“Then what do you suggest?” The king said, irritated.

“Burn them out.” Aemond’s hand ran over the pommel of his sword. “It is quick and efficient. We would be back in King’s Landing before the moon turns, as we promised mother.”

In response, Aegon took a deep drink of wine, staining his lips red. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like it?” His brother repeated, voice low.

“No.” The king shrugged.

“What do you want from me, Aegon?”

Rhaenys exchanged a look with Ser Criston, and then wondered how she had gotten to this point. “I don’t know,” said Aegon, exasperated. He ran his free hand through his hair, knocking his crown askew.

But before the two brothers could descend into further bickering, a squire poked his head shyly into the tent. “Your Grace, a messenger has ridden out from Rook’s Rest.”

“From the castle?” Rhaenys asked.

“Yes, princess. Flying a white banner. He says he bears a message for the king.”

Aegon sat up, clumsily setting the wine onto the table. “Well, send him in already!”

With a squeak, the boy vanished, and a few moments later, two knights escorted a young man into the tent. Rhaenys guessed he was no older than ten-and-four, going off his pimpled skin and sweaty demeanor. He stood there, unsettled by the four sets of eyes that fell upon him, and then, remembering himself, tried to school his features into something more stoic.

“Who are you, child?” She asked.

“Andrew Staunton, my lady,” answered the boy, stammering anxiously. “I’m—I’m not the heir, just a cousin. I come at my uncle’s request, to bring a message.”

Poor child. Expendable, and the lad seemed to know it. “Then spit it out,” Aegon said sharply.

“Uncle Greg—Lord Staunton demands that you leave his lands immediately—”

Aemond huffed a laugh. “What can he do against a dragon?”

“I—I,” the boy was thrown off violently by the interruption. “He has written to Queen Rhaenyra for aid,” he said at last. “She will come with her dragons. And help us.”

Little Andrew Staunton was not confident, but his uncle certainly must be, to risk sending out his nephew. “And who will help you?” Aemond replied, stepping forward. Dressed all in black, with his long silver hair and his eyepatch, he loomed over the boy and Rhaenys momentarily saw Lucerys in the nervous posture of the Staunton boy.

“You will leave him be, Aemond. He is a messenger,” Rhaenys snapped. “Although that clearly has not stopped you before.”

The one-eyed prince stepped back suddenly, deflating, and behind her, Aegon laughed uproariously. “Andy,” he said, once he had calmed himself. It seemed that Rhaenys was not the only one subjected to his ridiculous nicknames. “You may return to your uncle and tell him this: if my sister coming, I will stay here to meet her.”

Andrew bobbed his head in a nod and fled from the tent, escorted by the knights. Rhaenys turned to the king. “You wish to wait?”

“If Rhaenyra is coming, there is no better chance for us to kill her,” replied Aegon, and Rhaenys suppressed a wince. The woman had cuckolded and killed her son, but killing her for it? Six years ago, perhaps she might have considered it. Now, she was unsure.

“It’s just as likely Daemon will come on Caraxes,” Aemond said, eye flickering to the stretch of cloudy sky visible through the tent flaps. “Or both of them together.”

A confident gleam appeared in Aegon’s violet eyes. “We have three dragons to their two. Unless they bring Jace along.”

“Rhaenyra would never allow it,” she said automatically. “Jace will stay out of battle unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“I can instruct the men to build scorpions, Your Grace. To provide ground support.” Ser Criston said.

In confusion, Rhaenys turned to the kingsguard. “Scorpions?

“The Lord Hand has prepared for all contingencies,” the Dornishman answered her. To think—Targaryens trying to kill other dragons! Rhaenys shook her head wordlessly. Something like that had not been seen since Maegor struck down Quicksilver.

“Even better,” Aegon said, not noticing her disquiet. “We have nothing to worry about.”

And so they waited. Ser Cole oversaw the construction of scorpions on the plain, in the few places that Aemond left unburned. The one-eyed prince had swept over the farmland and razed it to ash, to intimidate the people cowering behind the walls of Rook’s Rest. Rhaenys spent her time patrolling the sky, searching for any sign of Caraxes or Syrax. No one came.

A boredom and malaise seized the troops. On the third day, as Aegon circled above with Sunfyre, Rhaenys abandoned the terrible aura of the war camp and retreated to Meleys. She found Aemond first, a lone shadowed figure on the crest of a hill. Silently, Rhaenys stopped by his side and watched their dragons.

Vhagar had made a bed in the smoking embers of the charred farmland, her great mass rising up like another one of the hills. The old woman was stretched out, clearly trying to sleep, but kept one bright green eye fixated on Meleys.

“Great timing,” Aemond said, voice clipped. “Tell your dragon to leave Vhagar alone.”

Crimson scales gleaming, Meleys twitched like a cat about to pounce, and threw herself atop Vhagar’s head. The elder dragon, with great effort, rolled herself over, and the Red Queen chittered as she fell against the dirt unceremoniously.

Rhaenys laughed, deeply amused. It had been years since she had seen Meleys play like this. Usually, when Moondancer or Seasmoke came calling, the Red Queen played the part of Vhagar—the reluctant old crone.

Aemond One-Eye frowned, glaring at her. “It is no laughing matter.” His voice was short and angry. “Vhagar will rip your little dragon apart.”

“You have grown from an unpleasant child to a bitter and hateful man,” Rhaenys said blithely, shaking her head. “Have you never seen dragons play?”

“Play?” He sputtered a bit, as if he had never considered a dragon to be anything but a noble, dignified, untouchable beast. “Vhagar does not play.”

Meleys pounced again, flaring her crests, and Vhagar groaned, shielding her face with her wing. “Pray tell, what do you think she’s doing now then?”

“Exercising great restraint in not killing Meleys.”

Rhaenys shook her head, feeling her silver hair slip over her shoulder. “Vhagar would not kill Meleys unless you or I commanded it. You forget, boy, that my daughter rode Vhagar for sixteen years. Meleys and the old crone were sharing a nest when you will were still a toddling child.”

Aemond said nothing, simply crossing his arms and staring at his dragon, who had withdrawn her wing to blow a short puff of flame into Meleys' face. As the Red Queen sputtered, a low creaking noise sounded deep in Vhagar’s chest. Something akin to a laugh.

“I have never seen her like this before,” admitted the prince, after the dragons had settled. Meleys curled up on the ashy edge of Vhagar’s makeshift nest. “She is acting…young.”

“How often does Vhagar have a chance to interact with her own kind?” Rhaenys mused, watching the gentle rise of the larger dragon’s chest. “She is too large to fit in the pit. Vhagar was a lonely dragon even when Laena claimed her.”

“I visit her as often as I can.” His voice was defensive.

She shrugged. “We are no substitute for dragonkind. They last longer than we do.”

This boy, Vhagar’s rider, was a strange one. Bitter and violent and jealous, but he looked at Laena’s dragon with blatant affection and love. That, in spite of everything else, Rhaenys could approve of.

“Come,” she said, as the lunch bell sounded distantly. “Let us leave them to their business.”

The fourth day came and went, dropping a torrent of rain upon the coast. On the fifth, Aegon grew restless, pacing around his tent. The humidity had caused his hair to curl wildly, frizzy, and he resembled his mother to an uncanny degree.

“I am tired of waiting,” announced the king.

Rhaenys glanced up from her book, some drivel she had bribed off a knight to stave off boredom. “We are all tired, Your Grace.”

Aegon tried fruitlessly to smooth down his hair. He only succeeded in tangling it further, and he ripped off his crown. “When will she come? You know her best, Rhaenys.”

“It seems more and more likely that she will not come at all,” she answered.

“Do you think Lord Staunton knows that?” Aemond called out, not looking up from his game of cyvasse with Ser Cole. 

Rhaenys looked to the king and raised a brow. Well? A silent question. What do you think?

“If he does not, I aim to tell him. I’m riding out.”

“Your Grace,” Ser Criston said, abandoning the cyvaase board. Aemond appeared slightly miffed. “Are you sure that is safe?”

“Auntie will go with me,” Aegon waved his hand.

She sniffed. Presumptuous boy. But she supposed that was how kings were. Viserys had been much the same way. “Will I?”

But Rhaenys agreed, only so that it would not become an explicit command. Something about being bossed around by a boy of twenty irked her, especially one with the temperament of Aegon. They decided against their dragons and rode out on a pair of grey horses, with Vhagar circling protectively in the sky.

Rhaenys bore the white banner, propping it regally against her shoulder. Before the gate, they stopped and she warily eyed the crossbows trained at them. One wrong move and they would be dead.

“I wish to speak to Lord Staunton,” Aegon called out, squinting up at the battlements. “Under the banner of peace.”

No one answered. Vhagar’s shadow passed over them, but it was little comfort. At last, the gate opened and Lord Staunton rode out, accompanied by twelve guards.

“Prince Aegon.” A tight nod. “You wished to speak?”

Ignoring the insult, he pointedly adjusted his crown. “Yes,” he began. “About my sister. You claimed that you asked for her aid.”

“I did.” Lord Staunton swallowed, his neck twitching.

“Lovely,” Aegon smiled tightly. “Have any idea where she is?”

He blinked at the question, but recovered quickly. “I do not, but we will wait as long as it takes.”

“And if she does not come?”

“What?”

“What will you do if she does not come?” Aegon lazily adjusted the clasp of his cloak.

Lord Staunton narrowed his eyes, either in suspicion or confusion. “She will come.”

Rhaenys cleared her throat. “Are you so sure?”

“Surely Queen Rhaenyra is just delayed.” A weak excuse, further undercut by the nervous energy that had seized Lord Staunton.

“A long delay,” said Rhaenys casually, scanning the other knights. All wore the checkered standard of House Staunton. “From here, Dragonstone is perhaps two hours by dragonback.”

Their enemy was quiet for a long moment. “Have nothing to say?” Aegon said, tilting his head.

“Surely any delays are understandable,” he said at last. “The Queen is grieving.”

“Do you think I am not grieving?” Aegon snapped, irritated. Lord Staunton stumbled back at the sudden tonal shift. “My son is dead. He was only six. Beheaded by men hired by my sister’s husband. Yet, I am here.”

A grimace passed over his face, which Rhaenys watched closely. Word of Jaehaerys’ death had been spread far and wide by the Hand’s ravens. What did Rhaenyra’s supporters think of this—the blatant killing of an innocent child? “I am sorry for your loss, Prince Aegon,” he managed. “There is nothing that I can say—”

“Exactly,” interrupted the king. “Say nothing and listen. My sister has abandoned you. Help will not come. Everyone in that castle—your family, your knights, your smallfolk—remain alive because I have refrained from commanding my brother to raze your castle to the ground.” He paused, his violet eyes aflame. “It would have been so easy to burn you all on the first day. You would do well to remember that I did not.”

In the distance, Sunfyre roared, and Aegon tilted his chin up, a gesture that reminded Rhaenys oddly of herself. “I am here. Rhaenyra is not. I have shown you mercy, while my sister has condemned you. Think, Lord Staunton, on what kind of ruler you truly wish to be sworn to, for I will not wait much longer.”

Aegon clicked his heels into his horse, breaking into a trot back to the war camp. Rhaenys spared a final glance to Lord Staunton, who had grown very pale, before following after the king.

“You did well,” she said levelly once she had caught up to him.

He hummed lowly, his knuckles white against his reigns. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rhaenys was tired too. Tired of waiting, of grief and loss, of being so far from her husband and granddaughters. They rode back in silence and she retreated to her own tent, where she spent the remainder of the afternoon.

Three agonizing days passed, weighed down with anticipation. No dragons descended from the sky, nor did anyone exit the castle. But on the dawn of the ninth day, the sun shone warmly on a series of white banners, which hung over the battlements of Rook’s Rest. Lord Staunton rode from the gates on a lone horse, flying a white standard, and cautiously passed Vhagar, who idled by the path. Upon the moist peat of the grassland, he sank to his knees before Aegon and swore fealty to his king.

Chapter Text

Helaena’s rooms were dark. All of the windows were barred shut and the drapes drawn together to block out any hint of sunshine. A single candle, burning low on a bedside table, was the only source of light and cast dancing shadows over the green canopy bed. Her pride and joy—a great display wall of preserved and pinned insects that shone like a rainbow in the sunlight—was transformed into a gallery of twisted shapes in the gloom.

As the guard shut the door behind them, a delicate hand slipped into Rhaena’s. “I’m frightened,” Jaehaera whispered.

“Frightened?” She readjusted Maelor’s weight on her hip and kneeled down to the princess’ eye level. Even the babe seemed anxious, his chubby fists grasping at her neckline. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Jaehaera nodded, her short silver braids bobbing around her shoulder. “I’m afraid too,” Rhaena said, flashing an encouraging smile. “But we must be brave. For Maelor.”

“Jae was the brave one,” the princess said tearily.

With her free hand, Rhaena brushed a lock of silver hair behind the girl’s ear, humming. “My sister is the brave one too.” Her eyes flickered to the shuttered canopy. A creature moaned from inside. “When I was small, I could barely do anything without her. The other children in Pentos called me a coward.”

“And what did you do?”

“I cried mostly. Until one day my own mother told me that it is also brave to try something, even if you fail. That it is brave to know your limits, to know when to stop. We can go back to the nursery if you wish it, Jaehaera.” She said gently. “And I would think that you were very brave for making it this far.”

The little princess furrowed her brow, thoughtful. “I want to see her,” she said firmly, large eyes—her mother’s eyes— flickering towards the bed.

“Then we shall see her,” nodded Rhaena, taking her hand. Together, they approached the canopy bed, the curtains shuddering as they approached. The satin shimmered like ink in the low candlelight.

“My Queen,” she spoke, keeping her voice soft. There was no response from the bed. Hesitating, she pulled open the green drapes. “It is Rhaena. I’m with the children.”

A quiet moan answered this time. The candle threw flickering light into the cavernous inside of the canopy, a dark cave of fabric. Helaena lay tangled in the bedsheets, pale and nearly unrecognizable. Her silver hair was tangled and matted, soaked with sweat at her temples. In the span of a month, the young queen had lost a terrifying amount of weight, leaving her cheeks hollow and body swimming in a nightgown that was several sizes too big.

Rhaena sucked in a breath. “Oh, Helaena,” she murmured, blinking back tears. She leaned closer, biting down a gag at the smell of her, unwashed and reeking.

Indigo eyes rolled listlessly, glassy and unseeing. As if Rhaena wasn’t really there at all. Helaena murmured something softly, unintelligible, and her hand grasped weakly at the bedsheets. Jaehaera peeked over the mattress and began to wring her hands together, a nervous behavior that evoked the Queen Dowager.

“I’ve brought someone to see you.” Rhaena tried to speak brightly, to inject some warm and color into her voice. Maelor fussed quietly.

There was no response. For a moment, Jaehaera seemed to lose her courage, before a determined expression settled on the six-year-old’s face. Jaehaera hoisted herself onto the towering bed, letting Rhaena gently pull her up by the arm. The princess settled by her mother’s side, folding her legs neatly beneath her.

“Mother?”

Helaena made another moaning sound, shaking her head. “It’s me, mother.” Her voice quivered. “Jaehaera.”

At the lack of recognition, the princess’ face crumpled. Rhaena turned away, unable to watch this grotesque interaction. Let her say what she needed to say. Then, they could go. In her arms, Maelor tried to stand himself up on her hip. He only had eyes for one thing: his mother. Chubby fists reached for her over Rhaena’s shoulder; his violet eyes focused on Helaena’s pale face.

“I miss you,” said Jaehaera. “Please come back. I promise I’ll be good and keep my room tidy and eat my vegetables, even the ones I don’t like.” A wretched feeling twitched in Rhaena’s chest, and she hid her face in Maelor’s doublet, willing away her tears. She had to be composed, for Jaehaera and poor Maelor, who was too small to really understand anything except that his elder brother and mother were suddenly gone from his life. “And I’ll dig up bugs with you and Maelor everyday. I’m sorry I said I didn’t like it. Please, mama.”

The little princess broke into quiet cries and Rhaena gently placed her hand on her back. Perhaps the Queen Dowager had been right—the children were not ready.

But then Helaena spoke. “Maelor?” Her voice was paper thin, whispery and raw.

“Mother?”

“He is right here,” Rhaena gently set the two-year-old onto the bed, and eagerly he toddled to his mother, falling upon her chest. “And Jaehaera as well.”

Helaena stiffened at the contact. With some lucidity, she propped her head up and gazed right into Maelor’s wide violet eyes. A heartbeat passed, before she began to shriek and wail. “I killed you!” She thrashed in the sheets, moaning painfully. “I chose my baby to die.”

“Mama?” The boy said, confused. Jaehaera broke down into a torrent of tears, throwing herself off the bed and running to the door.

As the queen began to thrash, Rhaena swooped in and plucked Maelor up into her arms, hugging him against her chest. He too began to wail, a high-pitched sound, at being ripped away from his mother.

“Helaena—I—” What could she say? Rhaena did the brave thing and turned away, chasing after Jaehaera.

The hallway of Maegor’s Holdfast was almost blinding, compared to the shadowed gloom of Helaena’s chambers. The guards looked at her apologetically, unsurprised and used to the sound of the queen’s wailing. Other than the two men, the corridor was empty. Jaehaera had fled entirely, although Rhaena had a suspicion on where to find her.

“Oh, my poor baby cousin,” Rhaena said aloud, bouncing Maelor on her hip as she did with Viserys, on the rare occasion when the boy cried. “Let’s get you back to the nursery. Would you like that?”

In response, the boy sneezed. “Sounds like a yes to me," and she set off towards the northern section of the Holdfast.

The Red Keep had felt empty since her grandmother had ridden out with the king and his brother, and those who remained behind grew increasingly full of anticipation for their return. Nearly a full moon cycle had come and gone, and her grandmother had written to Rhaena that the crown’s army was marching back south. Along with the king, her grandmother would fly ahead, to return sooner, leaving Prince Aemond and Ser Cole to escort the army back to the city.

Rhaena found the Queen Dowager in the royal nursery, sitting on a rocking chair as if it were the Iron Throne itself. In the sunlight, the emeralds embroidered onto her gown glittered, sewn into a pattern that resembled summer ferns. Lush and green. One hand was raised to support her chin, as she gazed, almost wistfully, around the nursery. To the empty cribs and scattered toys. Rhaenyra and her father, Jace, Luke, Joff, and all of her cousins had lived here as babes. Perhaps if things had been different, Rhaena and Baela would have as well.

“Queen Alicent,” greeted Rhaena. In a fluid motion, the queen rose to her feet, smoothing out her gown.

“Lady Rhaena.”

Maelor wriggled excitedly, his tears forgotten, and reached for his grandmother. “Gra-gran-gramo,” he babbled.

“Grandmother,” enunciated Alicent, as Rhaena passed her grandson to her. She failed to hide her amusement as the boy grasped her brown curls. “Cat told me that the children asked to see their mother.”

Rhaena nodded. “They did. Although it was Jaehaera who did most of the begging.”

“Helaena is not ready, and I fear she will never be.” She pressed a solemn kiss against her grandson’s temple. “The children should not have seen her.”

“No. They should not have.” There was no need to describe it. The crying. The darkness. The desperation. Lady Alicent knew well enough what state her daughter was in. “But Jaehaera would have gone to her regardless, I think.”

Gently, the queen set Maelor down into his cot, where he eagerly pulled a well-loved stuffed dragon into his small arms. The warm sun lit her from behind, and, for a moment, Rhaena could picture the Queen Dowager twenty years younger, placing Aegon into his cradle. “You are right,” she said quietly. “And I am glad that you were there with them.” A breath. “You have been exceedingly kind with the children, Lady Rhaena. I must thank you for that.”

“It is no bother,” said Rhaena, suddenly shy. “We—we all understand each other. All of us lived through that night. And I would like to continue to be there for Jaehaera, if you permit it, Your Grace.”

The Queen Dowager tilted her head, emerald earrings swinging. “Permit it? Rhaena, you are no serving girl or nursemaid. You are of royal blood, a Targaryen. You are family.” An amused look passed over the Queen’s face. “I never thought I would say that to one of Daemon’s children.”

“I am more than just Daemon’s daughter.”

“As you have proven, several times over,” smiled Alicent. “Jaehaera is hiding in the back room, where the nursemaids store the linens, if you wish to see her. She would not speak to me.” A regretful note appeared in her voice. “Much like Helaena, in that way. You may have better luck.”

Rhaena nodded. “I will try.”

The Queen uncharacteristically crouched down, pretending to attack Maelor’s face with a unicorn toy. Leaving her, Rhaena crept into the linen room. A narrow window let it in a soft, diffused light, painting all of the fabric gold.

A single green slipper sat poking out of a cubby, adorned with a black ribbon tied neatly into a bow. Rhaena sat herself down upon the well-swept stone and pressed her own red-slippered foot against Jaehaera’s.

“Hm,” she said lightly. The tip of Jaehaera’s toes came up about halfway Rhaena’s foot. “You might just outgrow me, princess. If your slipper size is anything to go by.”

A muffled voice came out from the cubby. “You truly think so?”

“I feel quite confident.” She paused, deliberately slow. “Will you come out, Jaehaera?”

“No.”

“Please?”

A long moment passed. With a cascade of linens and towels and blankets, Jaehaera climbed out from her hiding place. Her hair was mussed, one of her braids unraveling, and she sank pathetically to the floor, splaying her legs. Tear tracks ran down her red cheeks and there were a few dark splotches of water on the sleeves of her jade gown.

“Do you wish to talk about it? What happened with your mother?”

“She hates me,” Jaehaera said quietly, fingers digging into the fabric of her gown.

Rhaena frowned. “That is not true.”

The princess shook her head furiously. “It is! She only cares for Maelor now.” A shaky, furious breath. “I bet she wishes I was dead! Then Jae would be alive and everyone would be happy.”

“Your mother does not wish you dead.” A pause. “And if something truly terrible had happened and you had died, I would not be happy at all, Jaehaera. We would miss you.”

Her face crumpled and Rhaena thought for a moment that she had made some terrible mistake. But Jaehaera crawled over and pillowed her head against Rhaena’s shoulder, green fabric mixing with red. “I miss Jae.”

“I know.” She missed Baela, but she refused to say it. Her twin was alive. Someday, they would see each other again. Jaehaera would not.

They sat together in silence, each thinking of their own twin, until a dragon screech echoed over the Blackwater Bay. Rhaena leapt to her feat, peering out the window.

“Who is it?” Jaehaera asked insistently, tugging on Rhaena’s skirt.

A crimson dragon and a golden one swept through the clouds, circling towards the Dragonpit. “Meleys! And Sunfyre, too!”

“Father is home?”

Rhaena took the girl’s hand. “Let us go and greet them,” she said. They swept off together, tears forgotten, back into the nursery, where the Queen Dowager was handing off a sleeping Maelor to a nursemaid.

“Jaehaera,” she smiled gently at her granddaughter, clearly pleased to see her hiding no longer. “I was just about to fetch you. Your father, the king, has returned. We must do our duty as noble ladies to welcome him home.”

“May Rhaena come as well?” A pleading tone colored her voice.

“If she wishes.” Warm brown eyes looked to Rhaena. “She is cousin to the king, after all.”

“Gladly,” she answered, more interested in seeing her grandmother than Aegon. As an apology for her behavior, Jaehaera took up her grandmother’s offered hand and they journeyed through the Holdfast. They fetched Lord Otto on the way, along with a whole curious horde of spectators, eager to watch the return of the triumphant young king.

Grandmother and King Aegon entered the yard with a fair amount of fanfare, as the courtiers called out their well wishes and greetings. Most were directed towards the king, but several were meant for her grandmother. As they approached the steps, where the royal family stood, Rhaena bit back a wide smile, as her grandmother’s warm eyes met her own.

“Mother,” said the king, and Lady Alicent bowed low.

“Welcome back to the Red Keep, Your Grace,” she said. “Princess Rhaenys. We are relieved to see you both safely returned to us.”

Clutching her grandmother’s hand, Jaehaera smiled shyly at her father. He had never been close to his children, per Helaena’s admission, but Aegon was all the girl had left. “Welcome home, father.”

King Aegon paused, as if he was surprised to see Jaehaera standing there. A hopeful, silver-haired girl, bundled in green, with her mother’s eyes and her dead twin’s face. Then, he leaned down and swept her up into his arms. His cloak of red velvet swung out as he spun her. For the first time in a moon, Rhaena heard the princess shriek with childlike laughter.

Once they were all back inside, the court separated. Her grandmother guided Rhaena back to her rooms, where, once inside, she pulled her into an embrace.

“My sweet Rhaena,” murmured her grandmother, stinking of dragon. “You do not know how much of a relief it is to see your face.”

She laughed, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I missed you too, grandmother.”

“You are well?” They separated, but Grandmother rested a hand on her face, searching her eyes. “Safe? Nothing has happened while I was away?”

“I am fine, grandmother. Truly.” Compared to Helaena, any nightmare that she suffered was minor.

After a quick glance over, she seemed satisfied, nodding once. “Have you written to your sister?” Her grandmother stepped behind a changing screen, bringing along a bowl of water and a sponge.

Rhaena sat down upon a chaise. “I have. She seems well, and grandfather too. There is a whole stack of letters waiting for you from Driftmark.”

An exasperated laugh. "I shall tend to it as soon as I can. Tell me, I noticed that Queen Helaena was not at the reception.” The question went unsaid, as falling cloth brushed the floor.

“No, she was not,” Rhaena said quietly. “She is unwell, grandmother. Severely so.”

“Unwell? In what way?”

She worried at loose thread of embroidery on her bodice. That would be need be fixed. Quickly. “I do not know what the maester would say, but it is some sickness of the mind. Caused by her grief. Helaena has been abed for a whole moon. She barely eats, hardly speaks, and cries all the time.”

“She has lost a child,” said her grandmother. Rhaena could hear the frown in her voice. “In a more gruesome way than most. That is not easy.”

“I know, and I do not fault her for that, but I worry.” She sighed, thinking back to Jaehaera and Maelor’s crying. “She refuses to see her children, and it has been particularly hard for the princess.”

Her grandmother stepped out from behind the changing screen, looking slightly fresher. Riding leathers had been traded out for a simple set of black trousers, a shirt, and vest. “And no one has spoken to her?”

“I have tried. Queen Alicent has tried. Lord Otto has visited. Even Jaehaera plead her case this morning. Nothing changes.”

Thoughtfully, her grandmother stood before the window, idly running her fingers over the sill. “Something must be done,” she began. “We cannot afford to lose Dreamfyre.”

“That is your first concern?” Despite herself, she could not suppress her dissapointment. “The dragon? Helaena deserves help, whether or not she is a dragonrider.”

Her grandmother turned, eyes apologetic. “You are right, Rhaena. My apologies.” Her long silver hair swayed in the breeze, as she waited for Rhaena to nod, accepting the apology. “In the morning, I will speak to her.”

“You will speak to her?”

“My children are dead. I understand her, to some extent.” Her grandmother nodded, mostly to herself. “The queen feels that she has nothing left to live for. All it will take is for someone to remind her of what she still has.”

True to her word, her grandmother went to the queen’s chambers in the morning, as Rhaena followed behind, balancing a tray of breakfast. It was a meagre spread, plain bread and a dollop of jam, but after nearly a month of willful starvation, Helaena would need something light.

“I do not wish for you to stay long, Rhaena,” her grandmother said. “What I will say to her—some of it will be harsh.”

Carefully watching the tray, to keep tea from sloshing over the edge of the cup, she replied. “She is my friend. Or at least, I would like her to be. I would like to be there for her.”

“As your friend, she also deserves privacy. The queen will already be humiliated enough, once she comes back to her senses.”

Rhaena bit her tongue as they approached the doors to the royal chambers. The guards eyed her grandmother a bit suspiciously, but they knew Rhaena and waved them in. Little had changed since yesterday. The same darkness and gloom, the stench of sickness and sweat, salt and the untouched supper on Helaena’s bedside table.

“Here, I’ll take the tray,” Grandmother said, balancing it in her hands. “Would you please open up all the windows?”

Light might do some good. "I will," she said. As her grandmother approached the sheltered canopy, Rhaena started at the window closest to the door, wrenching open the curtains. A month's worth of dust nearly choked her, as she coughed and sputtered. Then, she stood up on her tiptoes and unlatched the shutters, pushing them open. Warm sunlight flooded this corner of the room and Helaena made a pained moan.

Her grandmother’s voice floated faintly through the room, deliberately soft. As she worked, Rhaena did her best to listen to what snippets of conversation that she could.

“…you have two living children. That need you. Who will protect them, if not for you? How can you…”

She opened another window, breathing in the fresh air. The light revealed the great horror that was the bedroom, the dead plants and desiccated insects, of Helaena’s small and pale body wincing away from her grandmother.

“…I sentenced him to die,” a whispery voice floated on the breeze. “My baby, I cannot bear to look…”

“The only thing they understand is that their mother has seemingly abandoned them,” her grandmother’s voice responded, loud enough for Rhaena to hear. A heat was in her voice, an irritation. “That they matter less than their brother.”

With the last window open, her grandmother half-turned. “Thank you, Rhaena. Leave us please.”

Part of her wished to stay, but then Rhaena caught Helaena’s glassy, dark eyes. The grief and shame there. Wordlessly, she turned and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Her grandmother shared nothing with her, once they met later for the afternoon meal, despite Rhaena’s curious probing. But whatever she had said, it worked. As Rhaena sat in the nursery in the early evening, preparing to read a story to Jaehaera, the door swung open and Helaena stood there, half-supported by the Queen Dowager.

Upright and freshly bathed, the queen looked slightly better, but the sickly pallor of her skin, the dark circles, and the redness of her eyes remained. She was dressed in one of her old gowns, a simple ensemble of sage green and pale yellow, that was far too big and hastily taken in at the waist with a belt.

Jaehaera’s eyes grew impossibly wide, but she remained still, nearly frozen where she sat on the floor. With great effort, Helaena slowly crossed the nursery to Maelor’s cot and shakily lifted her son up into her arms. He awoke from his nap and his face split open with a wide smile, as he raised his small hands to cradle his mother’s face. Despite the grief, the long, lonely month spent wasting away in her bed, he recognized her.

With a sob, Helaena sunk into a chair. Queen Alicent lingered nearby, her hands hovering just above her daughter’s hair, as if she wanted to touch it comfortingly.

“Mother?” Jaehaera spoke, her voice nearly a whisper.

The queen did not speak. She only nodded her head and stretched out a single hand. Hesitant, Jaehaera stood and quietly took a handful of steps before she burst into a rabbit-quick sprint, crashing into her mother’s skirts.

Rhaena looked to Lady Alicent, brown eyes meeting lilac, and she grinned. A genuine, relieved, smile. With a snap, she shut the book; some storybook fairytale with noble-hearted wolves and clever lions, secret princes, and prophesized heroes. She left it there upon the velvet cushion of the chair, before Rhaena left the room altogether. Jaehaera did not need a story. There was already one writing itself in the nursery—one of reconciliation and forgiveness and joy—and Rhaena wished desperately that it would have a happy ending.

Chapter Text

A fog had swept into Hull late at night, a great rush of vapor that chased the ships through the bay. It lingered throughout the morning, and even now there was a cloud of it pressing thick and grey against the window panes.

It was a cold fog and the heat from the fireplace caused drips of condensation to form on the glass. A rich scent wafted through the small room. Halibut simmered above the fire, rich with clams, onions, parsley, and white wine. It was a familiar smell, made following a family recipe. Passed down from a father to his daughter, who now made it for her own sons.

Addam dragged his finger over the window, leaving squiggled lines and swirls in the condensation. His book lay open on his lap, forgotten. Out of all the treasures in this house, it was perhaps the most expensive, commissioned as wedding gift by his grandfather for his grandmother, who was fond of stories. His brother, Alyn, lay sprawled against the bottom step of the stairs, quietly whittling away at a gnarled piece of driftwood. The bow of a ship was slowly emerging, and a pile of wood shavings lay on his lap and feet.

Through the window, a face suddenly emerged from the gloom, pressing up against the glass. Crossed eyes and a wagging tongue flashed at him and Addam jerked back, shouting.

“Fuck!” Alyn stuck his thumb into his mouth, wiping blood off his blade. “You startled me.”

“There was someone outside," he said, blinking out into the grey sea.  

The lock clicked and the front door swung open. Marilda of Hull stood in the threshold, laughing, as her green eyes crinkled. “Did I frighten you?” She teased her son, kicking off her mud-caked boots.

“No,” Addam answered, right as Alyn said, “You did.”

Raising a brow, she tugged off her leather gloves, revealing calloused hands, and hung them over the mantle to dry. “Do you enjoy lying to your mother, Addam?” She smiled, playful.

“Only sometimes,” he admitted, and Alyn snickered. “Welcome home, mother.”

“It is good to be home.” She leaned over the fire and plunged a ladle into the stew, stirring. The flame turned her tawny brown skin a warm amber.

Alyn stood, giving his thumb another glance over. Before their mother could ask, he began pulling bowls out from the cabinets. “You took longer than we expected.”

“The harbor master closed the port because of the fog,” she answered. Her long, single braid slipped over her shoulder. “I had to adjust a few manifests.”

Carefully, Addam used their singed and worn potholder to lift the stew off the roasting stick. He set it upon a woven placemat on the center of their table. With her plain brown skirt swishing around her woolen stockings, Marilda came to the table and began to serve supper.

“I hope Thom didn’t pitch a fit,” said Addam, sitting down. Alyn swung his leg over the bench and settled to his side.

She snorted. “Of course, he did. Nearly tore my hair out, but that’s what makes him a good quartermaster.”

As always, they left the seat at the head of the table empty. That was grandfather's seat. Sometimes, Addam still expected him to walk through the door, with his sandy blonde hair and smiling green eyes. He had been dead for nearly eight years, and their grandmother—a fletcher’s daughter from the Summer Isles—had been dead even longer.

They began to eat, the stew bursting with nostalgia and spice. “Speaking of,” began their mother. “I heard something interesting down at the docks today.”

“Something interesting?” Alyn leaned forward, clearly interested, half-smiling around his spoon.

Marilda nodded. “A decree from Dragonstone. They say that any man who can claim an unridden dragon for Princess Rhaenyra will be ennobled. Granted lands, titles, gold.”

“Where’d you hear that?” He asked, after swallowing down another mouthful of stew. “Thought ships weren’t allowed between the islands.”

“Like that stops the fishermen,” their mother shook her head dismissively. “Half of them keep a wife on Driftmark and a mistress on Dragonstone. They’re more scared of their women’s wrath than Lord Velaryon or Princess Rhaenyra.”

Alyn’s shoulder bumped against Addam’s as he leaned forward on his elbows. “D’you think it’s true?”

“If it is, they must be desperate,” he said. It was not every day that the nobility looked to the common people for aid.

“They are desperate,” said Alyn, scraping his spoon around the rim of the bowl.

Their mother cracked open a clam shell. “Borris was the one who told me, and he’s the trustworthy sort."

The conversation lulled for a moment, as they polished off the remainder of their meal. A bit of stew remained in the pot, which Marilda poured into a clean bowl. “I’m going to bring some to Agnes,” she said, throwing a terrycloth atop it. Addam hummed in acknowledgement, as he started the dishes.

“Tell her hello,” said Alyn, absentmindedly setting a fresh log into the fire.

“I will.” But before she left the house, their mother paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Did you know, boys, that Seasmoke was sighted again? And that ugly brown sheep-stealing one, too.”

Addam stalled, elbow deep in a basin of dishwater. Seasmoke? Rumor said that Ser Laenor’s mount had resettled on Dragonstone long ago, thought never to return. A strange anticipation crawled over his skin. “Mother, what are you suggesting?”

“Me? Oh, absolutely nothing,” she said, but her eyes were dancing. “Goodbye, darlings!”

In the morning, they were turned away from the shipyard. Thom, quartermaster to the Mouse, their mother's ship, intercepted them by the wharves. “Oh, boys,” he began, gnawing on the end of his quill. Every year, he seemed more frazzled and anxious, but no one could deny he was a genius with numbers. “Your mother said to take the day off today.”

Take the day off? Addam had been helping out at the shipyard since he was a child, back when it still belonged to his grandfather. Marilda of Hull never granted a day off to her sons, except in extenuating circumstances. “A day off,” he repeated, voice flat.

“Are you sure?” Alyn peered over Thom’s shoulder to the absolute chaos that had seized the yard. A boat was in the process of being raised, in order to patch a hole in its hull, and it was listing slowly to the side. Distantly, men were shouting furiously. “Looks a bit busy in there, Thom.”

“Of course!” The quartermaster exclaimed. “And I just remembered, your mother said two days off. Now—I must be going. Addam, Alyn, I’ll see you later.”

He scurried away, his papers rustling. Addam and his brother stood rooted before the gates to shipyard. If Marilda said they had the day off, the burly guards were surely going to enforce it. It would be pointless to force their way in.

“I don’t like this,” frowned Addam.

“That we have the day off or that Mum’s clearly scheming?” Alyn walked past casually, his plain brown cloak swinging out behind him.

Glancing towards at the shipyard, he turned and followed after his brother. They left behind the construction-focused part of the port to the market side, where sailors quickly unloaded cargo and traders hawked their wares. It seemed busier everyday—more traders, more ships, shoppers, soldiers, and sailors. But that was war for you. It was good for business.

“Mum always schemes,” he said, slipping between two crates being carried down from a ship. He flashed a smile as the sailors barked at him. “Not sure that I like that it involves us this time.”

“What? We’re always involved in her schemes. It’s the dragons that are new.”

Addam made a muted hum, which was immediately lost in the sound of the crowd. Gulls screamed; men grunted. Laughter and chatter and shouting mixed with the steady thrum of the waves beating the shore and sails flapping in the wind. Nestled between a great treadwheel crane and a coopers workshop, a kind-looking old woman sold skewers of meat, seasoned liberally with spices. They paused there, as Alyn grabbed four skewers and waited for his older brother to fish some coin out from his pouch.

“Well, I think we should go,” his brother said, tearing at the meat with his teeth. “See if we can do it.”

Addam choked, coughing violently. “Try to claim a dragon?” He nearly scoffed. “Us? We’re shipwright’s sons.”

“On mum’s side, yeah.” Alyn gestured loosely at their shared silver hair. His brother wore his in short twists, parted down the center of his scalp. Addam had always preferred his to be longer. His locs were often tied up into a bun to keep them away from his face. They shared the same violet eyes. “But our father? Who knows.”

When they were children, their father had been a sensitive subject. His mother had told no one, not even her own father, who he was and Addam had long given up on finding out. He was content to just be Marilda’s son. But whoever their father was, he had stamped his likeness upon his son’s faces. They both had Marilda’s cheekbones and build—Alyn, in particular, had their grandfather’s cleft chin—but their hair and eyes were obviously Valyrian. That wasn’t terribly special. The Blackwater archipelagos were full of people with silver hair and purple eyes, or who had one feature but not the other.

“Half this island has Valyrian blood,” he said, a bit dismissively. “We’re just as likely to be Lyseni or Volantene.”

A sharp grin. “Or Velaryon.” He used to entertain that theory as a child. Whenever he was angry at their mother, he imagined some Velaryon knight coming down from Castle Driftmark to whisk him away into a life luxury.

“Velaryons never rode dragons, only Targaryens do.” Addam finished the meat from his skewer and began to gnaw on the wood. “Ser Laenor only did because Princess Rhaenys was his mother.”

“Bah, what’s the harm in trying? Even if we fail, we still have mum's shipyard,” said Alyn. "You'll take over after mum and granddad, and I'll become a captain of my own own ship."

He snorted. “If we fail, we’re probably dead, Alyn.”

“You’re no fun, brother.”

“Only sometimes. That’s how older brothers are.” They were Lyseni twins, with Addam older by a scant eleven months. But he liked to lord that over Alyn when he could.

"Do you think mother would encourage it if she wasn't confident we could do it?" That was a good point. Addam furrowed his brow, but Alyn slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "C'mon, you think too much." 

"You think too little," Addam smirked, nudging him back. "Ask me nicely, and I'll do it." 

Alyn stuck out his tongue, laughing. “No. Think you can keep up with me?”

Before he could reply, his brother threw the skewer sticks down onto the ground and broke out into a run, weaving through the crowd. Addam chased after him, following his brother away from the sea. As was the case with all port towns, the further inland one went, the quieter it became. Larger stone townhomes gave way to smaller wooden apartments to small cottages and shacks. The cobbled stone path turned to mud and led them to the wooden wall that enclosed Hull. It was less for protection than to keep the sheep and wild animals out.

With the grassy moor laying just outside the gate, what was harm in riding out? Addam haggled with a stablemaster to rent two ponies, even though his brother whined that he wanted a great warhorse. They rode out from the town, passing by the eastern path that led up to Castle Driftmark, and went north.

The interior of Driftmark was populated with more sheep than people. A few hamlets straddled along the dirt road to Spicetown, with one single inn servicing the route. Perhaps half an hour out of Hull, they crested a hill and were greeted by a hoard of sheep, a nearly unbroken sea of wool over the grassy plains. Five shepherds were congregated a distance off the road, taking a meal together.

“Good day, fellows,” called out Alyn, urging his pony through the throngs of sheep. “Seen any dragons around?”

To Addam’s surprise, the shepherds groaned in chorus, swearing and spitting. “Yes!” A grey-haired man said, frowning. “Blasted Sheepstealer was snatching from the flocks last night.”

“Five sheep, he took!” Another shepherd moaned, burying his fingers into the wool of a particularly lovely looking lamb.

“Is it nesting far from the road?” Addam asked. An ewe attempted to gnaw at his pony’s tail. 

The third shepherd, a petulant looking teen, spoke. “The Sheepstealer doesn’t eat men. You'll be safe.”

“He can still burn men,” said Alyn brightly, as if he was not about to ride out to find said dragon.

A bit suspiciously, a fourth shepherd pointed northwest. “The beast is an hours walk in that direction. If you stick to the main path, you’ll stay out of harm’s way.”

“You have my thanks.” His brother kicked his heels against the pony’s side, breaking into a steady, weaving canter through the sheep.

The final shepherd spoke, looking up from a meagre meal of cheese and bread. As they did, the hood of their cloak slipped away from their face, and Addam realized it was a young girl, perhaps his age. She had wide, dark eyes and a halo of coiled brown hair. A slit over her nose marked her as a thief, although she clearly was trusted enough now to safeguard someone’s flock. “He’s goin’ the wrong way.”

“So he is,” Addam replied, before following after his brother.

Once they cleared the sheep, he caught up to Alyn and they climbed up the winding shepherd’s paths into the highland moor. A wide grassy expanse stretched before them and the grey sea could be seen, shimmering in the distance. There was no dragon.

“What now, Alyn?”

His brother frowned. “Why are you asking me?”

“This was your idea,” Addam smiled, faintly amused.

“It’s mum’s idea,” Alyn walked his pony in a tight circle, glancing around the landscape. “I suppose we wait.”

And so they did. Addam let the reins slip slack, so that the pony could graze. His younger brother dismounted, pacing through the tall grass. He could not say how long they waited there, perhaps another half hour, before a roar echoed out over the moor.

“That came from the north,” said Addam, listening to the sound echo. There was a rustle in the grass, but when he turned to look behind him, there was nothing there.

Alyn grinned widely. “We must be close. Come on!” He pushed the pony hard, more than he should, for the poor thing was old and short. As he had done all day, Addam followed once more, turning north.

The ponies sensed the dragon before they did, digging their hooves into the dark, rich soil, and refused to go further. Alyn swore violently, leaping off his mount, and froze. Following his gaze, Addam saw a great beast nestled up against a rocky ridge.

When they spoke of dragons, the beasts were described as creatures of great beauty. But Sheepstealer was a dull muddy color, with his scales pockmarked with warts. While large, he was oddly slender. The beast was not asleep, but rather seemed in the process of grooming, scratching its scales against the rocks.

“I thought all dragons were supposed to be beautiful,” whispered Alyn.

He shrugged, still transfixed by the great beast. “Some must be more handsome than others. Much like people, I suppose.”

“Hm. That may true. Like how I’m the more handsome brother.” A quick smile. Brat. “Would you like the honor?”

Addam thought for a moment, oddly touched that Alyn would offer, but he knew immediately that Sheepstealer was not meant for him. It was his brother who had urged them out in the first place. His idea, even if it came at their mother’s suggestion. “No, it should be you,” he said at last. “I would have spent my morning loitering in the market and sleeping the rest of the day away, if not for you.”

His brother knocked their shoulders together. “Well, I won’t complain. Stay here?”

“I’ll watch the horses.” He reached out to grasp Alyn’s forearm. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Alyn smiled. “We have Valyrian blood,” he said confidently.

“Be careful,” he said, gentle and firm. If mother had faith, so would he. “I will come running if you call.”

“What can you do against a dragon?”

“I'm your older brother, Alyn. I'd do whatever I could.”

Bowing his head, his brother huffed out a laugh and Addam managed a smile. “It will be fine. You’ll see. And then you can tell everyone that your little brother is a dragonrider.”

Alyn set off bravely towards the great beast. Trailing behind at a considerable distance, Addam followed, to intervene in case something happened. As if he was striding down the market square, he walked straight up to the dragon, who made a warning growl, backing up against the rocky ridge. As if Alyn had startled it. It felt almost comical. What would a dragon have to be afraid of?

Despite the warning growl, his brother continued on, raising his hand insistently. He was speaking now, but Addam found that he could not process the words, fixated on the look of distress and distrust in the dragon’s eyes. Sheepstealer bared his teeth and each tooth was twice the size of Alyn’s arm.

This was a mistake, he realized, as dread leaped up into his throat. Alyn was shouting now, relentless and courageous and absolutely foolish all at once. The dragon snapped his teeth at him, growling again. His little brother either did not recognize the warning or disregarded it entirely. Alyn moved forward, too close this time, and the dragon’s throat suddenly glowed, as it spat a narrow stream of fire at the grass near his brother’s feet.

Blinking, time seemed to slow, as Addam tried to process what he was seeing. Alyn was on fire. Great licks of orange flame leaped up from the burning grass, consuming his cloak and his tunic. A panicked shout rang out over the moor, before it turned into one of keening, sharp pain. His little brother stumbled, trying to beat out the flame.

Addam sprinted forward mindlessly, uncaring of Sheepstealer, who roared again as a he drew near. He ripped off his own cloak and slammed into Alyn, beating the flame with the fabric. Together, they fell onto the moist grass, as he tried frantically to put the fire out.

A girl's voice rang out suddenly, cutting through the dragon roars. “Sheepstealer! Go! Go!”

Choking down panic, he rolled Alyn over, looking for any remaining flames. A great gust of air nearly knocked him down, as Sheepstealer took to the skies. “Oh gods,” Addam cried, shaking him. “Alyn? Are you alright?”

He managed a low moan of pain. “Addam?”

“I’m here, little brother.”

“It hurts.”

Addam sucked in a sharp breath. “I know,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I know it hurts. I’m going to take care of you, yeah? Mum will make sure you’re alright.”

“The dragon?” Alyn hissed as his brother removed the cloak, revealing an angry, fresh burn. Much of his tunic was burned to ash, exposing patches of skin to the sea air.

“He’s gone,” cut in a familiar voice. The shepherd girl kneeled down on the grass, clicking her tongue at the scores of angry blisters stretching over his brother’s skin. “You were foolish, walkin’ up to him like that.”

Alyn did not respond, moaning quietly. Tears leaked out from the corners of his eyes, squeezed shut in pain. “Help me with him,” said Addam.  

She stood; the girl was a short thing, but Addam himself had never been particularly tall either. Together, they lifted Alyn to his feet and half-carried his brother back to his confused and startled pony. He cried out horrifically as they gently laid him over the saddle.

“I can lead his pony down the hill,” the shepherdess said, gripping the reins. “’Til we’re back with the flock.”

“Thank you,” he paused. “Miss?”

“I ain’t a miss.” A sharp laugh, as she smiled. “Call me Netty. Although I hope we never have to see each other again. Considerin’ the circumstances and all.”

As she said, Netty led Alyn’s pony back down to the valley and the great flock of sheep, where she handed off the reins to Addam. From there, he quickened the pace as much as he could back to Hull. He did his best to not fixate on Alyn’s moaning. He needed to get home. He flung more coin at the stablemaster by the gates and shouted that he would bring the horses back in a day or two.

Agnes, their widowed neighbor, was tending to her herb planters when he rode up with the exhausted ponies. “Master Addam!” She cried out, seeing Alyn’s limp body. “What has happened?”

“Send for a healer!” He gently pulled his brother off the back of the pony. He was completely limp, completely drenched with sweat, but was still breathing. “And send word to my mother! Please!”

He went inside the house and eased his brother onto his narrow bed on the second floor. Agnes, as old as she was, worked quickly, and it took little time for a healer to arrive. She was a hard-faced woman with grey at her temples and was more midwife than healer, having delivered both Addam and Alyn. But she was the closest thing to a maester in Hull.

The healer cut away the charred remnants of his brother’s shirt, revealing the full extent of his injury. Burns twined over his shoulder and down the left side of his chest, extending as far as his thigh and knee. His arm took the worst of it, with oozing burst blisters. “Has there been a fire?” She asked, pulling out a mortar and pestle from her bag.

“No,” said Addam, sitting down on the edge of his own bed. They shared the upstairs room with their mother, three beds pushed against the far wall. “These burns came from a dragon.”

A sharp, disapproving look, as she set to grinding garlic. By the time his mother burst through the door, the healer had departed, leaving Alyn bandaged in bed. She ran up the stairs, door slamming behind her, and burst into the attic with a desperate look in her green eyes. Addam had never seen her so frightened.

“Is he awake?” She quietly sank down to her knees by Alyn’s bedside, running her hand over his silver hair.

“No,” answered Addam. “The healer gave him a sleeping potion, so that he’ll sleep through the worst of the pain. We’ll need to change his bandages daily and reapply fresh garlic to his blisters for two more days.”

“So he’ll live,” his mother said, mostly to herself. “What happened?”

“He tried to claim a dragon.” Addam answered, and then a burst of resentment flowed through him. "At your suggestion." 

Her head turned, her brown braid swinging. "You blame this on me," she said, not accusatory. A pause. "You are right. I-I was sure you both could do it."

"Why did you want us to?" He asked, voice low. "We have the shipyard. Have either of us ever acted like we wanted something else? I would be proud to take over the yard, to carry on grandfather's and your work. It's in our blood." 

"You deserve more," said his mother, smiling softly. "And you are not only from my blood." 

Her expression was strange, oddly wistful. "Is this about our father? Mum, even if he was some petty lord or knight, we're just his bastards."

"I know," she said. "But with the dragons, you would have-" 

"Received a title? Land and gold? I'm happy to just be Marilda's son."

That moved her, which threw Addam off guard. Bright tears shone in her eyes. "You are a sweet boy, Addam. Loyal and true and kind." She stood to press a kiss against his brow. "You should rest. I will watch over your brother."

Obedient, he slept. He woke to his mother praying over Alyn, who slept still, reeking of pus and garlic. He set off to return the two ponies to the stablemaster, who was eager to receive them back into his custody. As the ponies were taken from his hand, Addam lingered. The wooden gate was open; the vivid green grassland vast and empty. A strange desire seized him and, instead of returning home to hold vigil by Alyn's bedside, he walked through the gate. 

He wandered aimlessly, veering east towards the sea cliffs. The guards of Castle Driftmark eyed him warily as he passed by the castle, but left him alone. He turned and climbed up to one of the cliffside overlooks, seized by a desire to look out over the ocean. It had been nearly two moons since he had last been out sailing. With war on Driftmark's doorstep, his mother had ceased her voyages on the Mouse to devote herself fully to managing the yard. Ships needed repairing, now more than ever.

As he ascended the crest of the ridge, he froze. A dragon lay curled up in a field of heather, a pale grey mound among a sea of purple and moss green. Strapped atop his back, a dark black saddle was bolted into the scales—much like how one would shoe a horse. The leather was aged and uncared for, cracking in some places, but it still appeared sturdy. It was Seasmoke, Addam realized. He sucked in a sharp breath and Seasmoke opened one ice-blue eye, flecked with white and grey. It watched him curiously, seemingly not frightened nor angry that a human had come so close.

Sheepstealer had growled and roared when his brother had approached, but Seasmoke remained silent. The dragon seemed oddly expectant and Addam, losing his senses, stepped forward. Lazily, Seasmoke stood, shaking out his wings. When he had been a small child, he had always run out to watch Princess Rhaenys and her son on the rare occasions when they flew over Hull. He had believed that Ser Laenor's mount, the pale grey dragon streaking across the skies, had been made of clouds and was soft to the touch. 

The dragon looked very different up close. To his surprise, the tips of his wings and the fin-like membrane that crested down his neck were a dusty, pale red. Two silvery horns arched back away from his face and crests of bone ran down his neck and spine. He was smaller than Sheepstealer, but was less lean, having more muscle in the chest and legs.

Seasmoke simply watched him, both eyes open now and intense. Addam stepped forward once more and his eyes narrowed immediately, as a low rumble sounded in his chest.

I don’t know any Valyrian, Addam thought, a numb feeling coursing through him. What could he say or do to convince Seasmoke that he was not a threat? As his mind raced, instinct took over. He raised his arm, offering out his hand. Let it be the dragon’s choice.

Stepping forward, the dragon opened his mouth—to yawn, to roar, to incinerate Addam into a smoldering pile of ash—and he closed his eyes. He prayed that his mother would mourn quickly if he died, that Alyn would heal and take over the yard. That he would live a long, happy life and go on to name a son of his own after his elder brother. 

But no fire came. No teeth snapped Addam up and ripped him apart. He opened his eyes and Seasmoke was there, his head hovering inches away from his hand. Sulfurous breath, undercut by the smell of roasted fish, blew warmly against his face. His ice-blue eyes blinked slowly, cat-like.

Perhaps it was madness, but Addam felt an understanding between himself and the dragon. He leaned forward and closed the distance between them, his hand smoothing over the rough surface of Seasmoke’s snout. It was not soft, as he had once imagined it to be, but rough and hot, like holding a loaf of freshly-baked bread.

At the touch, something slotted into place in his chest. A piece that he had never known was missing. Warmth spread through him, from base of his skull to the heels of his feet. The feeling was impossible to describe, but now that he knew it, Addam new instinctively that he would never be able to live without it. He nearly fell to his knees as a great weight settled upon him. An invisible chain linked them now, man and dragon; he felt it in his blood and bones, deep in his heart. If Seasmoke was a great ship, Addam was his anchor. Tied together, forever. 

A sweet trill returned him to his body, as his dragon pressed his head firmly into his hand. Addam placed a second hand upon Seasmoke’s head. Somehow, like instinct, he knew to scratch at the juncture of head and neck, and his dragon cried out in pleasure.

“Hello,” murmured Addam, breathlessly. “My name is Addam.”

Seasmoke said nothing, just simply lowered his body flat against the ground, and angled his head to look expectantly at his saddle.

“You want to fly?” He reluctantly removed his hands from the dragon’s scales, stumbling towards his crested back. Mercifully, the saddle had hand holds, and Addam hoisted himself up clumsily, unwilling to hurt Seasmoke.

Once he was up there, he realized that he had no idea what to do. A number of straps and belts hung loose. If there had been any reins, Seasmoke had clearly chewed threw them by now, in the years since he had been riderless.

A knight who served the Velaryon household once claimed that dragonriders were taught a number of Valyrian commands to direct and control their dragons. But Addam was not Targaryen, was of dubious descent, and only been bonded to a dragon for a handful of minutes. What he was was a sailor, a shipyard’s son. He gripped the saddle horn tightly.

“Weigh anchor?” He tried, half-serious. “Raise the sail?”

For a moment, nothing happened, as if the dragon did not wish to respond to such ridiculous commands, but then Seasmoke leaped up into the air. Addam shouted and then tried to wrap the loose leather straps around his wrists and hands. Driftmark and the grassy moor became a streak of color, a dizzying blur.

Seasmoke brought them up over the wide expanse of the Narrow Sea, releasing a laughing roar as Addam screamed. Part of him was afraid, in disbelief. He was so high up. A fall would kill him instantly. But those fears were surpassed by an indescribable joy. The sea breeze whipped at his face, the intoxicating smell of brine and sulfur and sky.

As if he knew that Addam could very easily slip from the saddle and fall, the dragon flew levelly, ascending just high enough to brush beneath a cloud. Addam raised one hand, breathlessly, feeling a chill, wet vapor against his hand. He let loose a whooping laugh, which Seasmoke responded in kind, roaring loudly over Hull.

On the docks, in the town, and even at Castle Driftmark, people looked up at him as he soared over the town. Could they see him? Or were they just enraptured with the sight of a dragon flying so low over Hull? At his quiet urging, Seasmoke landed gently; Addam slipped from the saddle and nearly fell over, his legs shaking. The dragon shifted, supporting his weight as he leaned limply against his flank. 

"That was amazing," he said, throwing his arms around Seasmoke's head. "If only Alyn could have seen..." He paused, some of the joy leaving him. 

Seasmoke trilled, inquisitive. "Alyn is my brother. You'll meet him soon, I promise. I need to go, to tell my mother. How will I find you again?"

Blinking, the dragon gave him a look. Are you stupid?  The glance said. "What am I saying," laughed Addam. "You'll know how to find me, won't you?" 

The dragon turned away, taking back to the skies. As he flew from view, Addam could feel that strange, elastic feeling growing taut like a rope. He realized suddenly that if he followed that feeling, it would lead him back to Seasmoke. Ripping his eyes away, he turned back south, to begin the long trudge back to Hull. He relived the moment of flight over and over, as he walked past the gates and through the weaving town streets, until he found himself walking up the stairs to their attic.

“Addam?” Marilda was dabbing his brother's forehead with a damp towel. "Are you alright? Your brother is-" 

“Mum. I did it.” He felt windblown and breathless and unsteady on his feet. “I did it!”

In his bed, Alyn stirred. “You did it?” He mumbled softly, blinking open one violet eye. “Claimed a dragon? A pretty one?”

“Seasmoke,” he grinned, sitting down at the edge of the bed. His brother was awake, half-burned but smiling weakly. 

"Gods, Addam. You stink." His brother teased. "And I'm the one covered in garlic paste."

They laughed together like boys, and their mother embraced them both. When she pulled away, Marilda of Hull looked at her son with pride. “Boys,” their mother said softly. She squeezed gently at Addam’s hand. “I think it’s time I told you who your father was.”

Chapter Text

During lunch with her grandfather, a dragon cried out over High Tide. It interrupted a frankly lengthy lecture about naval warfare, which had gone on for so long that Baela found herself bored. There was only so much one could learn about battle tactics in one sitting. Or fleet movements. How to ram a ship and extinguish a fire quickly. To prevent enemy boarders and plug a hull leak before the entire ship went down.

Baela was eager to learn. A trait that her mother, father, grandmother, and now her grandfather praised. Yet, her first emotion was relief as her grandfather’s mouth snapped shut. But dread soon followed, once she realized that the roar was unfamiliar. That had not been Meleys or Moondancer.

Lord Corlys clearly had the same thought. He rose, easier now that he no longer needed his cane, and went to the window; Baela squeezed herself beside him to peer outside. Shimmering in the midday sun, a pale grey dragon descended quickly to the tidal beach. A rough landing, judging from the impressive amount of sand kicked into the air. Her grandfather sucked in a sharp breath, gripping Baela’s arm with a sudden intensity.

Was it Grey Ghost? No, she thought, that wouldn’t be right. He was silent. Famously so. This dragon could only be Seasmoke, which explained her grandfather’s reaction. How long had it been since he had seen the mount of his son?

A silver-haired rider slipped from the saddle. Baela felt her grandfather’s hand shake and worried briefly that he might collapse. She squeezed his forearm in a gesture that she hoped was comforting. If he was to fall, at least he would know that Baela would catch him.

Squinting, she watched the rider turn and help a second person down from Seasmoke’s saddle. “Shall we go to them?” She asked. The two figures hesitantly began to approach High Tide, leaving a trail of footprints on the beach.

“No,” said the Sea Snake. He straightened, a strength returning to him, and dispensed another lesson. “Always let a guest come to you. Whether they be friend or foe, it ensures that the first time they see you is when you are seated on Driftwood Throne.”

He sent for a servant to clear away their meal, a wry smile dancing over his face as Baela hurried to pop another few bites of cheese into her mouth. Corlys Velaryon sank into the Driftwood Throne with practiced ease. Shoulders straight and proud, with his silver locs tumbling down his back and threaded with golden beads. Baela stood at his right, as she had often done when her grandmother ruled in his stead. Standing as heir, the future Lady of the Tides.

Once the hall was clean and tidy, her grandfather signaled the guards to escort the two strangers in. She heard the creak of the doors opening, the quiet footsteps echoing over the spiral stair.

Two boys came into view. They were not twins, but seemed close in age, with one slightly taller than the other. Dressed in brown rough-spun wool cloaks and trousers, with matching shirts of off-white linen, these were no highborn lords. But they did have the Valyrian look, with violet eyes and silver hair.

The taller of the two, who sported silver locs bundled into a low bun, knelt, and unceremoniously dragged down his companion, who was transfixed on the treasures from Corlys Velaryon’s nine voyages.

“M’lord,” the taller one said. Hull’s accent, full of ship speak and dock slang, colored the timbre of his voice. “We have come to humbly pledge ourselves to your cause.”

“A dragon is no humble offering to lay at my feet.” Fingers drummed idly against the armrest of the Driftwood Throne. “Which one of you claimed it?”

“I did,” said the taller one. His companion idly ran a hand over his shoulder and chest.

The corner of her grandfather’s lips twitched. “Tell me, boy. What gave you the right to claim Targaryen property?”

“Dragons aren’t property,” spoke the second boy, looking up through his silver twists. Privately, Baela agreed with him. “And even if they were, then the Targaryens should do a better job of keeping them contained.”

“Alyn, be quiet,” the first one hissed, and Grandfather laughed, a great booming noise that clearly unsettled the taller boy. Clearing his throat, he continued. “The Princess Rhaenyra decreed that—”

Corlys raised a hand. “We know what Rhaenyra has decreed.” It had Jace written all over it. Clever boy that he was.

“So, you assumed that you could come and collect a reward from my grandfather?” Baela stepped forward, staring down the taller boy.

“Of course not,” he answered. Something about his tone indicated that he was oddly offended by her question. “Hull is my home. I would die before I turned Seasmoke’s flames against Driftmark.”

“And you—Alyn, is it not?”

The younger boy smirked. “Might not have a dragon, but I can sail. I’d be happy to serve on a ship, m’lord. As long as I’m with my brother.”

Both seemed earnest. Baela glanced to her grandfather, who returned her gaze with a tight, discreet nod. “We can always use more men, Alyn,” he said, voice level as his eyes flickered to his brother. “I would know the name of the man who claimed my son’s dragon.”

“Addam. And this is my brother Alyn.” A pause, as he swallowed. “Our mother is Marilda of Hull.” Her grandfather leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “And our father…our father was your son, Ser Laenor.”

Her first instinct was one that had been trained into her. That’s a lie, thought Baela. You don’t look right. And then she blinked, processing. They did not look like Jace, Luke, or Joffrey, with their pale skin and rich brown hair. But they did look like Rhaena. And Baela, too. Silver haired, with purple eyes and warm brown skin, a bit lighter than her grandfather’s deeper hue.

“Why come now?” Steel and suspicion colored her grandfather’s voice.

Addam had the courage to meet his eyes. “Our mother only told us a few days ago.”

Wordlessly, Corlys rose and stepped down from the dais. He pulled Addam to his feet and gripped his jaw, firm enough that his fingers made indentations in the flesh. Violet eyes narrowed, then flickered down to Alyn, who pushed himself to his feet with some effort. Bandages peeked out from beneath the open collar of his shirt.

Baela frowned and she bit lightly on the tip of her tongue. What had Uncle Laenor looked like? She had only met him once, under the shadow of grief. Had he taken after Corlys? These two boys looked like ghosts of her grandfather and, Addam in particular with his long silver locs, eerily resembled him.

Suspicion stirred. And as her grandfather firmly rested a hand on each boy’s shoulder, Baela tasted bile. “My grandsons,” he began quietly. “Rhaenys will be…”

What? Baela thought. Her hands shook and she gripped the fabric of her tunic so hard that her knuckles protruded violently against the skin. Grandmother will be what? Heartbroken? Furious? Or, if Baela was wrong, joyous?

“Addam, Alyn.” A pause as her grandfather turned to her, eyes warm. “This is your cousin, Baela.”

“Hullo, cos,” said Alyn, while his brother managed a quiet, “Hello, Baela.”

Cousins. Or perhaps her uncles. “Hello,” she answered, biting back bitterness.

“Baela is a skilled dragonrider.” Corlys patted Addam’s shoulder with a distant, if awkward, affection. Perhaps he was in shock and that was why he had not noticed that his eldest granddaughter was about to explode with rage. “Your grandmother, Rhaenys, taught her well. She will show you where Seasmoke will be kept. Alyn, we will arrange rooms for you and your brother. And see about finding you a ship to serve on.”

Moondancer was what she needed. “Follow me,” she said, stalking down the dais and towards the spiral stair. Addam followed after her. He was slightly taller, with longer legs, and easily kept stride—to Baela’s annoyance.

They walked in silence until the beach, where Seasmoke rested on the sand. Perhaps comforted by the presence of his dragon, he spoke. “What is your dragon’s name? In Hull, we really only know Sheepstealer and Meleys.”

“Shut up!” Baela snapped; Seasmoke made a grumbling noise, rising to his feet. “I don’t care whether you’re my cousin or my uncle. I have no intention of making friends with the boy who’s come to take my inheritance!”

Her chest heaved and she realized that she had been shouting. Turning on her heel, Baela shoved her fingers into her mouth and whistled for Moondancer. In all likelihood, the dragon had heard her screaming and was already on her way.

“Your…uncle?” Addam said softly. “You think that—”

“I am considering the possibility.” Moondancer soared around the cliffs and began her descent.

To her surprise, he gagged. “But Lord Corlys is so old. My mother—she would never.”

“Would she?”

Moondancer landed, chittering in concern and in surprise at the sight of a strange dragon. Footsteps crunched against the sand as Addam went to Seasmoke, who had risen to his feet in curiosity. “My mother is a good woman,” started Addam. Even with her back turned, she could hear the frown in his voice.

“So is my grandmother,” snipped Baela.

A hint of petulance colored his tone. “If I am your uncle, it’s not my fault. So don’t take it out on me." He paused. "And I'm a bastard. I couldn't take Driftmark from you even if I wanted to. Which I don't."

He was right. A disapproving voice sounded in her head, a mix of Rhaena and mother and grandmother. You can be so uncharitable sometimes, Baela. Her sister had always been the better lady. And she was too much like her father.

“Her name is Moondancer.” It was a peace offering. As she ran a hand over her dragon’s scales, Baela chanced a look over her shoulder.

Addam’s frown lessened. “She is very pretty.”

“She is fearsome!” She cradled Moondancer’s head in her hands, scratching quickly behind her crests. A warbling cry burst out of her dragon’s throat, bright with pleasure. “As fast as lightning.” Addam would not know that Meleys could outfly her and Baela had no plans to tell him. “One day, she’ll be as big as Vhagar.”

A quiet laugh. “She has to catch up to Seasmoke first.” Addam wore a crooked grin and she noticed that there was a gap between his front teeth. His dragon was perhaps five times larger than Moondancer, but was still smaller than Meleys. A wonderful idea came to her suddenly.

“Let’s have a race,” she said. Moondancer tilted her head, resembling a curious dog.

“A race?”

Baela laughed. “Yes. A race.”

“I’ve only ridden a dragon twice!” He glanced up to Seasmoke, who blinked one ice blue eye at him.

“Then I’ll teach you.” Then, in a masterful move that would have left strategists everywhere swooning with envy, she cocked her head and smirked. “Or are you a coward?”

He blinked and stammered in a manner that reminded her of Jace, as he did on a foggy summer day on Dragonstone when she dared him to cliff dive into the sea. Her father had taught her, many years ago, that Baela could make a boy do anything. As long as she dared him to do whatever it was first.

“Fine,” sighed Addam. He turned to climb up into the saddle.

“Wait.” Baela said, stepping forward. “We have to introduce the dragons to each other first.”

“Why?”

Moondancer hesitantly followed after her. “So they don’t kill each other. Obviously.”

“Yes,” swallowed Addam. “Obviously.”

Luckily, Seasmoke was accustomed to other dragons, growing up alongside Meleys. And long ago, he had flown to war alongside Caraxes and nested alongside Vhagar. It was Moondancer who was more hesitant. The pale green dragon crept forward; crests pressed flat against her head. Digging her claws into the sand, her tail twitched like an angry cat’s and Seasmoke closed the distance, almost casually chuffing sulfurous breath in her face.

Moondancer sprang back with a panicked cry and Seasmoke shook his head, seemingly satisfied. Baela felt oddly disappointed, but that was how it was. Smaller dragons submitted to larger dragons, at least when it came to social hierarchies. In battle, that was a different story. Moondancer was still too small to boss anyone else around.

“Sorry,” Addam began naively, apologizing on behalf of his dragon. “I don’t know why he—”

“No need,” interrupted Baela. “Climb up. I want to see how you sit in the saddle.”

He obeyed her, pulling himself up into the black leather seat. Then, Addam did something ridiculous. He pulled at a simple, ordinary rope that was secured to the saddle horn and tied it around his waist.

“You’re mad,” Baela said flatly. And then she bent over and laughed. His paternity and her grandfather’s suspected infidelity forgotten. “A rope?”

“How else am I supposed to not fall off and die?” His shoulders stiffened, defensive.

She pointed to the dozens of loose leather straps hanging around the saddle. “That’s what those are for.”

“Don’t laugh,” he said, voice clipped. Slowly, Addam started to secure the straps around his calves and thighs. “I have no one to teach me these things.”

“Hm,” she said, channeling her grandmother. “Tighten that last one a bit more. Wait for my signal, alright?”

Before he could reply, she returned to Moondancer, climbing up with ease and strapping herself in. Addam was a small silver-haired figure on a large silver-grey dragon. 

She raised her hand, waving, and kicked her heels, bringing Moondancer up into the air. Seasmoke hovered in place as they circled around the larger dragon. “We go to Spicetown and back. Make sure to land up on that ridge! Are you ready?”

Addam answered her with a vaguely affirming shout. Laughing, Baela urged her dragon into flight, screaming out “Go!” over her shoulder.

Behind them, Seasmoke roared in protest and the wind stole her laughter, as she snapped her jaw shut and laid flat over Moondancer’s neck. Sand and sea spray blew into her face, a necessary consequence. It was better to fly low, rather than waste precious seconds gaining altitude.

A shadow appeared over her as she crossed above the harbor. Even through the wind whipping past her ears, she could pick out the shouts and cheers. Dragons were dancing over Spicetown once more. A faint whooping laugh rang out; Baela glanced up and saw the glittering underbelly of Seasmoke above her.

She could not outfly him, but she had a trick up her sleeve. As Addam turned Seasmoke in a wide arc, Baela snapped the reins up. Moondancer soared into a vertical loop, flying upside down before her dragon rolled her back upright. It saved her a few seconds. Just enough time to bring Moondancer down onto the grassy ridge first. Victory.

Seasmoke landed afterwards in a near crash landing, crying out in annoyance. Undoing his saddle straps, Addam tumbled down to the ground and, for a moment, Baela thought he had died until he leaped shakily to his feet, grinning.

“Not terrible,” said Baela, slipping from the saddle.

“Seasmoke did all the work,” answered Addam. “Is it like that all the time?”

She bobbed her head. Flying would never lose its thrill, and she felt a strange flare of affection for her new uncle-cousin, in having shared this with him. She had not been there when Jace and Luke took their first flights, and Rhaena still had yet to claim a dragon of her own.

“A truce,” Baela said, offering her hand.

He raised an eyebrow, but took it anyways. “Wasn’t aware we were at war.”

“You were right. If you truly are my uncle, rather than my cousin, it’s not your fault.” Her mood soured, as she thought of her grandfather. "I-"

“Lady Baela.” A new, familiar voice called out in Valyrian. Two dragonkeepers, dressed in traditional garb, approached. “Seasmoke has returned to us?”

Addam’s face was twisted with confusion. Could he not speak Valyrian? “He has been claimed by my cousin,” she answered, using her ancestral tongue. “Will you care for him? They may be here for some time.”

The older dragonkeeper, who had tended to Meleys and Vhagar and Seasmoke many years ago, answered. “Of course, my lady. I am happy to reunite with a familiar face after all these years.”

“What are they saying?”

“These are the dragonkeepers,” said Baela, switching back to the common tongue. “They will tend to Seasmoke and Moondancer as needed. We have no pit on Driftmark, so they dragons are free to come and go as they wish. But the keepers will make sure they have enough to eat and check for illness if something happens. Come.”

They started down the ridge, hurrying to return to the castle before the tide came back in and flooded the causeway. “You’ll need riding clothes,” she began, recalling the aftermath of her own first flight. Her grandmother had been with her, and escorted Baela to Dragonstone where her father had swept her up into his arms with joy and pride. “And one of the keepers should inspect the saddle. To make sure that everything is in good shape.”

Addam gestured to his shirt and trousers. “Riding clothes? Are these not enough?”

“Those? Those are absolutely ruined.” Baela glanced down to her own tunic. She had not bothered to change before heading out. “Mine as well. Dragon smell seeps into everything.”

The gates to the High Tide opened for them and she led Addam through the courtyard. “I have a good idea where my grandfather probably put you and your brother.” She sucked in a breath, glancing to the sky. A small flame of anger rekindled in her chest, as she resolved to track down her grandfather and give him a piece of her mind. “I’ll send for someone to bring you—”

“Come with me,” he said, a bit cautiously. “You can meet Alyn, properly this time." An awkward laugh. "If you don’t like me, you’ll hate my brother.”

She glanced down the hall, to the stair that would take her up to the upper floors where the lord’s chambers overlooked the sea. Then, she looked to Addam, studying his face. Maybe there was something of her grandmother in his face. Or perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

“Alright,” said Baela. "Cousin." It felt strange to say, although uncle would be stranger. She threw one final glance to the stairs before she turned away and led Addam deeper into High Tide. Her grandfather would be spared her wrath. At least for now. 

Chapter Text

It was an unseasonably warm day in King’s Landing. Sunlight baked the red stone of the keep and the weak breeze trapped the heat inside like an oven. Down below the castle, the city itself reeked of death. Fish and meat spoiled in the sun. The bodies in Flea Bottom broke open with rot. And the shit in the streets was baking on the cobblestones.

Alicent Hightower kept a cheesecloth stuffed with lavender and white tea pressed against her nose. The only other concession for comfort was made by the king, who held a full goblet of wine close to his face and sniffed at it often and conspicuously. Hiding their grimaces, the other members of the Small Council pretended to be unfazed.

How Rhaenys longed for High Tide! For summertime fogs and the unceasing salty breeze. To feel sea spray on her face and water around her ankles. If only she could steal Rhaena away and escape to the private coves of the Blackwater, far from the stench of the city to swim and picnic on the pebble beaches.

Instead, she was confined in the stifling chambers of the Small Council, sitting across from Alicent in the vacant seat of Lyman Beesbury. To her right, Maester Orwyle was sweating miserably in the grey woolen robes of his office. Lord Tyland’s voice droned on to her left. Even though he had taken up the title of Master of Coin, he stubbornly remained seated at the end of the table, in the chair of the Master of Ships.

“My brother expects that his host can begin marching in two month’s time,” he said, idly flicking a lock of golden hair out of his face.

Otto Hightower’s lips pursed. “That is good news.” Yet disappointment colored his voice. “They are making better time than the Stormlanders.”

“The Lannisters had more time to prepare.” Lord Jasper’s face was slick with sweat, flushed pink like a pig. “But I assure the council that Lord Borros is moving as quickly as he can to muster his forces.”

“Where will they march? To the Riverlands or to the capitol?” The queen dowager asked. From the waver in her voice, she was hoping for the latter.

Rhaenys glanced to the king. Upon their return from Rook’s Rest, the boy had made something of an effort to be present at the council. But his eyes were completely glazed over, blankly staring at the table.

Tyland adjusted the golden chain around his shoulders. “Jason will march to the Riverlands, my queen.”

“That is wise,” said Orwyle, dabbing at the sweat on his brow. “It is unlikely that Rhaenyra will order an assault on King’s Landing. She wants to rule the city, not over its ruins.”

“Precisely,” agreed Otto. He nodded to Rhaenys. “And with the Velaryon forces, combined with Meleys and Sunfyre, the city will be safe by both sea and sky.”

Finally, Rhaenys decided to speak. “You do not count Vhagar among the city’s defenses?”

“Prince Aemond and his dragon can be of more use elsewhere,” the Hand answered. Alicent snapped her head to her father, who resolutely avoided her eyes.

She leaned forward, crossing her ankles together. “He is going to the Riverlands,” she said, half-guessing. It would not be a terrible idea. Meleys and Sunfyre could easily hold the city, and victory would be all but guaranteed if Rhaenys could convince Helaena to mount Dreamfyre.

Otto hummed, a noncommittal agreement. “He will march north with our host to establish a foothold until the Lannister and Baratheon forces can join with him.”

“You’re sending him alone?” Alicent’s voice was quiet, unsure, eyes flitting between her hands and her father.

“It’s a great honor to hold one’s first command,” said Tyland, a bit wistfully. “I remember being so cross when Jason received one and I didn’t.”

“But he is just a boy,” cried the queen dowager, completely disregarding the Master of Coin. Rhaenys recalled her own dismay when Corlys took Laenor to war all those years ago, and felt a keen sympathy for the queen dowager.

Her father, less sympathetic, visibly bit back a huff. “He is eighteen, Alicent. A man in his majority. And we are at war.”

“It would be foolish to not take advantage of the prince’s skill and experience,” said Jasper, blunt as ever. “Even if he encountered Daemon, Vhagar could easily take on Caraxes.”

Could she? Rhaenys thought. Daemon was the more experienced rider. “Send Ser Criston with him,” Alicent pleaded.

That finally roused Aegon’s attention. He threw back a gulp of wine and watched his mother over the rim. “Ser Cole is needed in King’s Landing,” began Otto, mouth twisted with exasperation. “To protect the castle and the royal family.”

“Aemond is my son. Does he not deserve protection?”

“You are the only one who thinks he needs it,” Otto said shortly, voice clipped.

Aegon set his cup down with an audible thump. “Send Cole and let my mother have what she asks for,” he drawled. "Aemond is her favorite child, after all."

“Favorite child…” The king’s mother exhaled, long and slow. “Aegon,” she said, disapprovingly, but she did not deny it.

To her side, Tyland looked equally amused and uncomfortable. “Well!” He clapped his hands, taking pity on Otto, who looked absolutely stunned at the display between his daughter and grandson. “Very generous of you, my king. I am sure that Prince Aemond will appreciate the support.”

Aegon toasted his goblet towards Lannister and leaned back in his high-backed chair. “If we are lucky,” began Lord Jasper, seizing upon the silence. “We will not see much conflict for some time. It will be months before forces from the Vale and the North cross past the Red Fork.”

“Longer for the North,” Orwyle nodded. “And if the season turns faster than we expected, longer still. Lord Stark will not risk marching to war without completing the harvest.”

Having recovered herself, Alicent spoke. “Is there no way to sway the North to our side? Surely, we can make some sort of trade deal and supply them with food in the winter.”

“We cannot enter negotiations as long as the Reach remains divided,” Otto answered.

“And how long do you expect it to be divided?” Rhaenys asked, voice probing. “It has been over four months.”

The Hand’s face grew pinched, mouth puckered. “It has taken longer than expected for the Hightower to muster our forces, but the same rings true for the dissidents as well. My nephew has assured me that the southern host will begin to march by next week.”

They would have to fight through the combined armies of Tarly, Rowan, Caswell and Costayne. And upon the news that Lord Lyman had died, House Beesbury was also marching south to Oldtown.

“And what of Daeron?” Alicent had a faraway look in her eyes, as her she rested her bundle of lavender and tea against her chest.

Another sigh. “He is Ormund’s squire. We must assume that he will ride to battle.”

The queen dowager went pale and linked her fingers together, silent. Her youngest child, Viserys’ mysterious third-born son, had never lived in the capital long enough for Rhaenys to meet him. Now, he was trapped halfway across the kingdom, where no kingsguard could reach him.

“If the Seven smile down upon us, we shall have more news from the Reach within the next two weeks.” Otto took a moment to rearrange the thick sheaf of paper before him. “But until then, there is more to be done. As Lord Corlys wrote last month, Pentos has thrown their lot in with Daemon. Is your husband managing well, princess?”

Rhaenys nodded, suppressing a shudder as her sweat-matted hair brushed against her neck. “He is. They are reluctant to attack and tend to flee when Corlys and Baela come across them at sea.”

“Your granddaughter participates in battle?” Lord Jasper’s voice was affronted, his mouth agape.

“She rides a dragon, Lord Wylde. Dragonfire burns quite easily and quickly. Although I pray you will never have to see it for yourself.” She grinned, sharp.

He gulped audibly, looking to Otto for aid and found no recourse there. “Indeed.”

“As I was saying,” Rhaenys continued; Aegon was watching her intently. “The ships flee on sight. Corlys wagers that their orders are to amass at Dragonstone and avoid further losses by engaging with us.”

Tyland leaned forward, his emerald green eyes bright. “Do you think they are planning for an all-out assault?”

“Surely. But where? We cannot guess. Their navy is no match for ours, even with the Velaryon fleet as divided as it is.” She paused, taking a moment to think. “Regardless of her intentions, it is clear that Rhaenyra desperately needs ships.”

Orwyle cleared his throat. “Where are the Greyjoys in all this? Has Rhaenyra has requested their support?”

“If she had, I expect she was met with the same response as I,” said Otto, his voice bitter. “I do not even wish to repeat the vulgarities Dalton Greyjoy wrote down.”

Tyland clicked his tongue, tsking in disgust. “If I know Greyjoy, he’ll wait it out and declare for the winning side at the last minute.” It was the first time that Rhaenys had heard such vitriol in his voice and she was suddenly reminded of his twin.

“And what if he declares for Rhaenyra?” Alicent began. “What would that mean for us?”

“It would be a problem,” Rhaenys said dryly, reaching for her goblet of wine. “Not a dire one, but Corlys would need to split up the fleet even further. But we would ensure that the Gullet remains protected.”  

“Good, we need to ensure that traders can safely access the city,” nodded the Master of Coin. “A prosperous market keeps the people happy and the treasury full.”

The Lord Hand shifted in his seat. “I agree. Which is why I have taken the liberty of writing to the Triarchy. They remember Daemon well, and hopefully will eagerly leap at the chance to fight against their old enemy. Maester Orwyle, I have letters for you to send—”

He droned on and a ringing sound ripped through her ears, as Rhaenys blinked furiously, processing what she just heard. “The Triarchy?” She said slowly, interrupting Otto. “You have reached out to the Triarchy?”

“I have,” he said casually, unknowing or simply uncaring of the dire insult he had just dealt against Rhaenys and her house.

She sucked in a sharp breath and steeled her shoulders. “You are many things, Lord Otto, but I did not take you for a fool.”

Alicent gasped sharply, while the other council members murmured, voices low. Aegon raised his eyebrows high, brushing the band of his crown, and his mouth fell open into a shocked and delighted grin.

Jasper Wylde came to the Hand’s defense first. “Princess Rhaenys, may I remind you that you are here only on the invitation of Queen Alicent and the Lord Hand? If you cannot control yourself, you will be excused.”

How long had he been waiting to reprimand her? She bared her teeth in a snarl and waved at him dismissively. “Lord Otto will not thank you for licking his boots, Lord Wylde.” Rhaenys turned to face Hightower, locking her lavender eyes with his brown ones. “Do you doubt the power of the Velaryon fleet? Are my husband’s ships not enough for you?”

“They will not be, if Dalton Greyjoy declares for Rhaenyra,” he answered, voice calm. But his eyes were furious and his dark brows drawn low, displeased.

“And that is your excuse for spitting upon my husband’s sacrifice? Two campaigns in the Stepstones and countless of Velaryon lives lost, only for you to reach out to them as allies?” She shook her head, shaking out her long hair. "You would insult us so gravely?"

“Your war was not sanctioned by the crown,” sniffed Otto.

“Ah, so that means we can reward them for their audacity to pillage our shipping lanes and for attempting to kill my husband?”

“It is my job as the Hand of the King to treat with whomever I see fit.” His voice pitched upwards, finally letting his irritation shine through.

Then, Rhaenys made her first mistake. She raised her voice, slapping her hand against the table. “We cannot trust them!”

“I would remind you, princess,” Otto began, a smile twitching beneath his beard, “that you are not a member of the Small Council. We have appreciated your guidance, but I will have to ask you to leave.”

“Well, perhaps she should be,” said Aegon.

His grandfather glanced to him in confusion. “What do you mean, Your Grace?”

“Perhaps she should be a member of the Small Council.” The king shrugged lazily, like a dragon napping in the sun.

Jasper went pale at the thought, which some part of Rhaenys, hidden behind her anger, was pleased at. “There has never been a woman on the Small Council,” he said, and then, glancing at Alicent, added quickly, “At least not in an official capacity.”

“There is an open seat,” Tyland said, nearly as amused as Aegon. “Master of Ships has typically been held by a Velaryon.”

“I had something else in mind. Grandfather?” Aegon leaned over the edge of the table, reaching for Otto’s fine green doublet. Immediately, he reeled back from his grandson and then froze as the king’s face twisted into displeasure.

In shocked silence, the council watched as Aegon plucked the golden pin from his grandfather’s chest, his silver hair gleaming white against the black iron of the conqueror’s crown. “Thank you for your long years of service.”

“Is this some sort of jest?”

Alicent’s wide brown eyes were fixed on her father, horrified. “Aegon, he is your grandfather.”

“I am aware,” he replied, spinning the golden hand pin in his fingers. “As I said, thank you for your service.”

“This is preposterous,” Otto began to bluster, rising to his feet. A vein popped against his neck and temple. His grandson, it seemed, was exceptionally talented at riling him up. “Are you really such an ignorant fool that you—”

“You made me your king!” Aegon shouted, surging up. “That was your decision. Now, face the consequences!” His chest heaved and his voice grew softer. “I will remind you one more time. You are no longer a member of the Small Council. We have appreciated your guidance, grandfather,” he continued, parroting Otto’s words back to him. “But I will have to ask you to leave. Now.”

With the tips of his ears flushed a furious red, Otto Hightower swept out of the room. His daughter rose to her feet suddenly and chased after him, in a flurry of green and grey silk. Only silence remained and even Aegon seemed stunned at himself, sinking back into his chair and shakily gulping down wine.

What had just happened? Rhaenys blinked at the young king in muted confusion. She barely liked the boy and in return he seemed determined to grant her one of the highest positions in court.

“Princess Rhaenys,” Tyland said, placing a hand on the arm rest of her chair. “I believe you have a new seat.”

In disbelief, she rose to her feet and walked around the table to the now empty chair at the king’s right hand. Before she could sit, Aegon stood and offered his palm. A tiny hand, cast in brilliant gold, clutching an unbroken ring and dagger lay against his pale skin. It felt delicate in her fingers, as she raised it up and neatly fastened against her blue tunic.

“I imagine there’s typically some sort of ceremony for this,” the king said, a bit unsure.

Rhaenys managed a thin smile, shaking her head. “If there is, I do not know about it.”

“King Jaehaerys asked for his Hands to swear oaths, Your Grace,” Orwyle began. “But your father, King Viserys, did not. There are no formal precedents for the appointment.”

“Great,” the king sighed in relief. “Welcome to the Small Council, auntie.”

In another kind of world, she might have laughed. But Rhaenys remained in this one, where she had to fight tirelessly to earn respect. She glanced to Jasper Wylde and found the man dumbstruck, angry, and slightly afraid. “All I ask is that you try harder to stay awake during the council meetings, Your Grace.”

“No promises.” Aegon sat back down and Rhaenys followed, settling into the more ostentatious carved chair. Otto had taken his papers with him, but had left his marble upon the table. She took it in hand, rolling it around in her palm. The orb had been carved from moss agate, a pale white stone shot through with veins of green. Fitting for Lord Otto, but not for her.

“We can have a new one commissioned for you, princess,” said Tyland, nodding at her. His own was a polished and rounded piece of jasper, a deep orange-red with yellow marbling. “Welcome to the council.”

“Yes,” Orwyle nodded. “Welcome to the Small Council, my Lady Hand.”

The title sounded strange, but it only did so because there had only been Lord Hands for the past one hundred and twenty-nine years. She would get accustomed to it, with time. Jasper Wylde swallowed down his pride and slightly inclined his head. “Welcome, princess."

Rhaenys nodded in return and turned to Aegon. Her first test. “Where did we leave off, Your Grace?”

“What?” Shock danced over his face, before he righted himself. “Oh, the Triarchy. See, I was listening.” For good measure, he continued. “And before you ask, Aemond’s off to the Riverlands with Cole. Tyland’s brother is marching east and Borros will be on his way shortly. Daeron and the rest of the Hightower forces will have to fight their way up the Rose Road. Have I missed anything?”

“I would ask you to share your opinions, if you have any,” she prodded, voice level. “I am only the Hand of the King, not his voice.”

Aegon was silent for a moment, his silver brows furrowing. “Aemond will do well in the Riverlands. He’d be insufferable if we kept him from the battlefield.” A pause, as Rhaenys watched him. “And the Triarchy…well, I’d rather stay in your good graces, aunt. House Velaryon is more than enough, especially if we can get the Redwyne fleet.”

Orwyle, Tyland, and Jasper looked to their king in obvious surprise. They had not been there at Rook’s Rest or Duskendale, where Aegon had first attempted to make himself worthy of his crown, and she would bet that this was the most the young king had ever said at a Small Council meeting. “Very wise, Your Grace,” said the grandmaester.

“We shall rescind any offers made to the Triarchy,” Rhaenys said, letting command ring through her voice loud and clear. “And let them know politely that we are no longer seeking an alliance.”

“I will do so at once,” Orwyle said. “Fortunately, Lord Otto had not begun negotiating terms.”

Rhaenys adjusted her pin and then folded her hands upon the table. “Otto Hightower was right about one thing; I was a guest to this council. Clearly, the situation has now changed. I would have each of you share everything and anything that you think Aegon or myself needs to know.”

“It will be a long meeting then, princess,” smirked Tyland.

“Then I will send for a meal.”

“And wine,” Aegon murmured quietly.

The grandmaester adjusted his robe and opened up a great journal. “Many of these plans have been in motion since you were a child, Your Grace.” The king flushed a greenish color. “But that does not mean they are set in stone. If you take issue or have suggestions, we implore you to share your opinion with us.”

“Hah,” he exhaled. “I’ll do my best.”

“Well,” Tyland took a sip of wine. Streaming in from the window, the sun caught his hair and turned it brilliant gold. “We might as well start with the big one. Let’s talk about the treasury.”

Chapter Text

Dawn arrived accompanied by the mournful sound of war horns. Face buried in his pillow, Daeron stirred in his cot, breathing in the scent of straw. With another wailing cry, a second horn sounded and that was when he jolted awake, rolling out from the sheets and roughly onto the ground

Warm rosy light shone through the rich cobalt fabric of his tent, turning everything a dreamy blue. Groaning, Daeron ripped off his sleep shirt, exposing his freckled shoulders to the dewy chill of the early morning. He stumbled to his feet, nearly slipping over a rug, and ran over to his travel chest.

He threw the lid open with such force that the entire thing toppled over, spilling clothes all over the ground. A short, irritated sigh. Daeron grabbed the first fresh shirt and trousers he could get his hands on. The shirt went on first, backwards before he righted it. Then he kicked off his trousers, hopping on one leg before he topped over and pulled the new set over his hips.

Fortunately, his gambeson was already laid out over the chair, dyed a brilliant blue. Nimble fingers laced it closed, before turning to buckle on his armor. A simple steel breastplate, with a set of bracers and greaves. Daeron was no knight yet and, even if he was a prince of the blood, Ormund insisted that he dressed befitting his station as a humble squire. Before slipping out from his tent, he grabbed his lance and his cloak, throwing the embroidered white mantle over his shoulders.

Color exploded into view, brightened by the steady rise of the sun. Brilliant blue and golden banners for House Cuy. For the Gracefords, sweeping brown and cream waves. Golden links over a pale blue sky for the Roxtons. Fluttering in the breeze, Mullendore monarchs danced above the scarlet red ants of House Ambrose.

Knights and their squires rushed one way, their cloaks matching the dyed silks of the various tent pavilions, while men-at-arms and crossbow men ran another direction. Horses screamed and men were shouting as the horns sounded once again.

In the horde, Daeron spotted a familiar face. He threw himself into the crowd, nearly getting himself trampled by a knight on horseback, “Martyn!” Grasping one another by the forearm, he spun them out of the way and beneath the shade of a silk pavilion emblazoned with House Peake’s orange and black standard.

His cousin blinked. With his brown eyes, auburn hair, and wild freckles, he was all Hightower, wearing chainmail beneath a grey surcoat. “Daeron!”

“What’s going on!?” To be heard above the din, he had to shout.

“They surrounded us in the night!”

Dumbly, Daeron blinked and sucked in a pained breath. “Surrounded?” He repeated, trying to process it.

“Costayne and the Two Alans to the south. Rowan and Caswell crested the northern hill at daybreak!” Martyn’s face fell, nervously gnawing on his bottom lip. “We have to fight on two fronts.”

“May the Warrior guide us.” His seven-pointed star pendant rested warmly against his breastbone.

Another figure stepped out from the Peake pavilion. “May the Warrior guide your sword into the enemy,” said Titus, dressed head to toe in blinding orange. “What the fuck are you two doing standing here?”                                                                                        

The Heir to Starpike was two years older, half a head taller, and carried a shield embossed with the three black towers of his sigil. Quickly, Martyn and Daeron exchanged a quick glance. They had been close once, but serving as Jon Roxton’s squire had made Titus mean and vulgar. “Where is your father?” Daeron asked quickly, squeezing at his cousin’s forearm.

“At his pavilion.” Titus pushed past them with a grunt, disappearing into the flow of people moving south. “He’ll ride north. I’m going south with Lord Redwyne.”

Reluctantly, he released his cousin. “Be safe, Martyn.”

“You as well, Daeron.” And then he grinned, flashing his crooked teeth. “Perhaps after all this over, we’ll both finally be knights, yeah?”

With his sword swinging around his hip, Martyn was swept away out of view, and Daeron turned to try and fight his way deeper into the war camp. New banners joined the rainbow of colors as he moved closer to the banks of the Honeywine. The sweet crimson apples of House Fossoway greeted him, along with the more muted deep purple and burgundy grapes of House Redwyne.

But all color gave way to a sea of grey and milk white, a labyrinth of tent pavilions on the rolling, grassy banks of the river. Water burbled sweetly over smooth stones, running at a leisurely pace. Shaded by ancient, towering oaks, it was better suited for swimming and picnicking, not for war.

One tent stood taller than all the rest, sewn from grey silk and flying the beacon of the Hightower, wreathed with orange flame. Below their standard, a much smaller pennant flag waved in the breeze, dyed a rich emerald green.

Daeron slipped into the general’s tent with little fanfare and found Ormund Hightower struggling to buckle himself into his armor. His mother’s cousin was tall, with clear green eyes and long chestnut hair. But his beard, especially his mustache and the hair around his mouth, was a vivid copper red.

“There you are!” He waved, throwing down a pauldron in frustration. “Help me with this, please.”

He leaned his lance against an elaborately carved table and hurried over, his dignity and status as a crown prince forgotten. Years as a squire had trained his eyes. Nearly all the left buckles on the breastplate needed adjusting before he could even begin with the shoulder pieces.

“I ran into Martyn,” he began, deftly undoing the leather straps. Working from top to bottom, he began to re-cinch each buckle. “They surrounded us in the night?”

The Lord of the Hightower grumbled, mustache twitching. “So it seems. To think, only a few days ago I prayed to the gods that the attacks on the baggage train would cease and they would find the courage to face us head on.”

“Surely we outnumber them?” Daeron checked the fastenings one last time before moving on to the pauldrons, ducking down to lift up the one thrown on the ground. His uncle’s armor was made of silver-gilded steel, engraved with spiraling patterns of vines and leaves inlaid with green enamel.

“We believe so, but they have the advantage. Fighting on two fronts? We will be lucky if we can form a battle line, let alone two.”

With the pauldron strapped on, he quickly moved to the other shoulder and then to the couters, which were decorated with the Hightower in silver gilt. Ormund raised his arms as Daeron ducked down, strapping them around his elbows. “We will go north? In the van?”

His uncle laughed. “I will ride north in the vanguard.” An amused smile. “You will hang back with the rear-guard.”

“The rear?” Daeron nearly dropped the gorget. “I’m your squire—if not the van, I should at least ride with the middle!”

“And that’s if we can form a battle formation before they are upon us,” said Ormund. “Wipe that pouting look off your face, boy. Your mother and my uncle would never forgive me if I got you killed on your first battle.”

Biting his lip, he finished the arms and set to work fastening the gauntlets. “What if I rode with Tessa?”

“And watch you get shot down by a lucky crossbowman? Perish the thought, Daeron. Your lady is still too young. Like you are.”

That rankled him more than anything. Lacking confidence in Daeron was one thing. But in Tessa? “I think it’s far more likely that I’ll get hit by an arrow on the ground rather than on dragonback.”

“You are not a knight yet, Daeron,” he said, as his squire swept his great grey cloak over his shoulders. “You will be in the rear-guard. Not the van. Not the middle. And certainly not in the sky. Is that clear?”

As clear as his armor, which shone like a shining mirror. Daeron stared at his reflection. Silver hair and his strange eyes, which were unlike any other in his family. A pale purple that gradually turned deep brown around the pupil. The boy reflected in the armor frowned back at him.

“I will never be a knight, if you do not let me fight,” he whined, wincing at the petulance in his voice.

Fortunately, the general of the Hightower host was good-humored. “You shouldn’t knight boys too young.” A hand ruffled his hair. “Or else they’ll end up like your uncle Gwayne.” Daeron laughed, despite himself. “Fetch my horse,” he commanded. Horns sounded again. “We must go. Quickly.”

And so he hurried from the tent, grabbing his lance and jogging to the makeshift stable. Ormund preferred to ride a black destrier, a breed strong enough to carry a knight in full plate, and led it back towards the tent. With a groan, his uncle hoisted himself upon the horse and, without warning, lifted Daeron up onto the saddle by the scruff of his cloak.

“Hold on!” The Lord Hightower cried, urging his horse into a gallop. They tore off through the camp, soldiers leaping out of the way.

To the north, a horde of soldiers was cresting down the hill, flying the banners of Caswell and Rowan. As his uncle’s destrier rode past the rear-guard, which was forming shaky lines, Ormund threw him down upon the ground before the feet of another Hightower knight.

“Tristan! Keep an eye on your nephew for me!”

His mother’s eldest brother hauled Daeron to his feet with a laugh. “As you wish, cousin.” Without farewell, Ormund turned and galloped towards the van, which was barely in any defensible formation at all. Tristan clapped a hand on his shoulder; most of his relatives claimed that he looked identical to Lord Otto, but Daeron could not recall his grandfather being so jovial. “Stuck in the rear?”

“So it seems,” Daeron said, watching the approaching army, the neat and crisp lines of their battle formation, with a muted sense of foreboding. “The van will not hold.” It was not a question.

“No,” agreed his uncle. “It will not.” Their men were half-asleep and perhaps a quarter of their knights were still getting buckled into their armor by frantic squires. “Perhaps you will see some action today.” Grimness snuck into his voice.

As waves crashed against the shore, so did the enemy forces collide into the vanguard. Steel sang out over the plain, accompanied by choruses of shouts and screams and death moans. Almost immediately, the front line collapsed and the soldiers of the middle-guard began to move forward, joined by the latecomers to the battle, who streamed steadily from the war camp behind them.

A shiver of anticipation ran through the rear. To his side, Tristan shifted and drew his sword. “Stay close to me,” he smiled tightly. “I will do my best to protect you.”

I need no protection, thought Daeron and he immediately burned with shame at his hubris. He dropped his lance down and angled his arms and elbow up near his head, slipping into his preferred stance. May the Father protect me, he prayed. May the Crone grant me wisdom. May the Warrior guide my blade.

And if he fell, may the Mother Above bring solace to his mother on earth, leagues away in King’s Landing.  

A man suddenly broke through the line of the middle-guard. Average height. With sandy blonde hair and a pox-scarred face. He stumbled in surprise, eyes widening, perhaps in shock that he had made it this far unharmed. Before he could move, a knight in Fossoway yellow cleaved him from shoulder to navel.

As blood sprayed over the grass, the middle guard broke rank. Dozens and dozens of men poured through, screaming their battle cries. Clashing steel rang in Daeron’s head as the rear-guard spurred into battle. He stepped forward, hesitant at first, before bravery seized him, and he charged, swinging his lance.

The tip of his lance slashed against steel bracers as a young man-at-arms ran at him. Sword swinging towards him, Daeron danced backwards and thrust his arm forward. The metal tip skewered through a shoulder and drew first blood.

Out of all the martial weapons available to him, he had chosen the lance for several reasons. Both of his older brothers had trained with swords, as had his nephews, and Daeron had been determined to have something unique. But perhaps more important than originality, only the Dornish fought primarily with polearms—or so claimed Ser Criston—and most Westerosi, other than the Marcher lords, did not know how to effectively fight against one.

He spinned and smacked the butt of his lance against the side of the enemy’s head and then used the momentum to bring the blade back around, slicing a deep line through his chest. A whimpering noise, as Daeron watched the man fall.

Yet another quickly took his place. His training took over, hearing the barking commands of the Hightower’s master-of-arms. Parry, swing! Dodge and thrust! In the chaos, he found himself separated from Tristan, blinking through the blood sprayed on his face. Bodies littered the grass, dressed in the blood-stained liveries of the Reach.

It wasn’t right, Daeron thought, as exhaustion seeped through him. They were kinsmen. Every man on this battlefield knew and loved the rolling green hills of the Reach. Swimming in the Honeywine and fishing in the Mander. How the Rose Road bloomed and scented the air with sweet flowers in the summertime. The simple pleasure of opening a fresh bottle of Arbor Gold.

A young squire, perhaps little older than him, stumbled through the battlefield. He held a sword and a cracked shield loosely in his hands and already looked half dead. Blood flowed freely from a wound on his shoulder and a cut on his forehead. Against the red, his eyes were bright green. He waited patiently for Daeron to pull the tip of his lance out from the gut of a dying crossbowman, standing quietly, a small spot of stillness on the battlefield.

As they locked eyes, some tense current passed between them. An understanding too. It mattered little that Daeron was a royal prince, that they surely shared the same love for the Reach and their traditions of chivalry. Only one of them could survive. Resolutely, Daeron flicked the blood off the blade of his lance.  

Screeching, steel met steel, as they stumbled into each other. Daeron pushed all of his strength into the blow, his arms screaming, before he saw stars. The wooden shield splintered apart as it collided against his temple. He stepped backwards, only barely missing the swinging arc of the sword, and answered the blow in a daze. His lance swung and slashed at the other’s wounded shoulder, further tearing the flesh open.

Yet the other squire was relentless, shouting through the pain, and answered with a slash that grazed his forearm and tore a chunk of wood from the staff of his lance. His ears were ringing, head still swimming—Daeron needed to get away, to get some distance. Without looking, he jumped backwards and his feet stumbled over something soft and fleshy.

The world seemed to slow as he toppled backwards over the corpse of a knight, tripping over his limp legs. Air rushed out of his lungs painfully as he landed roughly on the grass. The squire sprinted forward and Daeron lifted up his lance in a last-ditch attempt, burying it deep into the other man’s thigh.

He screamed, staggered, but broke the lance tip off with his sword and continued forward, blood streaming down around the hunk of metal protruding from his leg. Covered in dirt and blood and with his face twisted into a painful shout, he looked more monster than man. He stumbled forward and raised his sword. The blade shone brightly, glinting in the sun, and came down in a sweeping arc towards Daeron’s neck.

Despite himself, his courage failed him. Daeron shut his eyes.

But the blow did not come. A great weight crashed against the earth, followed by a piercing screech. Sulfur seeped into his mouth and nose, undercutting the bloody smell of iron. Daeron opened his eyes to a familiar shade of blue.

The squire was crushed beneath Tessarion’s copper-clawed paw, blood streaming out from his mouth. Her tail, covered in shimmering cobalt scales, curled around him protectively as she roared again, snapping her teeth.

“Tessa,” he murmured, in awe of his fierce lady. “You came for me.”

Titling her head, a yellow-green eye squinted at him. Of course, I came, it said. You fool boy. Or at least that was what Daeron imagined.

He climbed to his feet, ducking beneath her wings to the swell of her saddle. His lance was smashed to pieces, but there was no need for it now. Not with Tessa here.

“Tessarion! Soves!” Daeron shouted, buckling himself into the saddle. Shrieking like a falcon, she launched up into the air, blue scales against the blue sky. Her copper crests glittered like bronze in the warm light.

From above, he could see the state of the battlefield. The Caswell and Rowan forces were outnumbered by the Hightower host, yet they were winning. The field was strewn with the corpses of knights and their squires, horses crying out in pain as they lay broken on the grass. Where was Ormund? And what was the state of the southern front, where Titus and Martyn fought alongside Lord Redwyne and Roxton?

This was not how the stories said it would go. The Seven were on their side, so the septon had said. They were marching forward with a noble cause, to protect his brothers and his sister and his mother. His grandfather and his little niece and nephew. To protect King’s Landing and all the souls inside it. And they were going to lose, he realized. His cousins and uncles and his friends would die. Unless he did something.

Daeron brought Tessarion low, dangerously so. With a nervous courage, he called out the command for fire. “Dracarys, Tessa! Dracarys!”

The Blue Queen opened her mouth and sprayed cobalt blue flames against the rolling green banks of the Honeywine. Immediately, the screaming began. Shrieking and loud and in agony. But then the cheering followed, as the Hightower host rallied under Tessarion’s shadow. Daeron guided her into a second pass, then a third, before he pulled her up and soared south.

To his dismay, the southern front was not holding up much better. Tessarion screeched as she dived down, igniting the fields and the men with blue fire. Afterwards, they circled in a wide loop from the north and southern fronts. The Blue Queen’s fire had been just what they had needed to throw the enemy into panic, allowing the Hightower host to regroup and push back. Daeron watched as men began to flee, some up the hills and some into the river, frantically trying to put out the flames.

He circled above for what felt like hours, watching carefully as they routed and rounded up the enemy. As their forces slowly started to stream back into the camp, Daeron brought Tessarion back down to the ground, slipping off her to shaky legs. Before he could fall, she braced him with her neck, almost cooing into his ear. He was half-convinced that she thought herself his mother, since he had lived so long without one in Oldtown.

He had dismounted to an audience. Ormund, bloodied and bruised and with dents all over his plate armor, stood beside bitter-faced Unwin Peake, the Lord of Starpike, and Bold Jon Roxton, who was bleeding horrifically from his broken nose. Martyn, with a nasty bruise blooming over his cheek, caught his eye and grinned as he tried to free Lord Redwyne from his dented breastplate.

“I told you that I didn’t want to see you in the sky, Daeron,” began Ormund, voice level. His green eyes were unreadable, boring into him.

He bowed his head. “So you did, my lord.”

“Ease off the boy.” Bold Jon spat blood onto the grass. “He’s got balls.”

Lord Peake’s face grew pinched. “I hope you aren’t as crass around my son, Lord Roxton. But you are right,” he inclined his head towards Daeron. “We owe the victory to you, my prince.”                                                     

“No, my lord,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “The victory belongs to Tessarion.” At that, the she-dragon trilled, her copper crests glittering like a crown. “Regardless, I would beg forgiveness, uncle, if you would be so kind as to grant it.”

“Daeron,” Ormund smiled fondly and shook his head. “Kneel.”

And so he did, falling down against the grass. With a whisper, Vigilance, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Hightower, was unsheathed. Her beautiful blade rippled with swirling patterns in the steel, reminiscent of sunlight dappled on a river. While Ormund’s gauntleted hand obscured the pommel, Daeron already knew it well. Polished ivory carved into the shape of the Hightower, with a brilliant topaz set in to represent the flame.

Gently, the sword kissed his shoulder and Daeron sucked in a sharp breath. “Daeron, prince of House Targaryen.” A pause. “Beloved kin of House Hightower. In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” Vigilance passed over his head to his other shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”

Daeron grabbed onto the grass to keep his hands from shaking. “In the name of the Maid,” Ormund continued, his voice growing in strength. “I charge you to defend all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to put the world of men to right with your deeds. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to guide your fellow men with wisdom.”

“And in the name of the Stranger,” he said, voice dropping low. “I charge you to be kind to the outcasts and the wanderers. To meet death and go to the Seven Heavens unafraid. Do you swear to uphold these vows?”

“I swear,” answered Daeron, his heart trembling.

Vigilance left his shoulder and Ormund’s gauntleted hand stretched down and helped him stand. “Then rise Ser Daeron, as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Chapter Text

As she always did, Rhaena bathed at dawn. Wonderful, miraculous Jeyne, the queen’s former maid who had now entered her service, drew the bathwater while the skies were still dark and gently shook her awake.

“Good morning, m’lady,” she whispered quietly. “The bath is ready for you. Just as you like it.”

Rhaena stirred and breathed in a lungful of humid and sweetly scented air. “Thank you, Jeyne.” A drawn-out yawn. “I’m always impressed how you manage to do it so quietly.”

She was a heavy sleeper. But one still had to be impressed that Jeyne could bring up the tub to her chambers and make countless trips to and fro to fill it up with hot water, all without making much noise. “Got lots of practice,” her maid smiled, emphasizing the wrinkle marks around her eyes and mouth. “I’ll be back in an hour, Lady Rhaena, unless you wish for me to return sooner?”

“An hour should be enough.” Any longer and her skin would begin to prune. Plus, she wanted to read a bit this morning and refused on principle to bring any of the Red Keep’s library books near a bathtub. “My thanks again.”

Once the door clicked shut, Rhaena rose, wincing at the feeling of cold stone against her bare feet. She quickly padded over to the tub, slipped off her night shift, and climbed eagerly into the nearly scalding water. Rose-scented oil engulfed her and dried petals floated around her as she sank neck-deep and sighed.

The tub faced her window, which looked east over the Narrow Sea. From the warmth of the water, she watched the sun slowly peek out behind the horizon, painting the ocean a dusty orange. A pale, hesitant yellow colored the sky, followed quickly by vibrant golds and brilliant pinks.

Rhaena watched the sun rise until it became too bright for her eyes, turning away to scrub at her skin with a bar of soap. It lathered easily in her hands and turned the rose-filled water the color of pale cream. A quiet knock interrupted the peaceful silence and she blinked. Surely it had not already been an hour?

“Jeyne?”

“No,” answered her grandmother’s voice, slightly muffled through the door. “May I come in, Rhaena?”

“You may,” she called back, tilting her head to peer around the carved wooden privacy screen. Without delay, the door swung open and she could see a quick flash of Velaryon blue fabric. “I’m in the bath. I’ll be out in just a moment.” She pulled herself to her feet, water sluicing off of her in streaming rivulets.

Her grandmother hovered out of view. “Take your time, child. It is my fault for coming unannounced.” There was something quiet and strained in her grandmother’s voice, which gave Rhaena pause. Was something wrong? She dried herself quickly and pulled on a fresh chemise, wrapping herself in a velvet robe to chase away the lingering morning chill.  

When she stepped out from behind the screen, her grandmother smiled wanly at her, reaching out her hand. Rhaena took it in hers and felt her grandmother’s fingers squeeze into her skin.

The past week as Hand of the King had taken a toll on her grandmother. A weariness had settled on her brow and shoulders; her eyes were often bloodshot from late evenings spent reading reports and catching up on correspondence. Taking control of Lord Otto’s enterprise was proving to be a monumental endeavor even for someone as skilled as her grandmother.

Yet the exhaustion was unnoticeable to the untrained eye, for she also stood taller, shoulders squared, with her intricately braided silver hair tumbling down her back. Her grandmother had retained her preferred style of clothing—trousers and long, flaring tunics—but she had begun to wear a long draping sash in Velaryon silver, sewn from a beautiful silk brocade, which she fastened with the bright gold pin of the Hand of the King. 

“Let us sit,” her grandmother said, dropping her hand.

A thin tendril of fear bored through her chest. “Is something wrong? Has something happened to Baela? To grandfather?”

The Hand of the King shook her head, managing a thin smile. “Nothing like that, dear one,” she said, leading her to the small round table where Rhaena typically broke her fast each morning. Her grandmother was as pale as her hair as she sank into the chair.

“Your grandfather is coming to King’s Landing,” she said plainly, crossing her ankles together.

Was that all? Then why did she seem so subdued? “Will Baela be coming?” For a moment, Rhaena dared to hope that she might reunite with her sister again. They had spent longer time apart, but the past few months felt like a lifetime.

“Unfortunately not,” said her grandmother, shaking her head. “She must stay and look over Driftmark and the fleet in Corlys’ absence.”

“That will be good practice. For when she is Lady of the Tides.” A pause. “But why is grandfather visiting?”

She inhaled and met Rhaena’s eyes. “Perhaps a week or two ago, two boys presented themselves to High Tide and claimed to be your uncle Laenor’s bastard sons.” For half a heartbeat, she thought her grandmother might be joking, but her face remained solemn and serious. “One of them, the elder, has claimed Seasmoke and wishes to declare his support for Aegon. Corlys will bring him to court to do so publicly.”

Claimed Seasmoke? Surely that was a boon to their cause, but Rhaena felt a wave of dismay wash over her. Here was a new cousin, emerging completely out of the blue, and achieved in a handful of weeks what Rhaena couldn’t do in an entire lifetime.

“Grandfather has been sitting on this news for two weeks?” She said instead of sulking.

“No, the delay was my own fault,” her grandmother admitted. “I’ve been inundated with letters since I became the Hand. It simply…it simply sat on my desk and fell to the wayside. I only got to it last night.”

“And clearly you stayed awake agonizing over it.”

A wry smile. “Is it so obvious?”

“Only to me,” answered Rhaena. “You should have tried to get some rest, grandmother. You’ll wear yourself out at this rate.”

“It’s my job to look after you, child. Not the other way around.” A pause, as the sun cast her grandmother’s silver hair in a warm yellow glow. “Besides, there was much to do. Rooms needed to be arranged, guards reassigned, and I had to speak to the king about calling a session of court.”

She bit back a tsk of disapproval. Surely all that was not so urgent that the Hand of the King had to take care of it in the dead of night. “How soon will grandfather arrive?”

“Based on the postmark of his letter? By midday.”

Rhaena blinked. “As in today?”

“As in today,” her grandmother nodded; she fell back against her seat with a quiet whoosh of breath. “Please believe me when I say that I was just as shocked as you are, Rhaena. I am sorry I was not able to give you more warning.”

“And court will be held this afternoon?” What would she wear!?

Her grandmother answered with a nod. “Your presence will be formally requested, as the boy is claiming to be your cousin after all. But, unofficially, I would ask that you come to the docks with me to greet them.”

“Of course,” she said immediately. Out of an equal desire to support her grandmother and for her own curiosity. “The boys…my cousins, what are their names?”

“Addam and Alyn. They’ve been hidden away in Hull for all these years.” For years, they had only been a few hours away. “Addam is the eldest and is of an age to you and Baela. He is the one coming with you grandfather.”

Rhaena swallowed. “The dragonrider.”

“Yes,” her grandmother echoed, watching her face closely. “The dragonrider.”

There was a soft knock at the door as Jeyne poked her head into her chambers. “Have you finished in the bath…” Her brown eyes went very wide as she slipped through the door and into a low curtsey. “M’lady Hand! Please forgive me for interrupting.”

Her grandmother’s lips twitched up at the use of her title. “There is no need to apologize. Go fetch breakfast for my granddaughter. I will help her dress this morning.”

With another bobbing curtsy, the maid vanished back into the hallway. “I’ll need to wear something especially nice,” mused Rhaena, thinking aloud.

“That will be easy.” A laugh, as her grandmother’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “We are lucky that your grandfather is the type to spare no expense on such things.”  

Rhaena’s first set of new gowns had been finished by the seamstress last month, with more reportedly on the way as a gift from her grandparents. Ten gowns for various occasions were neatly folded away in a carved cherry wood chest, stored with bundles of dried lavender and rose petals. Throwing open the lid of the chest, the Hand of the King stared down at the vibrant collection of fabric.

Similar to her father, Corlys Velaryon had an instinct for women’s fashion and her grandfather’s influence was clearly visible in all of her dresses. Silver and sea foam, ocean blues and intricate brocades with seahorses woven in golden thread. Bodices dripping with pearls, white and silver and pink. Velaryon colors through and through, although her grandmother’s touch could be found in the pale pinks and the single deep-red gown that had a collar embroidered with black onyx.

Rhaena peered over her grandmother’s shoulder, pillowing her chin against the padded fabric of her tunic. “Velaryon colors would present a united front,” the older woman murmured. “But the red…”

“What about the pink one? I haven’t worn that one yet,” she said. While Rhaena did not know her grandfather as well as she would like, she would bet that Addam would be presented to court in Velaryon colors. Better that he have the chance to stand out.

Her grandmother tilted her head, her silver hair brushing against Rhaena’s face. “Pink.” A thoughtful pause. “Yes, that should do quite nicely.”

Rhaena unwrapped her robe and hung it over the back of the privacy screen, while her grandmother gently pulled the pink gown free. With a quiet rustle, the fabric unfurled in a wave of shimmering pink silk velvet.

Cream silk stockings were pulled on first, secured with a silver garter ribbon embroidered with seahorses and dragons. Afterwards, Rhaena stepped into a plain white petticoat that her grandmother deftly tied behind her back. While she was capable of dressing herself, her grandmother’s help was greatly appreciated with her kirtle and its stayed bodice. It was laced at the back with pink ribbons and cinched snugly against her waist.

Most of Rhaena’s dresses were split into multiple pieces and this was no exception. A forepart of cream brocade was tied around her and carefully pinned flat against the front of her kirtle. The remainder of the gown, sewn from silk velvet, matched the rosy hue of dawn, with pale morganite and diamonds sewn against the neckline. Rhaena gently pushed her arms through the sleeves and it wrapped around her like a jacket, leaving an open section to showcase the creamy forepart.

“I used to do this for your mother,” her grandmother said softly, as she laced and pinned the dress closed at the front. “A very long time ago.”

There was a fragile fondness in her voice. “In Pentos, she was always the most well-dressed woman in the room,” replied Rhaena, adjusting her cuffs, which were embroidered with white-crested waves.

“She took after Corlys.” A quick smile. “As you do. In this, your sister takes more after me.”

She laughed. “Baela doesn’t have the patience for it.” Her twin preferred to be dressed as quickly as possible and anything she wore needed to be simple enough that Baela could put it on by herself. A pause. “What about Uncle Laenor?”

“Laenor?” Her eyes widened a fraction, as if she was surprised. Rhaena and Baela mostly asked about their mother; Jace, Luke, and Joff rarely saw their grandmother and, with all the rumors of bastardry, probably had never wanted to ask. “He was fond of finery as well,” her grandmother smiled. “Corlys is quite lucky that he has you to dress now.”

With that, the gown was fully laced and her grandmother stepped back. “And I shall tell grandfather that he has good taste,” said Rhaena. She twirled a bit and the skirt of her dress flew out in a shimmer of pink. All she was missing was jewelry. A pair of snarling sea dragon earrings wrought in gold were placed on her ears, while a long girdle studded with pale pink and white pearls from the coves of the Summer Islands was wrapped around her waist.

She caught her grandmother’s eyes and was surprised by the glassy sheen there. “Grandmother?”

“You look very beautiful,” said her grandmother, blinking rapidly to chase away the tears.

“As do you,” Rhaena smiled and reached out her hand. “Does the Hand of the King have time to break her fast with her granddaughter?”

A smile. “I would be honored to.”

Jeyne had the foresight to bring enough food for two. Freshly toasted bread with a spread of sweet jams. Sausage cooked with thyme and sauteed with potatoes. A delicate porcelain teapot with a dragon’s head for a spout was full of black tea and sweetened with clover honey.

Together, they ate and chattered together like gossiping girls. They spoke of the court and council. Of Lord Otto and the Queen Dowager. Aegon’s new and regular visits to the nursery to see Jaehaera and Maelor. How Lord Tyland wore too much cologne and that Helaena was finally feeling well enough to go sit in the gardens.

Her grandmother had to leave after their meal and return to work, but they were not parted for long. Shortly before noon, a ship flying the Velaryon standard was spotted on the Blackwater Bay, followed by a soft grey dragon that blended in with the clouds. Seasmoke, despite all the time away from the city, remembered the way to the dragonpit, dipping low over the city before disappearing into the great stone dome.

A page boy arrived bearing summons from her grandmother and together they rode down in a wheelhouse, trundling through the narrow streets of the city. Slowly, the stink began to seep in. Sweat and brine and waste, accompanied by a fetid anxiety that permeated King’s Landing. The shadow of war loomed oppressively, worsened by the news of Rhaenyra’s dragonseeds, who were only a short flight away.

They arrived before the docks right as the rowboat was moored, visible from the small latticework window. Sucking in a breath, her grandmother opened the door and slipped into the sunlight. Rhaena followed her, carefully lifting up the hem and petticoats of her gown.

With the spryness of a much younger man, her grandfather leaped out from the boat and onto the rough, salt-worn wood of the dock. The infamous Sea Snake was missing his typical finery, dressed in a simple sailor’s outfit, although Rhaena bet that his court clothing was safely packed away in the massive mahogany chest that sat in the bed of the rowboat. As he caught sight of Rhaena and his wife, his face flashed quickly into a creased and warm smile.

“The king honors me,” he began, “by sending two great beauties to welcome us.”

Her grandmother made a scoffing laugh. Rhaena made sure to smile wide enough for the both of them. “It is good to see you again, grandfather,” she said. “Welcome to King’s Landing.”

“Welcome back to the city, husband,” her grandmother echoed, having recovered herself.

Corlys inclined his head, silver locs dropping forward. “My lady Hand.” He held his wife’s gaze, purple eyes meeting violet, and something silent passed between them. “There is someone I’d like you both to meet.” Turning, he called out over his shoulder. “Addam!”

One of the boys unloading the rowboat quickly darted over to her grandfather, hovering partially behind him. Where the Sea Snake was tall and broad-shouldered, he was short and lithe, dressed in sailor’s garb. To Rhaena’s side, her grandmother made a soft little sound. A short inhalation of breath. Confusion and uncertainty marked her mouth and brow.

“It is nice to meet you,” the boy said, bowing low as a common man would. His voice shared the same sailor’s accent that colored the voices of the Velaryon guards from Spicetown and Hull. “I’m Addam. As Lord Corlys said.”

“As your Lord Grandfather said,” he corrected, voice firm but gentle.

Addam shifted his weight, swaying nervously. “As my Lord Grandfather said.”

He did not look much like Baela, which meant that he did not resemble Rhaena. But he had the Valyrian look with his violet eyes and silver hair, which he wore in locs like Rhaena and her grandfather. No…perhaps there was a resemblance. In their noses or in the angle of their jaw. Truly, Rhaena mused, he looked very much like Corlys in their matching sailor’s outfits.

“It is nice to meet you, cousin,” said Rhaena warmly, noting her grandmother’s quiet silence. Addam was clearly nervous and she could not blame him. In less than a month he had gone from the busy docks of Hull to the immense sprawl of King’s Landing to be paraded before the king.

Her new cousin bobbed his head and smiled, revealing an endearing gap between his two front teeth. “Welcome to the city, Addam,” began the Hand of the King, voice cool. Her eyes were flitting rapidly between her new grandson and her husband. “We should head back to the keep, so that you both can get dressed in time for court.”

Without waiting for a response, her grandmother turned on her heel and climbed back into the wheelhouse. A surprised laugh burst out from her grandfather. “As the Hand commands,” he said, mostly to himself.

Corlys walked towards the wheelhouse, Addam trailing after him, but he stopped to offer his hand out to Rhaena. Sunlight threw into relief the rough callouses on his hand. “Tis good to see you, Rhaena,” her grandfather said, helping her up the steps to the wheelhouse. “You look beautiful. As always.”

“All thanks to you!” Rhaena laughed and playfully poked her pink slipper out from beneath her skirt, showing off the delicately embroidered silver seahorses and dragons. “I don’t recall the last time I wore a dress this fine.”

“You would look beautiful in a potato sack,” said her grandmother, voice colored by a subdued affection. Rhaena entered the wheelhouse and sank onto the bench beside her.

Addam and Corlys followed after, piling onto the opposite bench. A muffled thump shook the roof as their baggage was loaded up. And then they were off, trundling back up the great hill to the castle.

Since he was sitting across from her, Rhaena took another moment to study her cousin. Addam had nearly pressed his face against the delicate, latticework window, violet eyes eagerly drinking in the sight of the city. While Hull was relatively large for a port town, surely it was dwarfed in comparison to the cities of the mainland. King’s Landing was probably the largest and most populated place he had ever seen, mused Rhaena, unless he had sailed to Gulltown, Lannisport, or Oldtown.

“What do you think of the city, Addam?” She asked, breaking the silence that was accompanying the staring match between their grandparents.

He jerked away from the window. “I think it’s too early to say…cousin.” A pause. “It’s very large. Baela warned me that it would stink, but it doesn’t seem so bad.”

“It will get worse the farther we get from the water,” said their grandfather. His hand rubbed idly at his knee.

A shift of fabric, as her grandmother turned slightly. “Baela is well?” She addressed Addam directly and he blinked, hesitant.

“She’s been very welcoming.” Rhaena raised a brow. Her sister? “Baela’s been teaching me about dragons. How to bond with Seasmoke.” That sounded more like her twin. “She bickers with Alyn all the time, but I do think they get along.”

“Alyn," began Rhaena. "Your younger brother, yes?"

“Yes. My little brother.”

Rhaenys leaned forward. “How much younger?”

“Less than a year,” Addam answered. “Lyseni twins, as the midwife would say.”

A noncommittal hum escaped from her grandmother and all conversation died as they skirted near Flea Bottom. Decay and sweat and blood seeped in from the window. Her cousin flinched away, gagging at the stench. Rhaena shut her eyes and smelled something familiar. Blood and Cheese looming over her. Humid and stinking breath against the back of her neck. Felt the wet burlap bag that held—

With a rattle, the wheelhouse hit a divot in the road, jolting Rhaena from the memories. She reached out and grabbed her grandmother’s hand as though she was a child again. Purple eyes met lilac and some unspoken understanding passed between them. In the privacy of the wheelhouse, far from prying eyes, her grandmother pulled her close, guiding Rhaena’s head to rest on her shoulder, where it would remain for the rest of the ride back to the Red Keep.

They arrived to a castle caught in a storm of activity. The great doors to the throne room were wide open, with the early-arriving courtiers streaming inside in hopes of securing a good vantage point. Servants hurried to and fro the keep’s food stores in preparation for tonight’s feast. Others carried weapons and armor and loaded up covered wagons with supplies. Those were Prince Aemond’s men, who would soon be marching north to Harrenhall.

As they filed out of the wheelhouse, two accompanying guards in Velaryon colors took down the great chest from the roof. “There is little time before court begins,” observed her grandmother, watching the crowd. “A servant will show you both to your rooms. And I have arranged for a page to escort you back here, Addam. The Red Keep can be confusing, especially the first time.”

Addam managed a quiet thanks, distracted and slowly spinning to look at the tall red brick towers. With an amused twitch to his mouth, their grandfather pulled him away into the castle, out of sight.

“Will you be going to the throne room now, grandmother?”

“No,” she answered Rhaena. “I must go find Aegon.” Her voice was very casual, as if she was about to go track down a missing spoon rather than the king.

Rhaena did not pout, which she was secretly pleased by. “Then I shall see you soon.” And she watched as the Hand of the King swept through the crowd, which parted and paused before her.

The last thing she wanted to do was stand around the throne room by herself and feel the courtier’s curious eyes upon her. Besides, it was unfashionable to be early. She instead trekked back up to the Holdfast, walking against the flow of the crowd.

Inside the castle, laughter floated out from the nursery, and Rhaena hovered by the door, peering through the threshold. Helaena sat in an overstuffed armchair and was balancing Maelor on top of her feet. The little babe was giggling wildly, unsteady on his legs. His mother was still pale and washed out, but she had regained some weight, rounding out the hollows in her cheeks. Across the room, the queen dowager was in the process of dressing Jaehaera for court by braiding green ribbons into her silver hair.

Before she could enter the room, a quiet voice spoke, sliding softly through the air behind her. Rhaena turned and found Aemond One-Eye looming over her, his violet eye stark against the pale pallor of his skin and the rich black dye of his leather eyepatch. “You come here very often.”

It was a simple observation, but she disliked that it felt like an accusation. “I am the queen’s lady-in-waiting,” she replied, voice level.

“So you are. An admirable one, if my mother and sister are to be believed.”

“That is kind of them to say.” Rhaena turned her head and watched as Jaehaera sprang to her feet, twirling before her mother to show off her gown. “Have I given you any reason to doubt the word of the queens?”

The prince of the realm tilted his head. “You tell me.”

A pause, as Rhaena bit down on her cheek. “If you are accusing me of something, I would rather you say it plainly,” she said softly, almost whispering. It would not do to have such a conversation be overheard, especially by the queen and her children. Part of her was surprised that they had not yet noticed the two of them in the hall.

“You dislike me,” he said, accusing her of a far less heinous crime than expected.

Aemond struck her as the kind of man who disliked courtesies. Reminiscent of her father, in that way. So she replied bluntly. “I do.”

It was an old dislike from her distant childhood and unfairly encouraged by her father. Six years may have lessened the intensity, but, unlike his siblings, he had done little to change her opinion. Helaena, she would gladly call a friend. And while she had not spent much time at all with the king, Jaehaera loved him in spades and he showed great favor to her grandmother, who spoke of him with a bemused interest.

“You barely know me.” Exactly. And, somehow, he was still surprised. “Why?”

Where was a good place to start? “Claiming Vhagar on the day of my mother’s funeral was in poor taste.”

“Cutting out my eye was in poor taste,” replied Aemond, immediately irritated. His narrow mouth twitched into a frown.

Rhaena pursed her lips. He was right. “So it was. But many would say that kinslaying is the greater sin.”

“I thought you would be glad,” Aemond’s voice was colored by an amused smirk, drawling in a manner that reminded Rhaena of his brother. Mentioning Luke had been a bad idea. “I freed you from your betrothal after all.”

She swallowed angrily. “I will not thank you for killing Lucerys,” she nearly snapped. A pause, as she recollected herself. Her step-brother was dead, and yelling would not change that. “But I will apologize for the circumstances that led to you losing your eye. I was the one who was upset with you about Vhagar.”

He was quiet. Rhaena supposed that apologies were meaningless now that he had gone and killed Luke. “You were desperate." Not a question, but an observation.

“For a dragon? Yes.”

Another suspended pause. “Vhagar was not meant for you,” he said quietly.

“I know that now,” replied Rhaena. As much as she had loved Vhagar, she was meant for a more beautiful dragon. Elegant and brightly colored, like Sunfyre or Moondancer. Graceful and lithe, like Silverwing or Dreamfyre. Or at least she hoped as much. “But she was the last piece I had left of my mother. I do hope that you are taking care of her, at least.”

Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the rest of the door open and stepped into the nursery. Jaehaera turned and smiled, flashing her bright white baby teeth. “Rhaena!” The girl had grown a bit more bold since her mother had returned to her, but Rhaena suspected that poor Jaehaera was trying very hard to make up for the absence of her exuberant twin. “You look like a princess!”

“Indeed,” echoed Helaena quietly. “All you need is a prince to come rescue you.”

“Send word to Daeron then.” Aemond walked in after her, bending down to catch Jaehaera as his niece threw herself into a hug. “Maybe he’ll get to King’s Landing faster.”

Rhaena bowed her head and her lips twitched up, looking at the young queen, who managed a thin smile of her own. “You are both very kind. I thought I should look my best for court, especially when everyone will be looking at me to find the resemblance between my cousin and I.”

Queen Alicent swept over to her daughter, gently lifting Maelor up. “So, it is true? Your grandfather has found a bastard son of Ser Laenor’s?” A strange expression ghosted over her face. Something akin to vindication.”

“Two, in fact. But only one has come to city. The dragonrider. His name is Addam.”

“Two,” breathed the queen dowager. “And they resemble…”

Unwilling to voice itself out loud, her question trailed off. “I met him this morning, although I’m afraid I don’t quite remember what my uncle looked like. You may have a better memory, your grace.”

“We will not have the chance to see him at all if we are late,” said Aemond. “Shall we go, mother?”

She nodded. “We shall.” Turning to Helaena, the queen dowager spoke gently. “I will bring the children back as soon as court is finished.”

Her daughter hummed and looked away towards the window that faced the sea. Holding Maelor, Queen Alicent swept out of the room, a regal picture of green-garbed grace. Little Jaehaera followed after and Aemond hung back, offering Rhaena his arm.

“I do take care of her,” he said, watching his mother and his niece. “Vhagar wants for nothing.”

Rhaena did not reply, but she took his arm—a gesture of peace—and they walked together down to the throne room. In less than an hour, the hall had swelled with people, a rainbow of color and clothing and sigils. Yet the crowd parted to let them through; she split off to join her grandmother, who stood at the foot of the Iron Throne.

It did not take long for the king to arrive. Trumpets blared, echoing over the stone, chatter died, and a hushed whisper blanketed the room. Silhouetted in black and gold, Aegon walked down the long stretch of the great hall to the throne. The great iron beast loomed over him and he sat gingerly, looking immensely uncomfortable as he tried to settle against the jagged blades.

“As some of you might of heard,” began the Hand, stepping forward. “A little more than a moon ago, Princess Rhaenyra issued a decree on Dragonstone, promising wealth, land, and a noble title to any man of Valyrian descent who could claim a dragon for her cause.” A murmur ran through the crowd. “One of these dragonseeds claimed a dragon and, rather than return to Rhaenyra, flew to Lord Corlys Velaryon to swear fealty to our king.” Her grandmother turned slightly, looking up to Aegon. “Will you see them, your grace?”

The king’s violet eyes were bright with interest and he waved a hand at the guards near the door. “Bring them in!”

Appearing at the end of the hall, Addam started towards the throne with their grandfather, nearly unrecognizable. His locs were threaded with silver beads and tied back behind his head neatly with a silk ribbon. Sailor’s clothing had been traded for a silver damask tunic with the sleeves slashed to show hints of a sea foam undershirt. Velaryon colors, worn inverted as was tradition for noble bastards.

Rhaena could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes flitting rapidly between her, Addam, and their grandparents. Her poor cousin looked nearly overwhelmed, and so Rhaena caught his eye and smiled warmly, hoping to reassure him.

“So you’ve claimed a dragon?” Aegon said, once Addam had knelt before the throne.

“Yes, your grace.” Deliberate effort was had in enunciating his words. To eliminate the sailor’s accent from his speech. “Seasmoke.”

“And you have come to pledge fealty to me?”

Nodding, Addam raised his eyes. “I pledge myself and Seasmoke to your cause, to be used at your discretion. To defend the realm and your claim.” It was clearly a speech he had rehearsed with their grandfather, but Aegon seemed satisfied.

“Wonderful,” he said, a bit too casual in acknowledging the oath. “Why Seasmoke?”

Her cousin blinked in surprise, but continued in stride. “He was already on Driftmark.” Then, something more sincere seeped through. “I stumbled upon him almost by accident. It almost felt like he was waiting for me.”

“Sunfyre was much the same way. Knew that I was his before I did.”

“Exactly!” And then a pause, as Corlys cleared his throat. Addam swallowed. “I supposed it was only natural—Seasmoke was my father’s dragon after all.”

The court exploded into low whispers that echoed eerily through the hall. “I had been told that you claimed to be Ser Laenor’s bastard.” Aegon grinned sharply. “I can tell from how you’re dressed that Lord Corlys believes it to be true.”

“I do,” answered Rhaena’s grandfather, his voice rich and booming. “The resemblance is there, in both looks and in temperament. And surely, we can take his bond with Seasmoke as a sign from the gods.”

Tilting his head, the black crown of the conqueror slipped askew. “Perhaps,” began the king, “but I would like to hear what my Hand has to say on the matter.”

Her grandmother stepped forward and Addam rose to his feet. She circled around him once and then paused, looking intensely at his eyes and face. Despite her coolness in the morning, before the court the Queen Who Never Was put on a show. “My grandson,” she said, a fragile smile on her face, and she embraced Addam warmly.

The court erupted into applause, but Rhaena watched on with an emerging feeling of dread. From over Addam’s shoulder, her grandmother’s eyes were boring into her grandfather, aflame with cold anger.

Chapter Text

As the court melted away, Rhaenys lingered near the Iron Throne. Bodies streamed towards the monumental doors, laughing and chatting and gossiping. Court, beneath the veneer of royal politicking and power, was a social affair where alliances were forged. Her Rhaena, clever thing that she was, had linked arms with her cousin, serving as a pink-and-pearl covered shield that deflected and defended Addam from the nosy courtiers surrounding them. She spied Lord Swann at the head of the crowd—he had a bastard granddaughter that needed to be wed and snagging an acknowledged Velaryon bastard for her hand would be a great achievement.

The man who had, a long lifetime ago, earned Rhaenys’ own hand in marriage stood silently, a single static figure in the teeming crowd. A tight, clenching feeling seized her chest as her eyes roved over him. Beneath the age and the weariness, beneath years of grief, there was the man she had married. Violet eyes met her more muted purple. Corlys titled his head in an unspoken question and Rhaenys answered by cooly shaking her head. Not here.

“Seven Hells,” groaned the king, as Aegon appeared beside her. A little red bead of blood bloomed on the edge of his palm, the same shade as the rubies embedded in his crown. Childishly, he pressed the wound against his mouth. “That chair is bloody uncomfortable. Should have it melted down.”

Despite her anger and the low, throbbing sting of betrayal, Rhaenys chuckled. “And then where would you sit, your grace?”

A boyish grin. “Mayhaps we could make a replica out of cushions and silk? Or a giant stuffed effigy of Sunfyre? What do you think, auntie?”

“I think it would be wise to find other options.” She shook her head, bemused. The Iron Throne was a symbol of their house’s power, their authority. It would outlast them all.

“A normal chair might suffice then,” answered Aegon lightly. “Do you think a cushion would be too extravagant?”

To her immense surprise, she had become almost fond of this boy king, who had his mother’s face and Viserys’ coloring. He was too flippant and somewhat unrefined. Overindulgent, a terrible husband, but an improving father. Flirtatious and charming when he wanted to be, and then sullen or angry or ill-tempered. Rhaenys was still unsure if Aegon would be a good king, although he had begun to try, but he might be a decent nephew. Even if she would rather die than say that to his face.

He was nattering away, meaningless and mindless thoughts about superior seating arrangements, but then a more serious expression smoothed away his boyish demeanor. Violet eyes went cool with detached curiosity. “So, you have a new grandson.”

“So I do.” She followed his gaze to Addam. From behind, Rhaenys could almost pretend that he was Laenor and Rhaena was her mother, that her children were alive and well and children once more. Almost.

Aegon hummed. “I could legitimize him for you. And his brother.” His voice was nearly shy, soft. As if he was offering her a gift and was desperately worrying over if Rhaenys would like it.

“No,” she said harshly. Too forceful. Desperate. The king looked at her in wounded confusion; Rhaenys recovered quickly. “It is a generous and kind offer…but Driftmark must go to Baela.”

“I could write a decree for that too,” he replied. Beneath his black velvet brocade, his shoulders loosened.

A weak smile twitched over her face, but it quickly died as she realized that Corlys had vanished. Scanning the hall, she saw that Rhaena and Addam remained, still surrounded by a dwindling crowd. Much of the throne room stood empty and there was nowhere for her silver-haired husband to hide.

“I will think on it. But I must ask one thing.”

“What is it?”

A deep breath. “If Corlys asks you to legitimize the boys, you must refuse him. It has to come from me.”

Aegon watched her for a moment, before he bobbed his head into a curt nod. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

What did she want? She wanted safety and stability. To enjoy a meal with her granddaughters. For her children to be alive. Rhaenys wished desperately for a short winter and a realm blessed by a long peace. To see Baela rule her ancestral seat and for Rhaena to one day have her long-awaited dragon. To become a great-grandmother. She wanted to embrace her husband and never lay eyes upon him again.

But alas, she would have to face him. Rhaenys aimed to do so with the fierce pride of a dragon. Deep in her chest, Meleys hummed, with her always.

She slipped away without speaking to her granddaughter. Rhaena would be just fine, she thought, watching as the young woman threw her head back in a bell-like laugh. Addam, while still unsure, seemed increasingly confident. Like her husband, he appeared to be naturally gifted with charisma. 

Seemingly, her husband also desired to speak with her, for she found Corlys waiting in her solar on the top floor of the Tower of the Hand. He stood silhouetted against the narrow windows, a gentle breeze jostling his locs. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with aged books and scrolls left behind by decades of her predecessors. When she had first began to relocate to this solar, Rhaenys had been mildly surprised to note that it was decorated in neutral colors, with little green or iconography of the Seven to be found.

As the door shut behind her, Corlys had the audacity to turn to her and smiled, soft and fond. “I was surprised to hear that you have not moved into the Hand’s apartments,” he said, in lieu of greeting.

Rhaenys hummed lowly. Was this an attempt to throw her off guard? “I did not want them. Relocating Otto and the queen dowager was not a priority.” She had done her best to scrub Otto’s presence from the solar, but the man still slept two floors down. “And it is better for Rhaena to stay in a room where there is no chance of someone lurking in the walls.”

“I worried for her." A frown twitched at his mouth. "But it seems she has remained as bright ever.”

Peace, Rhaenys reminded herself. At least when it came to Rhaena. “She has nightmares. But Rhaena is strong, as her mother was.”

“And how her grandmother is, as well,” added Corlys. She pursed her lips and a long silence stretched between them, broken only by Rhaenys' soft steps toward the ornate desk in the center of the room.

Her husband cleared his throat. “When you did not write back, I had assumed you were angry with me.”

“I only read the letter last night,” answered Rhaenys, blunt. Irritation ignited within her. How long would they continue to play at this game of normalcy? “The timing was poor. I had just been appointed Hand without warning. There was much I needed to catch up on.”

“If there was one thing Otto Hightower is good at, it is managing obscene amounts of paperwork.” A pause. “What do you think of them? Our grandsons. Addam is a—”

Rhaenys bit her tongue. “Enough,” she started, voice cool. “You would continue this charade even in private? With me?” Or did he think that she was too dim-witted to figure it out? When did her husband’s opinion of her become so low?

“This charade?” Violet eyes narrowed. “I do not know what you speak of, Rhaenys.”

She suppressed the violent urge to rend out her hair. “The matter of those boys!”

“Our grandsons, you mean?”

“Our grandsons?” She laughed bitterly, bracing herself against the desk. “We both know that those boys aren’t Laenor’s sons—they’re yours!” She spat the accusation like Meleys spat fire, snarling.

Wind whistled through the windows, as Corlys gaped. “Mine? Are you—” His eyes flashed brightly with anger and then his voice rose, bordering on a shout. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”

“So you deny it?”

“Of course, I deny it!” He stepped forward, stalking forward as though he was on a battlefield. “Rhaenys—”

She held up her hand. “You will cease lying to me. At once.”

“I am not lying to you,” he replied, incensed. There was something a bit radiant about him, so alive with anger that he seemed younger, like the dashing seafarer she had first met all those years ago. She swallowed that thought down. “On what grounds do you accuse me?”

“On what grounds?” She repeated. “I have eyes, Corlys!” Suddenly, she was reminded of Driftmark and the night of Laena’s funeral. Of Aegon, smaller and more sullen, mumbling: “Just look at them.”

The Sea Snake scoffed, waving his hand dismissively and angrily. “They look like Velaryons! What of it?"

“Do you think I would not know the face of my husband?” Rhaenys cried out. Numbly, some distant part of her noted that she was nearly yelling as well. “They have your features, Corlys!”

“My features?” A scoffing laugh. “Both of our children had my features.” Then, his face turned stricken, even as he shouted at her. “Do you even remember what Laenor looked like?”

She stumbled back, as if he had struck her. “Of course, I do!” But cold despair ran over her like ice water and her eyes burned. “He—he—” Rhaenys found she could not remember the details. The tilt of his jaw, how his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the pouting expression when he was upset—all of it lost to time. She could only recall the charred and mangled remains of his corpse. The stench of burned flesh.

“He looked like me, Rhaenys.” Corlys said, his voice breaking. “He looked like me.”

Rhaenys sunk into a chair and wept into her hands, angry and confused. It was this realization, not the heartbreak or the betrayal, that brought tears to her at last. “I can’t remember his face.”

Footsteps drew close. With a soft thud, Corlys knelt beside her, the weight of his palm ghosting over her knee. “Is it so unusual for a child to look like their grandparents?" His voice turned gentle. "You must remember your Aunt Saera’s boy, the eldest who came to put forth his claim at the Great Council. He looked like the Old King Reborn.”

That, she did recall. Even if it was mostly how visibly upset and shaken Jaehaerys had been about the family resemblance. “And yet no one would ever accuse the Old King that he had fathered a bastard on his wayward daughter. You are a different sort of man than my grandfather.”

“Rhaenys.” He said her name like a desperate prayer, as Corlys gently pried her fingers away from her face. Warm calloused hands enveloped her own. “You believe I would stray from you?”

“I am an old woman, hardened by grief.” A pause. “I could give you no more children, even if I had wanted to.”

“I am an old man,” echoed her husband. “I sailed my Nine Voyages and saw the far, strange reaches of the world long before we even met. I had women. Many of them.” She glared at him. Bragging about his exploits was not the most intelligent way to convince her of his innocence. “But when my voyages were done, there was only one woman in the world who I wanted to build a life with. You.”

She laughed bitterly. “What a life it was. Our children dead. The realm has been torn apart.”

“We have our grandchildren,” said Corlys. “And each other.”

They had the girls, yes. The boys were still circumspect. “The boys…” She trailed off, staring into her husband’s eyes. “We both knew Laenor’s preferences. If they are not yours, then they most certainly are not his.”

Corlys furrowed his brow, a sharp, wrinkled indentation in the middle of his forehead. Rhaenys longed to smooth it away with her thumb. “He is Jace’s age. Perhaps a bit older. Laenor might have—it would not surprise me if he had wished to know if he could do his duty before his marriage.”

Rhaenys misliked dwelling on her son’s romantic affairs, a habit ingrained into her after his marriage to Rhaenyra. “The younger boy. Alyn,” she tasted the name in her mouth. “He is only a year younger?”

“As was Luke to Jace. Both sets of boys were born in 114 and 115.”

She considered this for a moment. Laenor had always wanted one thing: his parent’s pride. Of course, he did not understand that he had always had that, at least on Rhaenys’ side. An immense pressure had weighed down on him. His marriage to Rhaenyra, the expectation of producing at least two heirs for the Iron Throne and Driftmark, and at least a handful of spares as well.

“Addam is a dragonrider,” continued Corlys, jolting her out of her musing. “That doesn’t run in my blood.”

“You are just as Valyrian as I am."

“But we were not dragonriders. If Velaryons could claim dragons, don’t you think we would have so?" He raised an incredulous brow. "That trait comes from you alone, passed down to Laenor and Laena.”

Targaryens ruled the skies. Velaryons, the sea. A low breath rushed out of her, like a wave crashing against the shore. If it was true, if Corlys was being honest, Addam and Alyn were proof that Jace, Luke, and Joffrey could have been Laenor’s in a far different world. “Rhaenyra has stolen from us again,” she said, voice bitter. "Denied us our son. Denied us true born grandsons."

“Rhaenya’s boys are innocent and Laenor loved them, regardless of the circumstances," Corlys said, unconvincingly. She had never understood his willingness to love those three boys, but Rhaenys had never been able to find it in herself to truly try. "We must find comfort in knowing that Laenor’s sons have found their way to us now.”

Slowly, Rhaenys disentangled their fingers. “Will you ask for them to be legitimized?”

Silence. “It has crossed my mind.”

“But what of Baela?” A lingering spark of anger flickered hot in her chest, searing her ribs. “You would legitimize these boys and replace her as your heir?” She stood, towering over the kneeling figure of her husband. “After everything that has happened?”

“Do not put words in my mouth," frowned Corlys. "Did I say that I would disinherit her?”

“What other conclusion am I supposed to draw? Legitimizing those boys would change the line of succession. Again!”

Corlys struggled to his feet, still favoring his uninjured leg. “Baela will remain my heir,” he said firmly, which pleased her.

“Does she know that?” An uncomfortable expression flashed over his face. “You cannot sit around like Viserys and do nothing to secure her claim, especially now that you’ve acknowledged Addam!”

“Do not compare me to Viserys!”

“Then do not act like him!”

Corlys shuddered violently, perhaps in visceral disgust. “Can you not trust me?”

“I do not know!” Rhaenys shouted, in equal parts anger and despair.

It was the worst thing she had ever said to Corlys in the history of their marriage and he flinched backwards. Cruel words, more so than if she had claimed that she no longer loved him. Even though their passion had never faded, they had both once been raised to expect the possibility of a loveless marriage. That, they could weather. But to not trust him? For years, they had faced the world together as partners. Without trust, the foundation of their relationship was uprooted.

“Rhaenys,” he began. “You are my wife. Mother to my children and our granddaughters. Under your stewardship, you have protected and guided our house when I have failed and faltered.” Her husband swallowed, the scar tissue around his neck twitching. “There is much I need to atone for—wrongs I must make right. Baela is my heir. I have done much on Driftmark to ensure it. To have the men recognize and respect her.”

Hands reached for her and Rhaenys reluctantly welcomed the touch. “If it pleases you, I will shout it from the table at the feast tonight. I will ask the king to formalize Baela’s position. When I return to Driftmark, I will speak to her and—”

She embraced him, burying her face into his chest, and breathed deep the sweet scent of jasmine oil, which Corlys had unfailingly worn for the entirety of their marriage. Beneath that was fresh linen and lingering salt, accompanied by the faint, familiar smell of his skin. His jaw settled on top of her head as he pulled her tightly against him.

“You will speak to Baela,” said Rhaenys, pulling herself away. “And to Addam and Alyn. They must know that they cannot expect to inherit."

A nod. “If you wish it, I will see it done.”

“Corlys.” A silent pause. “Husband.” Rhaenys felt stretched thin and exhausted. “I have accused you of a grievous crime and I am—"

“I will regain your trust,” he said, voice firm yet warm. It was a prophecy, spoken with calm confidence. “I ask for nothing, except that you give Addam and Alyn a chance."

“I have been cruel and harsh,” she agreed, slightly ashamed now. Corlys nodded grimly, as a thought came to her. “I will invite Addam to fly with me.”

Beneath his beard, Corlys smiled, white teeth flashing against his black skin. “That might be wise. I have no way to gauge if Baela has taught him properly when it comes to dragons.”

Rhaenys hummed and, even though she still felt raw and brittle, she pressed a dry kiss near the corner of Corlys’ mouth. She had to have faith in him. If not, what else could she truly believe in? Having said a brief farewell, she escaped to the dragonpit, trying to outrun her lingering doubts, and sent a messenger to Addam.

By the time he arrived, Meleys was standing in the central cavern of the dome; Rhaenys sat down beside her great scarlet claw, finishing off a small and sweet orange.

“Lady Grandmother,” he greeted hurriedly. As Rhaena had done when they first flew to King’s Landing, Addam was dressed in a too large set of riding clothes, clearly borrowed. “I hope I did not keep you waiting long.”

Rhaenys, using Meleys as a support, pushed herself to her feet. A joint in her knee clicked unpleasantly. “It is no matter. Come closer. I want you to meet Meleys.”

“The Red Queen,” he whispered, stepping forward. A bright golden eye watched him curiously. “When I was a boy, I remember running outside to watch as you flew over Hull. She is much bigger up close.”

She huffed a laugh. “Very much so.” Addam had stopped, hovering behind her shoulder. “Did you know that Seasmoke’s egg came from Meleys?”

“I did not. I suppose that explains the red tinge to his wings.”

“We suspect that she lay with Grey Ghost.” An accomplishment which Rhaenys admired to this day. She reached up and scratched affectionately at the dragon’s jaw. “It had been shortly after Laenor was born. Two eggs, one for him and one for Laena, your aunt. Although hers did not hatch.”

It had been a beautiful thing. Marbled with cream and crimson. Rhaenys still recalled Laena running into their bedchambers, a tear-streaked two-year-old, on the night it had turned to stone. Chittering, the Red Queen shook out her wings. “You are as much Meleys’ grandson, as you are my own.”

“May I?” He raised a hand in a questioning gesture. Rhaenys nodded and examined his face once more. Silver locs, dark brown skin, the shape of his violet eyes, bright with awe and wonder. His cheekbones must have belonged to his mother, for they were the only feature she did not recognize, but he had Laenor and Corlys’ nose, the same tilt to his ears.

Meleys purred wildly at the touch and made a sweet crooning noise, chuffing hot hair over his face. At the sound, her heart burst open. Her dragon had only ever made that noise when she interacted with Laena and Laenor, all those years ago when Seasmoke was still too small to fly.

Her doubts dissipated. For she knew in her heart that she could always trust Meleys. Very gently, Rhaenys placed a hand on his shoulder, momentarily overwhelmed. “Go with the dragonkeepers to fetch Seasmoke,” she said warmly, the hint of a smile ghosting over her face. “I want to see how you fly.”

END OF PART ONE

Chapter Text

Steel sang as the war hammer cracked against the reinforced edge of the wooden shield.

As the smaller of the two fighters, Ulf had been able to dodge the blow, forcing the hammer to chance off the shield. His nearly translucent silver hair was plastered against his forehead, soaked with sweat, chest heaving for breath; Hugh did not look much better. The momentum from the swing had nearly toppled him to his feet, despite his great, hulking strength. Leaning on the stick of his war hammer, he spat onto the sand.

“That’s enough for now,” called Jace, standing up from the sea-worn boulder he was perching on. To his side, Nettles glanced up from her lap, where she was currently trying to fletch a batch of arrows.

“Oh, fuck off,” said Ulf, readjusting the grip of his short sword. “I can keep going. ‘Less you’re givin’ up, Hugh.”

The taller dragonseed spat again, foamy white fluid dripping from his scarred mouth. “Over my dead body.”

Nettles offloaded the arrows onto the sand, rubbing her hands together. “Jace said enough, idiots.”

“Shut up, bitch,” sneered Ulf, without much venom.

“Yeah,” echoed Hugh. “Shut up, Netty.”

Jace drew his own sword. “What did you just say?” He realized belatedly that he was more upset than Nettles was. “Apologize to her!”

“Why?” The largest dragonseed pointed at their companion, who was snickering into her hand. “She’s not upset.”

“You disrespected her!” Nettles was not helping at all, and he worried suddenly that she was laughing at him instead.

Ulf sighed audibly and looked towards the cloudy Dragonstone sky. “She disrespects us all the time. Why’s it matter now?”

“She’s a lady,” Jace replied, incredulous. That made Nettles laugh louder. A rough and booming guffaw sounded out over the beach as Hugh joined in.

“Netty’s a beast and sneak-thief,” he wheezed, making a slicing gesture down the bridge of his nose, mimicking the scar that slit the skin between Nettles' nostrils.

Ulf snickered. “She’s too ugly to be a lady.”

“Apologize!” Jace repeated tersely. Her features were certainly unique, but she was not ugly.

With a languid stretch, she rose, bracing her boots in the sand. Clever brown eyes danced in her dark brown face and the weak sunshine illuminated her tightly coiled curls like a halo around her face. “At least I’m not as ugly as you are, Ulf!”

The smaller man flushed horribly; skin blotched with annoyance. In the months Jace had spent with him, he had learned that Silverwing’s rider was exceedingly vain. “Shut up, Netty!”

“Come and make me!”

Ulf stalked forward. “C’mon Hugh. Let’s teach this lass how to hold her tongue.”

Hugh sighed and hoisted up his hammer, simply agreeing for the sake to keep fighting. Playful, Nettles bumped her shoulder against his. “You with me, Jace?”

“I am,” he sighed. So much for getting started on flight drills. A bright gleam shone in her eyes. “Keep it friendly.” The warning was mostly directed to Ulf, who nodded in grudging acknowledgment.

Leaping forward, Silverwing’s rider reached them first. His eyes, a diluted and pale purple, narrowed as he was met with Jace’s tourney sword. Sparks flew as the blunted edge of their weapons slid against each other. Angling back, he pushed forward aggressively, smacking the flat edge of the blade against the other man’s wooden shield. One push, then a second. On the third, Jace bashed his shoulder into the shield, throwing all of his weight into it. Ulf, annoyed, finally threw his shield to the side and parried with his sword. Together, they danced, twirling steps in the damp sand.

Nettles laughed as she spun and cartwheeled out of the way of Hugh’s war hammer. It buried itself into the sand with a thump. As Jace blocked a particularly strong blow, he watched from the corner of his eye as the girl leaped onto it as Vermithor’s rider swung the hammer up into the air. She flew up, using the momentum, and landed on his shoulders, shrieking with laughter. Hugh’s watery eyes, which were more blue than purple, sparkled and a laugh rumbled in his chest.

Before he had become a dragonrider, Ulf had served Dragonstone as a man-at-arms and worked at the castle’s garrison. His combat experience was limited, having been too young to fight in the Stepstones, and he fought like a tavern brawler. Unpredictable, unrefined, and dirty. Still, Jace was surprised when Ulf threw down his sword and launched himself forwards, pinning him to the ground. “D’you yield?”

He laughed, feeling sand in mouth. “Never!” Jace squirmed and rolled free, climbing up to his feet. Two could play at this game. Reaching down, he grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into Ulf’s face. “Do you yield?”

The other man cried out in pain. Shaking hands rose, fighting the urge to rub at his eyes. “Fuck!” Ulf swore, tears streaming down his face. “I yield, you bastard! Gods, my eyes—”

A ringing echoed through his head. Without thinking, Jace punched him in the jaw. Ulf stumbled back to the ground, barking out in alarm as he climbed on top of him. He hit him again; his knuckles cracked loudly against the bridge of Ulf’s nose. Flailing blindly, Silverwing’s rider backhanded Jace onto the sand and then they were scrabbling like boys, kicking and shouting.

Hoisting him up into the air, a hand seized Jace by the scruff. He flailed like a puppy before he glanced down and found Hugh, who shook his head in disapproval before he dropped Jace like a sack of potatoes.

“What happened to keep it friendly?” Nettles hissed, watching as Hugh helped Ulf back to his feet.

There was blood on his knuckles. “He called me a bastard,” Jace said, voice quiet.

“It’s a common insult! Spend some fuckin’ time with us common folk and you’d know that!” Spittle and blood flew from Ulf’s mouth, catching the grains of sand flecked all over his face.

“I’ll help him to the maester,” said Hugh, pushing him forward.

Stumbling, his companion mutter bitterly. “Don’t need a maester. Been fine on my own for the past two-and-twenty years…”

Jace watched numbly as the pair left the beach, ascending the obsidian stairs to the citadel. After a long moment, Nettles crouched down beside him. “Stop lettin’ him get under your skin.”

“He insulted you.” Waves beat against the shore and he tried to ground himself with the sound. And me, Jace thought.

“I’ve heard worse,” she replied. Fishing through the pockets of her roughspun wool trousers, Nettles pulled out a handkerchief that appeared to be little more than a jaggedly-cut scrap of burlap. “Here. For your hands.”

She wasn’t the type of girl who would wipe the blood from his face, to soothe or mother. The cloth was thrown unceremoniously into his lap. “He means nothin’ by it,” she continued, as Jace began to clean off his knuckles. His right palm had tiny crescent indentations impressed onto the skin, from where he had clenched his hand too tightly.

“Don’t make excuses for him.”

Nettles frowned. “I’m not. Just sayin’ that he’s all bark and no bite. If he didn’t want to be here, then he would have flown off with that pretty dragon of his long ago.”

“Maybe he likes Hugh. And you,” he smiled at the rhyme and handed Netty’s blood-spotted handkerchief back to her. “He hates me.”

“Not true. Ulf knows that you’re one of us.”

One of us? What did that mean? Dragonrider or dragonseed? I’m not like you, he thought uncharitably, and then Jace flooded with shame. Nettles had only been kind to him.

She took his silence for acceptance. “C’mon. We can do flight drills without the others. I’m so close to figuring out how to roll Sheepstealer—”

Before Jace could respond, a screech echoed over the isle. Caraxes descended from the clouds, slicing a wound through the sky. Elegantly, the blood red dragon landed near the Dragonmont. A low feeling of dread curled in his chest.

“Who was that?”

Nettles’ brown eyes were wide and curious. “Daemon,” answered Jace. “And Caraxes. But—he should be in Harrenhall…” Something was wrong. “I need to find my mother.”

“So no flight drills then?” Barely veiled disappointment colored her voice.

“Sorry!” He called over his shoulder, as he hurried over the beach towards the stairs. “Next time!”

Beneath the shadow of the Dragonmont, the citadel of Dragonstone stabbed through the fog. Stone dragons, wrought from some strange and long-forgotten Valyrian magic, twisted into writhing towers and walls, almost alive. When Jace had first arrived at the island, he had found the castle imposing, dreary and oppressive. Something out a nightmarish fable. Later, it had become home. Where Jace had played hide-and-seek in the halls and tag in Aegon’s Garden, watching the carved dragon near the kitchen smoke from its carved nose. Where Aegon and Viserys had been born, where he had ridden Vermax for the first time.

Now, it was lonely. Jace had returned from Winterfell, with its cavernous halls, cold lands, but warm people, to a changed island. Joffrey was in the Vale. Aegon and baby Viserys were safe in Pentos. Baela and Rhaena had abandoned them. And Luke was—

He did not like to think of Luke.

Only his mother remained, but she was no longer the woman he remembered. Grief had hollowed her out. It tempered her confidence and left her oozing with bitterness, like puss from an ill-healed wound. Sometimes, Jace found himself almost frightened of her, how unrecognizable she had become, but he was her son. The only member of their family left to support her, until Daemon had returned.

His stepfather had found his mother first. As Jace stepped into the hall, two silver-crowned heads snapped up at him. Daemon was tall and lean, sharp and angular, where his mother was soft and short. His pale lilac eyes—Rhaena’s eyes—were bright and unreadable. Dressed in his riding leathers, he looked more disheveled than usual, windswept and chilled from the cool fog. They were both leaning over the Painted Table, unlit but scattered with war tokens and figures.

“Mother.” Jace bowed low, then added. “Daemon.”

The Rogue Prince’s upper lip twitched. “Jacaerys,” he drawled.

“Jace,” smiled his mother, but it did not reach her eyes. The rainbow gemstones in her golden crown shone dully in the cloudy light. “Great timing. We were just about to send for you.”

Daemon said something in Valyrian, too quick for Jace to parse. His mother answered in kind, her voice lilting around the delicate vowels. You may, she said. But bathe first. Jace blinked. Had he translated that correctly?’

With his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister, his stepfather swept out of the room, passing Jace, and he reeked of Caraxes, undercut with the sharp scent of sweat. Perhaps his translation had been accurate after all.

Jace approached his mother, who sank down heavily into a chair. The loss of his baby sister still affected her physically, and all the stress had done little to improve her recovery or her health. He worried for her. For he was the only one who could.

“Daemon should be at Harrenhall,” he said, kneeling to take her hand. His unspoken question hung in the air.

His mother squeezed his fingers, rings pressing into her skin. “He has abandoned the castle.”

“What? Why?” Jace tried to disguise his panic. Harrenhall was to be their stronghold on the mainland, where the forces of the Vale and the North were to meet with their army in the Riverlands. It was where he had told Cregan to go. “Did it fall?”

“Vhagar has been sent north to reclaim Harrenhall,” began his mother. She never said Aemond’s name these days. “The army needed to be moved, lest they all be lost to dragonfire. Daemon has come home to plot our next move.”

“Just Vhagar? We have four dragons, five if you include Caraxes.” He left Syrax out. There could be no endangering the Queen. “We surely could have taken her!”

Petting his hand, she released his fingers. “Jace, my sweet boy. You have done well with the dragonseeds, but I refuse to let them fly into battle until they’re ready.”

“They are ready,” Jace insisted. Nearly five moons now they had been under his tutelage, rigorous and grueling days practicing aerial maneuvers until even Jace had saddle sores. “Surely, you’ve seen us practicing?”

“Ask Daemon to look them over,” she said. Her voice indicated a gentle but firm finality.”

I don’t want him to, Jace thought childishly. Do you not trust my word? My hard work? But he bit the inside of his cheek and bowed his head. “As you wish, mother.”

Nodding, she smiled again, a bit warmer. “There will be a war council within the hour. I will summon everyone once Daemon is settled.”

Then it would not be long. His stepfather was quick when it came to such things. “Will I be allowed there?”

Her eyebrows flew up to her crown. “You are my heir, Jace. You have attended before, why would it be different now?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to be sure, your grace.”

She smiled at the title and pressed a dry kiss against his cheek. “Oh Jace.” A shuddering breath. He realized abruptly that her eyes were glassy. “My son.” Then, recovering herself, she continued. “Will you help me prepare?”

“Of course,” Jace replied.

And so he did. Hurrying around the room, they tidied up the Painted Table, moving the tiny war tokens away from Harrenhall. Jace went running down the hallway to flag down a maid, instructing her to bring wine and a spread of meats and cheese for the war council. He even got down on his knees and lit the brazier, sliding it carefully underneath the table. When he was a boy, they had never made use of it, and he watched with childlike wonder as the map lit up with warm light.

First came the Riverlands, the flame radiating out from the God’s Eye and Harrenhall, skirting up and down the Trident. Flickering, the Eyrie glowed and light swept down through the Crownlands and Stormlands, the Reach and the Westerlands, all the way down to the tip of Dorne. The other half of the map illuminated slowly. Flame crept up through the vast and empty North, until Winterfell lit up like a lone star on a dark night.

Jace examined at the great distance between Dragonstone and the great castle of House Stark. How fared Cregan? Was there snow on the ground yet? Gerardys had warned that autumn was fast approaching and his Stark host claimed that the North saw snow even in summer.

Once the notched candle burned down to the next hour, familiar faces began to stream into the room. Lord Celtigar, the Queen’s master of coin, arrived first. His strain of Valyrian blood favored gold over silver and indigo to purple, and he often resembled the sigil of his house—red-faced and crabby. Perhaps out of his mother’s entire small council, Jace pitied Bartimos the most, as he desperately tried to fund their war now that Dragonstone no longer had the financial support of the Crown or the Velaryons.

Next came the master of ships. The title once reserved for Lord Corlys had been passed hastily to Medrick Manderly, the heir to White Harbor, who had come to serve the Queen with Jace’s highest recommendation. He had brought the Manderly’s modest fleet and his younger brother, Torrhen, who was just as blonde and blue-eyed as Medrick. Both were kind and gracious hosts to Jace when he had stopped over in White Harbor on his way to Winterfell, and he liked to say that they were fast friends.

Gerardys, promoted to Grand Maester, came last, for the other council positions were left vacant. There was no need for a master of laws yet, not while they remained ruling on Dragonstone, nor had anyone else been appointed as Hand of the Queen. If anyone had a claim to it, it might have been Daemon, but his mother had not made anything official. 

Waiting for the Rogue Prince to arrive, the council conversed in low tones. Lord Bartimos, brandishing a handful of papers scrawled with sums, spoke somberly to his mother, who began to spin her onyx-encrusted wedding band around her finger.

“My prince,” smiled Gerardys, his maester’s chains clinking as he bowed. “How fare your independent studies?”

“I’m afraid to say that I have had little time,” he admitted sheepishly. With the realm at war and all his siblings gone, Jace had arranged to complete his lord’s education independently, allowing Gerardys ample time to attempt to polish Ulf, Hugh, and Nettles into proper lords and ladies. They represented House Targaryen now, whether they liked it or not.

The maester did not reprimand him. Rather, he nodded and his dark brown eyes twinkled. “Understandably so. Do not fret about the assignments being late. I shall grade them once you find the time to finish them, whenever that might be.”

“Thank you for your flexibility, grandmaester.”

“Hah!” The older man said, amused at the title. “The honor is mine. Not many can say that they had the pleasure to instruct a future king.”

A future king. Jace swallowed and politely smiled. He would only rule if his mother was dead, and sometimes he wondered if he would even make it that far. Luke was gone. Two more accidents or missteps and it would be little Aegon who would rule after their mother. After all, he had a king’s name. Jace still did not know if that had been his mother’s or Daemon’s choice.

But he shook off that thought as the Rogue Prince swept back into the hall, freshly bathed and dressed in a fine sable tunic trimmed with red silk. His long hair was plaited to the side in an attempt to disguise that it was still damp with water. Quickly, the room hushed as the Queen stood, welcoming her husband.

“Now that Daemon has joined us,” she started. “We may begin. Please share with the council what you told me, husband.”

“Vhagar and the kinslayer are marching north.” Dutifully, Jace began to shuffle the war tokens atop the Painted Table, moving a miniature iron Hightower up the King’s Road. “Mysaria sent word a handful of days ago, which means they should reach Harrenhall in a fortnight, perhaps less.”

“This is grave news,” said Bartimos softly.

“Don’t fret, Lord Celtigar,” Daemon smirked. “Our armies will be out of harm’s way. With the Queen’s approval, we have abandoned Harrenhall.”

Frowning, Medrick’s mouth twitched beneath his large blonde mustache. “Abandoned Harrenhall? But that’s where we told the Northern forces to march!”

“And the Vale,” added Gerardys thoughtfully, eyes flickering over the map. Jace quietly removed the dragon token from the Riverlands fortress, clutching the cool metal in his palm.

“Calm yourself, Medrick,” commanded his mother, voice gentle. “We are gathered here to discuss how to respond to this development.”

The grandmaester leaned forward, his chain slipping forward. Unlike most scholars of the Citadel, three links were forged in Valyrian steel, indicating an understanding of the higher mysteries of this world. Two, wrought in black iron, were forged for warcraft. “It would be unwise to recall the entire ground forces to Dragonstone. The island would be overwhelmed.”

Lord Bartimos coughed. “And our coffers.”

Jace rolled the dragon token in his palm. “Could we not divide the army, so that it is more difficult for Aemond to find them?”

“I agree.” Daemon seemed almost pleased, glancing his stepson over. It was a rare expression on his face.

His mother’s eyes were as bright as the gemstones in her crown, reflecting back the warm orange light of the fire. “Very wise, Jace.”

“I propose that the army is divided into roving bands.” Daemon leaned over the table and plucked the dragon token from Jace’s hand, placing it firmly near the Golden Tooth. “The Tullys and Mallisters will go West with the Pipers to slow down the Lannister’s progress.”To the north, Houses Frey and Blackwood will march up the King’s Road to meet the Northern forces.”

“Cregan may take some time,” said Medrick. “Waiting for the Karstarks and Umbers will delay his departure. But Dustin and the houses from the Neck and Rills are already marching south. As are the Manderlys.” He flashed a grin.

Placing another token, Jace looked to the carving of the Eyrie and the great mountains of the Vale. “Mooton and Harwick can easily meet the Arryn forces near the High Road.”

No one contradicted him, and all listened closely as the Queen spoke. “Once the Vale and North join us, we can push south.” His mother’s mouth puckered, as it always did when she was deep in thought. “Towards King’s Landing.”

“But what of Vhagar, your grace?” Medrick’s voice wavered. He had been frightened of Vermax and was terrified of larger dragons like Vermithor. Without having seen her, he knew that Vhagar dwarfed the other dragons entirely.

“Yes,” echoed Daemon. “What of Vhagar?”

“Even the kinslayer cannot withstand the onslaught of Caraxes, Vermithor, Silverwing, and Sheepstealer.” He noted that she had not counted Vermax among them.

Gerardys coughed. “I am not a dragonrider, but surely a dragon would be lost, or perhaps two, in the attempt to bring Vhagar down.”

“The maester is right,” said his stepfather, as if he was annoyed to admit it. “The dragons must be saved for when we retake the city. Sunfyre and Meleys guard King’s Landing and Seasmoke is only a short flight away.”

“Would it not be easier to deal with Seasmoke first?” Medrick wondered, very foolishly.

Daemon flushed angrily. “Seasmoke is on Driftmark, where my daughter is. Knowing her, that stubborn and reckless girl will put herself in harm’s way.” His voice was hard and bitter; while he was upset about the loss of both his daughters, Baela’s betrayal stung deeper. From how Joffrey told the tale, Jace considered himself quite lucky that he was already in the Vale when Daemon had discovered Baela’s absence.

“Perhaps we can appeal to Baela,” said the Queen soothingly, noticing that her husband was beginning to turn an ugly puce. “She and Rhaena have been led astray the counsel of evil men. If only we could speak to them, to make the girls see the right of things.”

Jace had written to a letter to Rhaena and even mustered up the courage to send it, but he had cast it into the fire when he heard of Blood and Cheese and her near kidnapping. To Baela, he had tried to write nearly a dozen of times and had little to show for it except blank parchment.

“We must avoid Driftmark,” insisted the Rogue Prince.

Almost reluctantly, his mother nodded. “Then we shall avoid Driftmark.”

“Are you confident that your dragonseeds are ready for combat?” Medrick turned to Jace, eyes curious.

“Yes,” he answered, voice resolute. “They are ready. Ulf and Hugh are able to hold their own on the ground as well. Nettles should stay mounted, if possible.” He paused. “She’s small and quick, but I would worry if she was cornered.”

“With luck, we will not need to land.” Daemon raised no objection nor pestered him with further questions about the quality of Jace’s students—to his surprise. “Four dragons could take King’s Landing easily. If we instruct the ground forces to skirt safely around Harrenhall, we may be able to cut off Aemond completely from the support of the city.”

His mother smiled, a small and sharp thing. “It would be ours. Without siege, without bloodshed, without impacting the smallfolk.” A pause. “But I remain concerned with one thing. We are forgetting the Velaryon fleet. They could easily blockade the city and cut us off from trade.”

“The overland routes are already impacted enough from the war,” added Bartimos. “If we lose the sea trade, it would be dire. Not even all the gold in the treasury can buy food if there’s nothing coming into the city.”

“We need to break up the fleet,” said Daemon, lilac eyes narrowed into slits. “The Manderly ships will not be enough.”

His mother quickly turned to Medrick, who was flushing in either embarrassment or anger. “Although your service to the crown and their presence is greatly appreciated,” she added.

“It is not a slight,” his stepfather’s voice was blunt, “but a fact. The Velaryons outnumber us and the Greens have access to both the Lannister and Redwyne fleets, meagre as they are.”

“What of Dorne? Could they be swayed to our cause?”

Jace thought it unlikely, but held his tongue. It would not do for the heir to correct the Queen. “We may try, your grace,” said Gerardys, his voice unsure. “But I fear they would be happier to watch House Targaryen rend itself into pieces before they sent aid.”

Squinting, her violet eyes swept over the Painted Table. The Manderly fleet was already here, as well as the small number of Vale ships which kept anchorage at Gulltown. No other houses in the North were shipbuilders, and the low-lying canoes and pontoons used by the Riverlanders were not built for open sea. Far to the west, his mother’s gaze lingered on the smattering of small islands on the wide expanse of the Sunset Sea. “What of House Greyjoy?”

“They are reavers and rapers, your grace,” spat Manderly. “Many northern lives have been lost defending our western shore from their raids.”

Daemon traced a long finger over the crescent-shaped carving of Great Wyk, the largest of the Iron Islands. “But they have ships.”

“Do you think they would side with us against the usurper?”

“I can write to their lord,” said Gerardys. “Dalton Greyjoy is said to be a young man, hungry for glory. Or so the rumors say. There might be something that can be offered to them.”

His mother nodded eagerly. “There are open seats on the council. Surely they would not refuse a reward of gold or land.”

Daemon scoffed, an ugly sound. “They would spit on anything we offered. On the isles, men pay the iron price—taking things by force.”

“Then we have nothing to offer them,” Bartimos sighed.

“Not quite,” began his stepfather. “Let us cut them a deal. Invite Greyjoy to reave to his heart’s content. Let him take what he wants from the Westerlands—they have turned against you after all, wife.”

Shimmering, violet eyes turned bright and cold and flinty. “If we are offering gifts, then he can have the Reach as well. What spoils he claims will be his. Any keeps he captures are his to rule.” A terrible pause, before his mother continued. “And when the noble lords that gave their loyalty to the usurper king come crawling and beg for my aid, I will rule that their holdings are Greyjoy’s by rite of conquest. Surely that would please him.”

“I think it would,” Daemon nodded, silver plait slipping over his shoulder, and spoke with a smile.

Gerardys looked a bit pale; Manderly looked worse. “As you wish, your grace,” murmured the grandmaester. "I will prepare the letters immediately."

“With luck, it would divide the Velaryon fleet.” Medrick swallowed, trying to recover himself.

“Why,” started the Rogue Prince. “That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard from you today, Manderly.”

Jace slid a war token over the Painted Table, feeling the heat of the fire against his palm. It did little to ease the cold dismay that had settled against his heart.

Chapter Text

As soon as he had placed his jasper marble into its pedestal, Tyland spoke. “My brother is dead.”

Silence reigned as the small council processed this news. Rhaenys lightly fell against the back of her chair, fingers trailing over the smooth, polished turquoise of her orb of office. It was a particularly unrefined specimen, with splotches and veins of dark black against the bright blue-greens. “I am sorry for your loss,” she managed at last.

“How did it happen?” Aegon asked, somberly setting down his goblet of wine. Rhaenys ought to wean him off drink, at least while the council was in session. But that was a thought for less pressing times.

“He was killed by some squire.” Tyland laughed, half-mad and manic. His typically golden hair was dull and greasy. “A common lad with no land or titles. Pate of Longleaf, they call him.”

Rhaenys knew little of Jason Lannister. She had only seen him in passing as one of the many guests in attendance to Laenor and Rhaenyra’s wedding. Unlike Baela and Rhaena, the brothers were identical twins; the only physical difference between them was how they wore their hair and even that was not a reliable way to tell them apart.

Once, at that wedding feast, Corlys had differentiated them as the one who cared about the Stepstones and the one who did not, the former referring to Tyland. Those days felt very far away now. Laena had been barely into womanhood and Laenor had not been much older. He was still a bright-eyed boy, inseparable from Ser Joffrey. To her amusement, both had been so confident that Rhaenys knew nothing of their relationship.

She wondered how many guests to that wedding still lived. Her children were gone. Viserys was dead. Uncle Boremund, Lyonel and Harwin Strong had passed years ago. Now, Jason Lannister. That night felt like a lifetime ago, and Rhaenys noted, perhaps a bit annoyed, that Tyland himself had aged very little. The loss of his brother had done more to change his face in the span of one night than the past sixteen years.

“Last we had heard,” she began, “he was close to crossing the Red Fork. Were they ambushed?”

The forces at Harrenhall had to have gone somewhere, and that question had haunted the small council ever since Aemond had written two moons ago. The ruined castle was deserted, he reported. Daemon and his men were gone. Worse, the boy had tortured the men of House Strong in a failed attempt to gain information and had subsequently executed them. Even the little children. All done without leave of the crown.

Tyland flexed his hand. Crumpled between his fingers was a piece of abused parchment. “House Piper and House Vance met them at the ford. My brother tried to cross three times.” He paused. Something akin to pride was hidden beneath the sorrow. “The third was his last.”

“Then the western forces are trapped on the other side of the river,” said Jasper bluntly. The Master of Coin flushed an irritated scarlet.  

“If you had let me finish, Lord Jasper, then you would have known that’s incorrect. The armies of the Westerlands have crossed the Red Fork and will continue their march east towards Harrenhall,” Tyland said.

Slouched in his chair, the king scratched at his forehead. “Who leads the army now?”

“Adrian Tarbeck, your grace,” answered Tyland.

“House Tarbeck rules near the Crag, close to House Westerling,” said Orwyle, sparing anyone the embarrassment of having to ask. Most lords and ladies knew the Lords Paramount and the houses of their own region of Westeros. Rhaenys herself had memorized each noble house of the Crownlands and felt quite confident about those of the Stormlands, owing to her mother’s ancestry. But could she list off all the houses, great and small, of the North? The Reach? Certainly not. That was what maesters were for, to serve as a walking repository of such knowledge.

Orwyle continued and went the extra mile. “Their sigil is the seven-pointed star on a gyronny of argent and silver."

“Quite pious,” observed Aegon.

Rhaenys hummed lowly. “And he claims that it was just Houses Piper and Vance? No sign of the Tullys or other riverfolk?”

“No.” Tyland shook his head wearily. “Lord Adrian reported only seeing their sigils. And despite the difficulty crossing, my brother’s forces vastly outnumbered them. There could not have been anyone else.”

Jasper shifted in his seat, craning his thick neck up to look over the war map. It was a beautifully illuminated piece of scroll work, with each landmark noted in golden ink. Privately, Rhaenys thought that it was too beautiful for war. “How is it possible that we cannot manage to find an army of four thousand men?”

“Surely, Prince Aemond could find them easily on Vhagar,” Orwyle offered.

“I would not be so sure,” she began, “Daemon learned much from the Stepstones. Despite all the trouble he caused, Craghas Drahar was a skilled commander. He knew how to hide men from dragons—Daemon may be using similar tactics.”

As always, the Master of Laws could not resist debating with her. “But that was on the Stepstones, Lady Hand. The Riverlands are little more than a wide open plain with few forests. There are few places to hide.”

“Divide the army into roving bands and there is no need for forests,” countered Rhaenys.  "A group of thirty men could pass for merchants or hunters from dragonback.”

“It matters little,” the king spoke before Lord Wylde could, “as long as Aemond refuses to leave Harrenhall.”

She frowned, as did the other council members. “His actions concern me. And Ser Cole has not been detailed with his letters.” A pause, before she continued. “From what I can tell, there have been few attempts to scout the surrounding area, or search for remnants of Rhaenyra’s forces.”

“You knew your brother best, your grace,” said Jasper. Beneath his great, curled, black beard, he was scowling. “Have you any idea what he might be planning?”

Aegon idly ran a finger around the rim of his goblet, staining the skin with red wine. “Have I any idea what he’s planning? I think that he was caught up in his little revenge quest against House Strong,” his voice was disdainful, almost bored, “and that he was disappointed Daemon fled and denied him his grand, strategic battle.”

He is in a foul mood today, Rhaenys thought. From what she knew, the brothers had parted on good terms—where had this come from? “I will not condone Prince Aemond’s actions concerning House Strong.” And he would answer for them when the war was done. “But he is still leading your men. We must allow him the chance to do so more admirably.”

“Well spoken, Lady Hand.” Orwyle made an expression that might have been a smile, a bit malformed by the stoic nature of his maester’s temperament. “Perhaps the council can send word to Aemond and ask him to begin searching the Riverlands.”

Tyland ran a hand through his tangled hair and leaned back into his chair. “Alternatively, some men could be sent to meet the forces from the Westerlands. To supplement their numbers.” There was a tinge of hope in his voice.

“Do you think the western army needs reinforcements?” Rhaenys asked, a genuine question.

The Master of Coin considered this. “Our losses were minor. In truth, I am more concerned about the army continuing alone, without escort, in unfamiliar territory.”

“I agree,” said Lord Jasper. “The problem remains that the Blacks know where our armies are, while we remain in the dark. Until we find where they are hiding, our armies in the Riverlands will remain at a disadvantage.”

A brief silence fell upon them, highlighting the distant sounds of the city. Gulls called, bells rang, carried by the wind. Streaming in from the windows, sunlight pooled on the table and illuminated the golden ink on the map.

At her loose estimation, it would take two days to traverse the lateral length of the Riverlands by dragonback. “Vhagar could escort them and patrol the distance between the Red Fork and Harrenhall.”

“Would that not risk the forces already stationed near the God’s Eye?” Orwyle asked.

“Vhagar is old and slow, but not so much so that she could not respond to any threat to Harrenhall,” she replied. “It is not ideal, but it would ensure the safety of the western forces until they can join the army from the Crownlands.”

Almost reluctantly, the king disagreed. “I don’t like it. It feels too risky.”

“What do you propose, your grace?” She thought it was a good sign that he challenged her opinion. Unlike her predecessor, Rhaenys did not believe she could advise a king that had no thoughts of his own. Disagreement encouraged dialogue and understanding and strength.

“The Westermen need an escort, but it will not be Vhagar.” Aegon leaned forward and sunlight caught the rubies in his crown, glowing like fire. “I will go. Sunfyre will make quick work of anyone who tries to ambush them.”

The council erupted into a cacophony of voices. Even Rhaenys found herself protesting out of instinct before she clamped her mouth shut and settled, listening. Jasper’s voice was the loudest, rich and impassioned. “You are too valuable, my king! You cannot risk your life so recklessly!”

“I agree,” said Tyland, although she was quite sure he was not completely opposed to a measure that would protect his own countrymen. “How can we possibly ensure your safety?”

Aegon snorted. “If five thousand men and a dragon can’t keep me safe, what will?”

“And what of the city?” Orwyle’s voice was soft, but pointed. “Dragonstone may finally make a move.”

“My aunt can defend King’s Landing with Meleys. Seasmoke is only a short flight away.” He paused, tilting his head. The sunlight turned his silver hair translucent. “And I would argue that Dreamfyre could be roused to defend the city, if it truly came to it.”

Then, he steeled himself, the boy making way for the man. “I do not plan to be absent long,” the king said, voice firm. “Long enough to escort the armies to my brother and Vhagar’s protection.”

“If you left soon, you could be back in the city in a fortnight.” Rhaenys did not offer a full endorsement, but one single voice offering support might be appreciated.

But the rest of the council still appeared unsure. “I returned from Rook’s Rest and Duskendale safely," said Aegon. "I do not see how this is any different.”

“Is this truly what you wish, my king?” Jasper asked warily. The other council members remained quiet, watching closely.

Aegon nodded. “Aemond’s troops have Vhagar. The men in the Reach are protected by Tessarion. Why should the Westermen stand alone?”

There was nothing to say in response. Almost imperceptibly, Tyland relaxed and hid his face behind the curtain of his dull hair. Rhaenys spoke, an attempt to grant the Master of Coin some brief privacy. “It would be best for you to leave soon, to prevent word reaching Dragonstone.” Despite her best efforts, she knew that there were still spies in the city.

“I can leave on the morrow.” Aegon stood, signaling the end of the council. “As is protocol, Rhaenys will rule in my absence.”

“Shall I send word to Lord Tarbeck, your grace?” Orwyle asked, gathering up his impressive spread of papers. The sheer amount of parchment looked almost comical in his arms. “So that he may expect your arrival?”

The king shook his head. “Sunfyre will get there before the raven does.”

“Safe travels, your grace,” Jasper bowed low, his dark curls falling forward. “We will pray for your swift and safe return.”

As the Master of Laws left with the maester, Tyland crept forward. He looked worse up close than he did at the other end of the council table. His emerald green eyes were shadowed and the surrounding skin was bruised purple and swollen. Had he wept for his brother? Rhaenys could not imagine a man as cocksure and pragmatic as Tyland doing so, but she knew from her granddaughters that twins shared something special. Something beyond the understanding of other folk.

“I speak on behalf of my brother and his men when I say that your consideration of their plight is deeply appreciated. It is a generous gesture.” Tyland bowed deeply. “You honor us.”

Aegon frowned and shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “What kind of king would I be if I did nothing?”

Viserys had been that kind of king, thought Rhaenys. In his lifetime, he had been called peaceful. But now war had come to Westeros, one of his making. Increasingly, her cousin was called by different monikers. Viserys the Weak. The Blind. Ignorant. A spark of life returned to Tyland’s eyes.

“Indeed,” he said, a smirk playing on the cracked corners of his mouth. “What kind of king.”

The Lannister lion left shortly afterwards, leaving the Hand alone with the King. Aegon deflated. His shoulders slumped and he took off the iron crown of the first Aegon. Angry and red, a line had been left over the skin of his forehead. “Could have gone worse, I suppose.”

“I think it went quite well, Your Grace,” said Rhaenys.

“You think so, auntie?”

“I do. As king, your safety is paramount. They were obligated to protest on principle.”

He smiled wryly. “I’m touched they care so deeply.” A pause. “I surprised them.”

Rhaenys hummed and lifted the marble into her hand. The sunlight had turned the stone warm to the touch, almost like a dragon’s egg. “They are used to advising your father,” she said. “Viserys, even if he had a dragon, would never have flown to aid the men at the Stepstones.”

“My father would have believed that was something to be proud of.”

“If anything, it was unusual.” She met Aegon’s eyes, the same violet as his father’s. “My father and your grandfather, Baelon, flew to battle. Both were heirs to the throne. Jaehaerys himself rode Vermithor to quell the Dornish invasion. Aegon and Maegor?” A small smile. “They are self-explanatory. Viserys wanted to be the next Old King, but he was more similar to Aenys.”

Aegon laughed. “An unfavorable comparison!”

“Oh yes,” Rhaenys agreed. “He would be most offended.”

“Do you think he liked it?” Drumming his fingers on the wooden table, he leaned over and examined his empty goblet of wine. “Being king?”

She considered it for a moment. “For many years, I thought that he would have been happier as a country lord or a courtier. But I realize now that was something I told myself because I was young and angry.”

“Hard to imagine you like that,” he said. Then, Aegon’s ears flushed red as he stammered. “Angry, I mean. You still look young.” A cough.

“Hah,” Rhaenys shook her head, amused. “I was livid. It felt like a slight against my father and myself. That my husband and my children were not worthy.” She stopped, swallowing the bitter taste on her tongue. “Viserys wanted to be king, or else he would have abdicated when the crown came to him. And, having seen what it did to him, I am glad I was passed over.”

Aegon ran his hand over his face, stroking at the patchy silver mustache that was unfortunately growing on his upper lip. “I wonder what kind of king I will be.” A thoughtful note lingered in his voice.

“I am afraid we will not know until you pass.” He blanched and she smiled, lips tilting up. “Personally, I find that to be a comfort. Who knows what they will have to say about the first woman to serve as Hand of the King.”

His nose scrunched up playfully. “I will be sure to find some witch who can tell you beyond the grave.”

“You would not resurrect me?” She clicked her tongue, before changing the subject. “You seem irritated at your brother.”

“Ugh,” said Aegon simply. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

She did not particularly care what he wanted—at least in this. “You two seemed in good spirits when he left for Harrenhall.” It had been an oddly beautiful spectacle. Aegon had ridden through the streets alongside his brother, bidding farewell to the forces leaving the city. The smallfolk, in likely their first and only show of morale, had thrown flower petals onto the cobbled streets.

“That was before he went and executed House Strong,” he snapped. A sigh. “I’m disappointed in him—is that odd?”

Rhaenys crossed her arms. “It is not odd. You are his king.”

“I’m his brother. The thought of punishing him for it—I’m not his mother.” Aegon ran a hand through his hair and picked up his crown from the table. “And don’t even get me started on her. She is heartbroken. Aemond was her favorite.”

“She had been absent from the council recently,” she commented. The queen dowager had not returned since her father’s impromptu dismissal as Hand.

He sniffed. “It’s not a slight against you. Really, I think she’s worried she’ll come and hear something horrible, like Daeron died in a terrible accident. Or that I’ll announce that I’ll have Aemond beheaded.”

“Would you have your brother beheaded?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Have you told her as much?”

“Well, no,” said Aegon childishly. “I didn’t think it needed to be said. I don’t know. She seems so strange these days…like she’s almost proud of me.”

Pursing her lips together, Rhaenys studied his face. The petulant set to his mouth and the nervous energy in his eyes. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It is just strange.” The king shrugged. “I thought I said I didn’t want to talk about this.”

“So you did,” agreed Rhaenys. “May you find it in your heart to forgive me, your grace.”

With absolutely no grace, Aegon put the crown back on. It still did not sit quite right on his head, overwhelming the delicate features of his face. Otto had been right that the crown of the conqueror was a powerful symbol, but, once all of this was over, perhaps a new crown could be made for this young king.

“I think not, auntie,” he said casually. “In fact, as punishment, you will come with me to inform my wife and children that I am leaving. Again.” A pause. “Surely, Lady Rhaena will be there as well.”

Rhaenys smiled fully and Aegon looked very pleased. “Then it is no punishment, your grace. Being able to see and speak to my granddaughter has been and will always be a gift. One day, you’ll understand.”

“Don’t start,” groaned the king. “Hae and Mae are too young.”

“Oh,” began Rhaenys wistfully, as they swept out of the council room together. “One day you’ll wake up and find your children grown. And you’ll wonder where the time went.”

Stepping out into the bright sunlight, they made their way up the serpentine stair to the Holdfast, which peered out over the city and sea. Ser Arryk trailed protectively after them; his clear blue eyes scanned for any perceived threats. Noise poured out from the nursery door, which was guarded by two kingsguard in imposing white enamel plate. The taller of the two was Ser Willas, a Stormlander knight, and the shorter was Ser Rickard. Both had served Viserys, and both had made the choice to stay and serve his son.

Ser Rickard, bobbing his head, opened the door and revealed the source of the noise. Lovely Rhaena was dancing with Maelor, who stood balancing on her feet. To Rhaenys’ surprise, the queen dowager was kneeling on the ground, making music with a tambourine. She looked terribly young, smiling with her auburn curls loose around her face. Helaena, the new queen, was curled up in an armchair, her daughter Jaehaera in her arms; they clapped quietly, keeping time with the instrument.

“What is this!” Aegon crowed playfully, placing his hands on his hips. “A ball that the king was not invited to?”

Maelor gurgled something incomprehensible, but he was clearly pleased to see his father. “Please forgive the slight, your grace,” smiled Rhaena, as she hoisted Maelor off her feet and back onto the ground. Toddling, the prince shakily ran towards the king, colliding against his leg. Her granddaughter, a vision in a gown of black satin, walked over and linked their arms together.

Slipping out of her mother’s lap, Jaehaera approached. “Hello, father,” she said softly. Aegon swept both of his children up into his arms without prompting and the princess eagerly buried her small face into the crook of his neck.

“Hullo, Hae,” replied the king. Jae, Hae, and Mae were the nicknames for his children. Privately, Rhaenys thought that the princess had received the short end of the stick.

Helaena shifted in her chair. Washed out and pale, she did not look much like a queen, but she did look a bit healthier. A brightness to her eyes and a lustre to her silver hair. “Maelor said he wanted to learn to dance,” she said, voice watery.

“Did he now?” Aegon’s voice was colored with skepticism. The boy was only two, after all.

Rising from the floor, Queen Alicent smoothed out the skirts of her gown. “In his own way.” The tambourine jingled as she held it a bit awkwardly, almost embarrassed. “The council meeting has finished?”

Aegon deposited his children back to the floor. While his sister lingered near, Maelor wandered back to his mother, trying to pull himself up by her dress. “It has.”

“And is all well?” Helaena said, voice nearly a whisper as she pressed a kiss to the crown of her son's head.

“Uh, well.” Violet eyes flickered to Rhaenys. A silent question.

Jaehaera pulled on the end of her father’s red cloak. “Did someone die?”

“No!” Aegon cried, then he paused, clearing his throat. “Well, actually—” Silence, caused by Queen Alicent’s stern head shake. “Jason Lannister, Lord Tyland’s brother, is…indisposed.”

The bells on the tambourine rang anxiously and the tips of Alicent’s ears flushed. That was where Aegon got that from, observed Rhaenys. “Indisposed?”

“Permanently so,” she said bluntly. Rhaena’s fingers dug into the skin near her elbow.

“Yes.” Rather than speak directly to his wife and his mother, the king knelt down beside his daughter. “I don’t think he’s going to recover, so I must fly north to lead his men to Uncle Aemond.”

“You’re leaving again?” Jaehaera frowned, ignorant of Queen Alicent’s quiet gasp as she sank into a nearby rocking chair. Helaena’s dark violet eyes looked to something unseen and faraway.

Hot breath ghosted near Rhaenys’ ear. “Lord Jason is dead?” Rhaena whispered.

“He is,” she replied lowly, turning her head.

“What happened?”

“He was killed trying to cross the Red Fork. Other than his own life, the losses were relatively minor.” Rhaenys gently pulled her granddaughter aside, so they could speak face to face. “It is a safety precaution, more than anything. We expect that the king will return quickly.”

Rhaena bit her bottom lip. Oh, how she looked like Laena when she did! Her lilac eyes flickered towards Helaena and the children. “What of the city?”

“You will be safe,” promised Rhaenys. “I will be here with Meleys.”

Before her granddaughter could answer, Jaehaera hiccuped. “Why do you have to leave? You only just started to play with us.”

Aegon flinched violently and glanced shamefully at his wife, who offered no recourse. “I will play with you when I return. It will not be long.” But the girl was not appeased; her father pressed onwards. “What can I do to make it up to you, Jaehaera? Do you want a new doll? A dress? You can have cake for dinner. You can have anything, I promise.”

“Truly?”

“I’m the king, aren’t I?” He tapped the crown.

Jaehaera scrunched her brows together in thought. “I want to ride on Sunfyre.”

“Oh,” said Aegon, and then he grinned. “I can do that quite easily. We can go now if you’d like.”

“Yes please,” his daughter replied, all childlike courtesy.

The king turned to the queen. “Would you like to come Helaena? Bring Maelor up on Dreamfyre? Like we used to?”

“I don’t think so.” Her voice was very sad. “But…make sure to let Shrykos out. For Jae.”

There was a history there, but Rhaenys did not know enough to understand what it was. Aegon nodded tightly before looking to the queen dowager. “Mother?”

“Yes?” Alicent jolted up, surprised.

“Would you like to come?” Swallowing, the king stood. Brown eyes met violet, both hesitant. "Sunfyre can fit three." The queen dowager appeared oddly touched, even as she refused.

“I could never,” she said, not unkindly. “I was made for the ground, Aegon, and here I shall stay.”

"What about you, Rhaenys?”

“Meleys could use the exercise,” she answered the king. Even without looking at her, Rhaenys could feel Rhaena’s questioning gaze. “Will you join me, granddaughter?”

An exhale of relief. “Oh grandmother,” Rhaena said, smiling. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Together, the four of them went down to the Dragonpit in the wheelhouse, having changed into their riding clothes. Jaehaera, having not yet ridden her young dragon, was in a plain riding habit that likely belonged to her dead twin. Each time that Rhaenys had interacted with the girl, she had been quiet and reserved—much like her mother in that way—but she ran into the Dragonpit nearly shouting with excitement.

As the eldest, Meleys was brought out first, tail twitching with anticipation. Her crimson scales were shimmering even in the dim light of the pit, her copper crests flaring. She chittered in greeting to Rhaenys and affectionately chuffed a gust of hot air at Rhaena, who was stroking her snout. Next, Sunfyre emerged, loud and obnoxious. He cooed eagerly at Aegon and regarded Jaehaera with a warm familiarity. Wearing a falconry glove, a third dragonkeeper presented the little princess with a tiny dragon.

Morghul, a curious name for a little girl to choose, was a dragon black as night with acid green eyes. As though her dragon were a cat, she hoisted it up into her arms and hugged it tightly. The dragon wheezed and smoke escaped from its elongated snout. A fourth dragon, pale as bone, remained perched on the keeper’s glove. It keened mournfully, looking for a child who no longer lived.

“Oh Shrykos,” said Jaehaera. The princess leaned up on her toes and pressed a kiss to her twin’s dragon. The beast was at ease with her, recognizing its rider’s twin. “I miss Jaehaerys too.”

Her voice was watery and Aegon came to whisper to his daughter. Turning away to grant them some privacy, Rhaenys climbed atop Meleys, lifting Rhaena up alongside her.

“I missed this,” her granddaughter said, buckled in front of her. “It has been too long.”

She hummed. “It has. I must be better about making time to fly with you, until you have a dragon to call your own.”

“Do you truly believe that?” Rhaena asked suddenly, tone unreadable.

“I do,” answered Rhaenys. “I have always had faith in you, sweetling. I felt it in my bones on the day I first held you in my arms.”

A pause. “In your bones?”

She laughed. “Do you doubt me? They are very old and wise bones, to be sure.”

At Aegon’s command, the doors to the pit opened wide. Sunfyre ran forward, turning to molten gold in the light, and Jaehaera shrieked with laughter as her tiny black dragon took off alongside them. Shrykos followed close behind.

Rhaenys pressed the leather reins into her granddaughter’s hands. “Go on,” she said firmly. “You can do it.”

“What?” Rhaena turned and she got a mouthful of her hair.

Sputtering, Rhaenys laughed. “Go, child! Or they’ll leave us behind!”

“Soves, Meleys!” Reins snapped against scale. “Soves!”

The Red Queen lumbered forward as Rhaenys knocked her heels against the dragon’s side. Roaring, she sped up and burst out into the warm sunlight. Sunfyre was a golden smear against the sky, accompanied by two black and white pinpricks. Excitedly, Rhaena pulled Meleys’ reins up and they shot upward, nearly vertical. They screamed together like children, laughing.

Chapter Text

At daybreak, Alyn broke into her rooms.

Baela woke as her pillow was yanked out from beneath her head. Groping in the dark, she reached out and slapped the intruder with the blanket. “What are you doing in here?”

Laughter answered her growl. “C’mon, Baela! Get up.”

“Sod off, Alyn,” she rolled over and tried to burrow back into the mattress. Through her windows, a pink streaking sky was chasing away the night. “Go bother Addam.”

“He already did,” said her cousin, his voice farther away. At the sound, Baela propped herself up. Seasmoke’s rider was leaning against the far wall. His silver locs were dyed pink and gold in the early morning light.

Resigned, Baela sat up. “What will the servants say when they catch you two leaving my room before dawn? Have you no sense of propriety?”

“Propriety?” Alyn snickered. He was perched like a crow atop her bedside table, her pillow clutched to his chest. “Baela, I’ve seen you kissing the blacksmith’s apprentice.”

She felt heat rush into her face. Then, Addam added, “Don’t forget about the cabin boy on the Sea Snake. Or the quartermaster’s son.”

“The quartermaster’s son? Really? His face is covered in pockmark scars!”

“He’s clever,” Baela said defensively, and then she threw the second pillow at Alyn’s head. “This is the sort of thing I’d talk about with Rhaena, not you two idiots! Get out!”

Grinning, her younger cousin darted out of reach, throwing both pillows back at her. His twists swung around his forehead, shining gold. “Don’t be like that. We came to tell you something after all.”

What would be so urgent for them to come at dawn? In truce, she tossed anything throwable onto the ground and out of her reach. “What is it?”

“Grandfather’s up to something,” said the elder of the two brothers. "Or so Alyn claims."

“Something suspicious?”

Alyn shrugged. “Something strange. I saw him sneaking out of High Tide before dawn.”

“He’s the lord of the castle. He doesn’t need to sneak out,” said Baela. “And what were you doing up? That’s more suspicious.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he answered, violet eyes bright. “I get restless.”

That, she knew, was true. Alyn was the flighty one of the two brothers. Where Addam was steadfast and patient, he was reckless and relentless. He acted entirely on instinct and that impatience had earned him the burn scars that marred his arm and shoulder. Still healing, fading red scars encircled his flesh, where the skin was nearly melted by dragonflame.

Baela sighed. “Where is he going?”

“We don’t know,” replied Alyn. “We’re going to find out! Now get up already!”

“Fine!” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Wait for me in the hall. I won’t be long.”

As soon as her bedroom door closed behind them, she slipped from the sheets, shuddering at the chill of the stone against her bare feet. This was the first autumn Baela had spent at Driftmark. When she had first arrived six years ago, it had been spring. After three years of fog and sweet-smelling rain, of crocus pushing its way out of the rocky and small plots of soil, summer had come. Pentos was warm even in winter. But on Driftmark, the heat was mild and tempered by the lively sea breeze. Autumn was already cold, and she feared that winter could be colder.

She dressed quickly, tugging on a pair of thick woolen socks and lined trousers, and a cropped men’s jacket that Baela had repurposed back when she had been forced to take sewing lessons. She grabbed the subtlest cloak in her wardrobe, a hooded garment made with turquoise-dyed wool that fell past her knees. Her boots were put on last and she hurried into the hallway as the sun fully crested over the horizon.

Conversing quietly, her cousins were leaning against the wall, their silver heads bowed together in mischief. Alyn glanced up and grinned. “Took you long enough.”

Baela scoffed. “If you think that was long, wait until you meet my sister.”

“I can imagine,” said Addam. “When I was in King’s Landing, she always seemed so well-dressed.”

Even though her grandfather’s trip to King’s Landing had been two moons ago, she still envied Addam for being able to see Rhaena. Baela had assaulted with him questions when he had returned. Did she seem well? Happy and healthy? What did she do to keep herself busy? What were her paternal cousins like? Other than Rhaenyra, their father had been wholly uninterested in his brother’s children, and Baela had written them off entirely. Her correspondence with her grandmother had told her a bit about the king; Rhaena had become friends of sorts with Helaena. But there was only so much room on a piece of parchment and Baela did not have it in her to write longer missives that had to be sent by ship rather than by raven.

“I really do think it’s quite unfair that I’m the only one who hasn’t met her yet,” Alyn complained. “Grandfather says she’s a great beauty—is it true?”

“She’s the most beautiful girl in Westeros,” said Baela, completely sincere. Even though they were twins, her sister had an effortless grace about her, like their mother had. The both of them would have made rags look good.

Addam nodded quietly and she glanced at him suspiciously. “She was quite lovely,” he said, refusing to elaborate.

“Well, if she’s your twin,” her younger cousin began, laughing, “she must be as pretty as you, Baela.”

Crossing her arms, she glanced down at Alyn disdainfully. She was about an inch or two taller, which she would lord over him as long as she could. “C’mon, or you’ll let grandfather sneak away.”

The promise of mischief was a powerful motivator. Alyn set off down the hall immediately, calling over his shoulder. “Let’s go then! I saw him riding towards Spicetown once the tide went down.”

Together, they slipped into the quiet courtyard of High Tide, gleaming orange and pink and yellow in the dawn light. The stable-master was leaning against a stone wall, smoking a pipe a safe distance away from the stable. “Lady Baela,” he said, snuffing the pipe. Tobacco scented the air. “Addam. Alyn. You three are up early.”

“Good morning, Ryland,” replied Baela. “Can you have three horses saddled for us?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “This early, my lady?”

“Yes, please. My cousins are quite set on it.”

Alyn nodded vigorously. “We’re going to race.”

“Race?” That was the wrong thing to say. The stable master frowned deeply. “You boys only recently graduated from ponies. I’ll not have you risk breaking your necks, or worse still, getting Lady Baela hurt with your recklessness.”

“Of course not,” said Addam. “We would never do such a thing. My brother meant to say that we would race our dragons.”

“Yes,” Baela smiled. “We’re racing the dragons, not the horses. We only want to ride out to the ridge to meet them.”

 Reluctantly, he was appeased. “Alright,” said the stable master. “As you say, my lady.”

Three horses were saddled and brought out from the stable. One was mahogany brown, another a dappled cream-and-grey, and the last was a dark black-blue. Baela took the lead of the brown mare and guided her out of the main gates of High Tide and down the shale-stone staircase to the tidal beach. So early in the morning, the tide was newly low, leaving the sand wet and shining bright in the morning sun. She swung herself up into the saddle with ease. Before Moondancer had become large enough to ride, Baela had occupied herself with horse riding instead.

“Gods!” Addam yelped as his climbed into the saddle of the dappled mare. He had taken to dragon riding easier than horse riding, and was still used to the tiny work ponies used in Hull. His brother laughed from his perch of the dark blue-black horse.

“To Spicetown?” Baela called, pointing her mare to the west. Her hooves left deep footprints in the wet sand.

“Yes!” Alyn shouted in reply. “Grandfather was riding west!”

“First one there wins!” Snapping the reins, Baela galloped forward. Wind whipped over her cheeks and caught her hair. She could hear Alyn’s laugh and Adam’s shout of panic and two sets of hooves following after her.

They raced over the beach, chased by the rising sun, which began its daily journey from east to west. The sky gradually changed from pink and yellow to a bright, clear blue. Despite the chill, the sun warmed her back.

Baela tore into Spicetown first, leaping off the beach to the plank road that served as a transition between the sand and more solid ground. Nickering, her horse chuffed as they slowed. It was safer to go slower, rather than break her neck by being thrown into a building or running over a poor townsperson. To her surprise, Addam reared up beside her first, looking windblown, and Alyn followed after, swearing viciously. Her older cousin shook himself out his stupor and began to gloat, teasing his younger brother.

In the early morning, Spicetown was oddly silent. The only noise was their quiet hoofbeats on the cobbled main road. Most of the fishermen were already out on the water and it was too early for the merchants to open up their shops. A few dedicated washerwomen were gossiping around their washtubs, sipping on steaming mulled wine. They bobbed their heads as Baela and her cousins rode past.

There was only one place Corlys Velaryon could be: the docks. As they neared the water, Baela slipped off her horse, tied it to a nearby post, and held up a bucket of water up for it to drink.

“I can’t believe you won,” said Alyn to his brother, still reeling from his loss.

Addam rolled his eyes, nearly retying his locs back behind his head. “Baela won, you idiot. I just beat you.”

“I know! How is that possible?”

“Oh, hush,” she said, waving them close. “If you two don’t be quiet, we’ll give ourselves away.”

Nearly a quarter of the Velaryon fleet remained docked at Spicetown. Ships crowded the docks and were anchored further out in the bay, casting proud and tall shadows on the water. As they crept through the shade, she read the names of each ship, painted in beautiful lettering. The Seastar, Riptide, Ocean’s Bounty, Rogue Wave, the Merling King’s Daughter, so on and so forth. All were decorated with beautifully dyed silver and sea green banners bearing the Velaryon sigil. My sigil, thought Baela. She was still trying to get used to the sound of Baela Velaryon, instead of Baela Targaryen.

Faintly, her grandfather’s warm timbre ghosted over the sea breeze. Alyn darted forward, peering around the swelling curve of a nearby ship’s hull. She followed, glancing over his shoulder, and Addam settled behind her, looking over the top of her head.

Corlys was standing at the end of the dock, watching a craftsmen paint a name onto the hull of a brand-new ship. Suspended by ropes from the prow, the painter obscured all the letters apart from a large and silver M. Her grandfather was not alone; Daeron stood close by, watching the painter work with interest.

The ship itself was beautiful. It was built for war, long and wide with a bronze prow ram in the shape of a snarling dragon. Like the Sea Snake, it had two masts and at least two rowing decks, and each oar lock window was painted a deep sea green. The only thing unusual about it was the platform near the front of the ship, which was elevated high upon a beam that was perhaps a quarter as high as the main mast. It was large, perhaps wide enough to hold two or three horses, and a ladder connected it to the deck.

“It looks strange,” Alyn whispered, frowning. “Ever seen anything like that before, Addam?”

“No,” his brother replied. Addam’s violet eyes were trained on the elevated platform, curious and bright. “Mother’s never had a ship like that come in her yard.”

Baela elbowed them both. “Be quiet!”

“Don’t hit me,” said Alyn, pushing back against her. Baela fell onto Addam, who lost his balance and pulled the three of them down against the hard wood of the dock.

A curse. She leaned up on her elbows and glowered at Alyn, who was crushed beneath the weight of both his cousins. Across the dock, their grandfather regarded the heap of his grandchildren with raised brows.

“Baela.” He said simply. “Alyn. Addam. What brings you to Spicetown at this hour?” She knew her grandfather well enough to tell that he was slightly amused, but a sense of resignation was also present in his voice.

Rising to her feet, Baela readjusted her cloak and shook out her hair. “Good morning, grandfather.” Corlys’ violet eyes softened immediately. “Care to join us for breakfast?”

“You mean to tell me that you all came all this way to ask me to break my fast with you?”

“Oh no,” she said, idly helping Alyn back to his feet. “We wanted to see what you were up to.”

Addam rolled his shoulder. “There was reason to believe it might be interesting.”

“Was it as you hoped?” Corlys asked.

“No,” said Alyn. “But it was fun.”

A gust of wind caught Baela’s hair, whipping it around her face, and shook the sails of the ship. “A new addition to your fleet, grandfather?”

“Bah,” he said, exasperated. Then, he raised his arm up, waving her closer. “I suppose the surprise is already ruined. Come here, Baela.”

Stepping forward, she drew near to her grandfather, arcing around the painter. The silver lettering continued in a steady and strong script, spelling out Moondancer. A hot wave of disbelief and surprise surged over her. She turned to her grandfather, mouth gaping.

“Moondancer?” Baela began, almost afraid to ask her question outright. “Is this—“

“She’s yours,” grinned her grandfather. “It was meant to be a gift for your name day.”

That was coming up soon, wasn’t it? She would have to find something to send to Rhaena. “No one has ever given me a ship for my name day.” Baela learned to sail a small ship that had been less of a gift and more of an assignment from her grandmother. It had been old but reliable, retrofitted for her use.

“It is not every day that my heir reaches her majority.” A pause. “And I have six years of missed namedays to make up for.”

She glanced to Addam and Alyn, who were speaking animatedly. Raising an arm, the elder of the two pointed towards the sky sail and said something to his brother. Their mother was a shipwright, she recalled, and certainly they had been trained in the craft as well.

“I am almost afraid to see what you’ll gift to Addam and Alyn,” she said. “There’s at least ten years of namedays to make up for.”

Grandfather barked a laugh, his violet eyes creasing. He rested a hand on her shoulder affectionately. “So I do. And I shall have a gift sent to your sister as well, but I wanted something special for you. Something that would proclaim that you are and will remain my heir.”

Humming, Baela nodded. This had been a conversation they had upon Addam and their grandfather’s return from King’s Landing. Grandfather had pulled her aside and reaffirmed his decision, and spoken to Addam and Alyn privately. When she had needled them, both had admitted that Corlys had told them, gently but firmly, that they would inherit nothing, on account of their illegitimacy. Neither had minded. As Addam liked to remind her, they already had an inheritance from their mother. Heralds had been sent around the island, proclaiming the same to the smallfolk.

“Moondancer,” she said again, looking over the ship.

“Do you like the name?”

Baela nodded. “I do.” It explained the pale green detailing on the hull and railings. “I suppose I chose it myself, after all. She is a war galley?”

“Yes,” said her grandfather. “Although I hope she, and yourself, will not see it for some time. To be honest, she is a war galley because the design necessitated a ship of some size. You see the platform?”

“I do. I’ve never seen any ship like it.”

He grinned. “There is no other ship like the Moondancer. It is a design I dreamt up years and years ago, back when Laenor was alive and Seasmoke was much smaller, but I never saw it realized. The platform is intended to serve as a resting place for your dragon and to allow for long-haul voyages.”

“For my Moondancer?” Baela laughed in unbridled delight. The size of the platform was more than enough for small dragon and left enough room to grow. “Oh, grandfather! What a splendid idea!”

Corlys Velaryon, being the man that he was, preened at the praise. “Once, I had hoped to take Laenor, or your grandmother, with me to Yi Ti or to the Summer Isles, but their dragons could not have made the journey. Perhaps one day you will have that opportunity.”

“Can we try it now?” Baela asked eagerly.

“Now?” Her grandfather repeated. “She has no crew yet.”

Daeron spoke at last, winking at Baela. “I could have one summoned at once, uncle.”

“I volunteer!” Alyn’s voice was bright. “Gods, Baela. It’d be an honor to sail on a ship so beautiful.”

“Much like her namesake in that way” smiled Addam.

Shaking his head, their grandfather’s silver locs spilled over his shoulders. “What happened to breaking our fast together?”

“Alright,” Baela conceded. “Breakfast first, and then we sail.” Her voice was insistent, leaving no room for disagreement.

“She is certainly your granddaughter, uncle,” said Daeron.

The Sea Snake’s mouth twitched into a smile. Exasperated, he tousled Baela’s curls. “A Velaryon through and through. It shall be done. The Moondancer is your ship, after all.”

Rather than return to High Tide, they all went together back down the docks to the main road of Spicetown, which was slowly awakening. Merchants were beginning to open up their storefronts and several traders had set up tents in the marketplace. Daeron led them to a tiny tent stall, where a gap-toothed older woman was roasting meat and onions in a large iron pan. Freshly baked dough buns sat wrapped in linens in baskets. She recognized her liege lord right away, bowing low as her grandfather came up to her humble stall. At Daeron’s recommendation, her grandfather ordered bread buns for all of them and Baela was delighted to discover as she took a bite that the bun was stuffed with meat and peppers and onions.

They ate sitting by the water and watched as the Moondancer was launched into the bay. Her sails unfurled, fresh and cream-colored, and twenty-five pairs of oars dropped into the water with a resounding boom. Her grandfather and Alyn left together, taking a small rowboat out to her ship, while Baela and Addam went back towards the beach to summon their dragons.

Being the larger dragon, Seasmoke came first. A foggy smear of grey streaked through the sky and landed nearby. Addam’s dragon blinked slowly, ice blue eyes squinting in affection, and cooed in greeting. Following after him, Moondancer arrived and ran towards Baela, curling around her and chittering.

“Someone’s excited,” grinned Baela, cradling Moondancer’s head in her hands. “Did you know that grandfather has a gift for us?”

Her dragon pushed forward and chuffed air against her skin, pressing her snout against Baela’s neck. As she often was, Baela was struck by the similarity between her dragon and Seasmoke. The grey flame, the angle of their crests and horns. Not for the first time, she wondered where her egg had come from. It had been a gift and only two people would have been willing to part with an egg upon her birth: her grandmother or Rhaenyra. If it had been from Meleys, Moondancer and Seasmoke were likely clutch mates; if Syrax’s, then perhaps Seasmoke was the sire.

Whatever it was, the two dragons already acted like family. Moondancer chirped at the larger dragon, who responded with a chittering noise, almost like a laugh. They conversed in such a manner until both Baela and Addam were saddled.

They took to the skies at the same time, but it was Baela who took the lead, flying low over the water towards her ship. As Seasmoke circled in the sky, she guided her dragon down over the raised platform. Moondancer balked a little, but landed lightly to a chorus of cheers.

“Try it again, child!” Her grandfather shouted. “At greater speed. We need to see how the ship pitches!”

Tugging up the reins, they ascended again, arcing into a looping spiral. Once Moondancer was high enough, Baela brought her into a dive, pulling out just in time to land roughly on the platform. The bow of the ship pitched downwards into the water from the force and speed of her impact, but the wood held and the ship eventually righted itself, bobbing steadily on the water.

Baela leaned out from her saddle, looking down. “How was that?”

“Good! Very good!” Her grandfather seemed pleased. Raising a hand, he waved up towards the sky. “Go and fly for an hour. Tire out Moondancer if you can!  I’d like to see how the ship does carrying her back to Spicetown.”

Never one to turn down an opportunity to go flying, she urged her dragon back into the air, playfully calling to Seasmoke. Weaving together, they dived in and out of the clouds until her ship was out of sight and the endless expanse of the Narrow Sea lay below them.

Spreading his silver wings, Seasmoke angled up and vanished into the cloud cover; Baela made chase and brought Moondancer up. Water vapor left her cheeks wet and cold and she was blinded by a sea of grey. Somewhere, hidden in the clouds, she could hear the steady beat of Seasmoke’s wings. Part of the fun of flying with Addam was moments like these, playing hide-and-seek in the sky. Of course, owing to Seasmoke’s coloring, Baela often found herself at the disadvantage.

There. In the mists, she heard wings beating. A shadow passed over Moondancer. Baela glanced up, expecting to see Seasmoke’s grey underbelly, and instead found the muddy brown scales of an unfamiliar dragon. As though she could sense her alarm, Moondancer let loose a warning screech and dove down through the clouds. They pitched low and twisted into a tight spin to narrowly avoid colliding with Vermax, who roared in surprise.

Jace’s brown eyes met hers. Panicked, Baela plunged down and burst back into the lower layer of the sky. “Addam!” The clouds were wet and cold in her moth. “Addam!”

Wreathed in grey vapor, Seasmoke dropped into view. “Baela?”

“Dragons!” She pointed up to where Vermax and Sheepstealer were descending towards them. Addam’s violet eyes went wide. “Dive!”

Moondancer tucked her wings to her sides and suddenly they were falling, a dizzying death plunge. The wind raked angrily over her face, yanking at her hair, and brought tears to her eyes. Distantly, she could hear Addam shouting.

Vermax, she could outrun, but Sheepstealer was a complete unknown to her. While Seasmoke was quick, Addam was a less experienced rider. All they could do was hope that it would not come to battle.

Against the dark water, a small, barren island stood isolated in the ocean. Baela pulled Moondancer up to slow their descent and landed roughly, kicking up hordes of sand.  

“What are you doing?” Addam cried as he landed beside her. “We will be sitting targets!”

Baela shook her head. “We can’t outrun them! I know Jace,” she said. “He won’t hurt us. At least while we’re grounded.”

As she expected, dragonflame did not rain down on them, but Jace did something she did not anticipate. Vermax landed and Sheepstealer followed, shaking the ground with their weight. Unbuckling his chains, her stepbrother dismounted onto the sand.

“Baela?” His voice was deeper, but still familiar. Vermax flashed his deep-green scales and called out in greeting to Moondancer.

The past eight months had changed him. Taller and broader, where he once was short and slender. Jace’s dark brown hair had grown longer and no longer lay flat and straight. There was a curl to it now, coiled tighter than Luke or Joff’s easy waves. He almost looked like a man, Baela realized, and then she wondered how much she had changed too.

She returned his display of trust by also dismounting, despite Addam’s hissing warning. “Jacaerys. What brings you so far south? These are Velaryon waters.”  

“You were the ones flyin’ too far north,” said a new voice. Sheepstealer’s rider landed in the sand. All dark hair, eyes, and skin, the most Valyrian thing about the girl was her confident swagger as she crossed her arms and cocked out her hip.

Addam paused unstrapping himself from his saddle. “You! You’re the shepherd girl—Netty!”

“So I am,” she said, flashing her crooked teeth. “How’s your brother?”

“Alive and well,” replied Addam.

“Still just as reckless?”

An exasperated grin. “Oh yes. Absolutely.” Even Baela nodded in agreement.

Jace cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,” he said to her cousin.

“My name is Addam. Marilda of Hull is my mother, and my father was Ser Laenor.”

A muscle twitched in Jace’s jaw. Netty glanced between the two boys quickly. “Then we are half-brothers,” the Prince of Dragonstone said at last.

“So it seems,” replied Addam, a bit skeptically. They could not look anymore different—something her step-brother seemed painfully aware of.

“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing,” said Netty, voice accusing. “Were you trying to spy on Dragonstone?”

“Nettles,” admonished Jace.

She frowned. “It’s a valid question.”

“We didn’t realize we had flown so far north,” Addam said. “It was an honest mistake. Truly.”

Baela ran a hand over Moondancer’s neck, feeling her rough scales. “And what do you want, Jace? There must be a reason why you landed rather than leave us be.”

“I want to talk,” he said. “Is it so wrong to want to speak to my step-sister?”

“Our families are at war. I doubt you’re here for some innocent chitchat.”

Nettles laughed brightly. “Hah! Your betrothed has fire, Jace.”

Baela blinked and a freezing shudder ran through her. “Betrothed? You mean my father—"

“He has sworn to my mother that you will still be queen,” admitted Jace. Idly, he dug the toe of his boot into the sand.

“So that’s it?” Hot anger coursed through her veins.  “Are you here to try to convince me to return to Dragonstone? To press me into marriage?” She nearly spat on the sand and Moondancer growled lowly.

He flushed a pretty red. “No! I would never—”

“Really? If my father dragged me, kicking and screaming, to the altar, you would refuse? You would disobey your mother?”

Jace was silent, looking down at the ground. “I don’t want to fight you, Baela.”

“It is inevitable, as long as we are on opposite sides! Come with me to Driftmark,” she began, almost pleading. “Grandfather would keep you safe. He loves you—you know this!”

“And abandon my mother? How would it look if even her son turned from her cause? I am all she has!”

Baela took a breath, thinking of her father. “It is easier than you might expect. Take it from me. And perhaps that could convince Rhaenyra to sue for peace.”

“You don’t understand, Baela.” The Prince of Dragonstone ran a hand through his hair, tangling the curls. “If she forfeits her crown, then she forfeits my life, as well as Joff’s. We will be taken hostage, or sent to the Wall, or put to the sword. The realm will condemn us as bastards.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Addam asked suddenly. “To be a bastard?”

Jace’s mouth clicked shut audibly. “He has a point,” said Nettles, and her step-brother looked to her in betrayal. “It’s really quite normal, at least among the commonfolk.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, voice strained. “It’s not that simple. It will never be that simple. Nettles, we’re leaving.”

He turned and mounted Vermax; Nettles began the arduous process of climbing up Sheepstealer, who was nearly as large as Caraxes. When both had secured themselves into the saddle, Jace’s brown eyes bore into her. “Goodbye, Baela. If we ever meet again, I hope it is as friends.”

Without ceremony, they took to the sky and arced north. Baela watched until the dragons became tiny brown and green specks before turning away. “We should go, Addam. Grandfather is waiting for us,” she said, mounting Moondancer.  

Her cousin made a noncommittal noise and snapped his reins. Spreading his pink-grey wings, Seasmoke led the way back south. Baela followed in his shadow, repeatedly glancing over her shoulder. She resigned herself to the fact that if she ever met her step-brother again, it would be as enemies.

Chapter Text

In a plaza near the muck and misery of Flea Bottom, a little girl presented Rhaena with flowers.

She was a waif of a thing, all bones and with dirt smeared on her face, and her flowers were not truly flowers, but rather the dandelion weeds that grew stubbornly through gaps in the cobblestone. Still, Rhaena accepted them eagerly, slipping a yellow flower into her hair.

“These are beautiful,” she said. “Thank you, miss?”

The little girl glanced down shyly. Her mother, a worn and thin looking woman, nudged her gently. “Tell the princess your name, sweetling.”

“Oh, I’m no princess. Just a lady.” Rhaena crouched down to the girl’s eye level and tucked a flower behind her ear. “My name is Rhaena.”

“‘M’name’s Lia,” confessed the girl.

“Lia. A pretty name. And how old are you?”

She was met with silence. Her mother answered instead. “She’s nearly five, m’lady.”

“Nearly five! That’s a big year,” smiled Rhaena. “Tell me, Lia. What do you want for your nameday?”

Little Lia’s face scrunched up thoughtfully. “I want my Da to come home.”

That was not as doable as a stuffed bear or a new doll or fresh ribbons to wear in her hair. Frowning, Rhaena glanced towards the girl’s mother. The woman’s eyes had suddenly become very wet. “My husband is a farmhand for House Hayford, but he was pressed into service,” she said, pausing painfully. “He marched north to the Riverlands with the rest of the king’s forces.”

“So, he has been gone for several months now, hasn’t he? Was he your only form of income?” Rhaena asked, rising to her feet.

Ashamed, the woman refused to meet her eyes. “He was, m’lady. It—it has been hard. I’ve done my best to try and pick up some work, but Lia is so young and—“

“Hush,” said Rhaena, taking the woman’s dirty hands in hers. The skin of her fingers was calloused and warm. Humble, hard-working hands. “There is no need to be ashamed. Your husband is honorably serving the realm and the royal family, it is only right that we take care of you in return.”

She turned and grabbed a small bag from the nearby wagon, feeling the weight of the gold in her hands. A short distance away, Queen Alicent was listening soberly to a blind, elderly man. Her delicate brow was furrowed in concern and worry, and, for the sake of decorum, she had forgone the typical accoutrements of queenship. Her gown was green, as always, but simple and seemingly inexpensive. No crown adorned her brow and the jewelry she wore was modest and understated. Rhaena had done much the same. There was no need to flaunt wealth for those who had so little.

Turning back, Rhaena pressed the bag into the woman’s hands. “This should be enough coin to keep you fed and warm for three moons. May we pray to the gods that the war shall be finished by then, and that your husband will return to you safe.”

“Oh, m’lady!” The woman wept openly now and Rhaena braced her by her shoulders, rubbing circles against the rough linen of her blouse. “You do not know how much this means to us.”

“There is more,” said Rhaena, crouching back down by Lia. “I cannot bring your father back home, sweet one. But I can give you a gift. What would you like more: a new toy or something pretty to wear?”

“A toy, please. My Da used to make me pretty toys before he left.”

Nodding, Rhaena went back to the wagon, which was guarded dutifully by Ser Fell. The kingsguard looked comically out of place in this part of the city, his white enamel armor too pristine and polished. With Ser Cole off in the Riverlands, he had taken up the responsibility of guarding Queen Alicent and did so admirably, although the general consensus was that he was less easy on the eyes than his Dornish predecessor.

“Ser Fell,” she said. “Would you like to pick out a toy?”

He shifted, ironically caught off guard. “My lady?”

“A toy! For one of the children.”

“I’m afraid I would not be the best judge in such a matter.”

She smiled, amused. “Nonsense,” Rhaena said. “Surely you were a child once. I can’t imagine that things have changed much since then.”

“No,” said Ser Fell. She thought she could see a small smile beneath the nose plate of his helm. “I suppose not. Is it a boy child or a girl child?”

“Does it matter? Pick what you would have played with.”

Reluctantly, the kingsguard turned his back to the crowd and dug through the wagon. He pulled out a small, soft-looking, stuffed lamb with black marbles for eyes. “I was a gentle child before I became a squire,” the knight admitted, somewhat sheepishly.“To my father’s dismay.”

“He must be very proud of you now, ser,” said Rhaena.

Ser Fell made a noncommittal noise, handing her the lamb. Reaching back into the wagon, Rhaena pulled out a pale pink ribbon. Deftly, she tied it into a bow around its neck and hurried back Lia and her mother.

“Consider this an early name day gift, Lia,” she said, presenting the toy to the child.

The little girl’s blue eyes went wide and she eagerly crushed the stuffed lamb to her chest, squealing. “Thank you, Miss Rhaena!”

Her mother smiled softly, placing a hand atop her daughter’s lank brown hair. “We will never forget this, m’lady. Never.”

Then the duo was off, and a new supplicant took their place. An elderly man, bowed over and ravaged by time. Rhaena sat by his side and listened to his story, as she did with all the others who preceded him and for all the others who would come after. The little plaza they were in, just outside an old and run-down sept, was nearly bursting with people. Old and young, healthy and sick, and all poor and pitiful. They had lined up the best they could in such a narrow space. Most had come to see the queen, but a surprising amount had lined up for Rhaena, although she supposed they would come for anyone who was willing to sit and listen and give them aid.

Charity was Queen Alicent’s favorite royal responsibility, or so she had been told. Rhaena found herself in agreement. It felt worthwhile to help these people, the ones who toiled beneath the looming grandeur of the Red Keep. Who made their bread and butchered the animals they ate and wove the fabrics they wore and all the other invisible labor that went unnoticed by the nobility. To such modest and hard-working people, a little bit of gold would go a long way.

Even before the incident with a Blood and Cheese, Helaena did not have the temperament for such work. Queen Alicent had handled it on her own for nearly twenty years, until the war exacerbated the poverty in the city. Refugees were flooding King’s Landing, and many who already lived here had sent off their young and able-bodied men to war, depriving them of income. It was no longer a job that the Queen dowager could do on her own, and her grandmother had nominated her to assist - a responsibility Rhaena was eager to tackle. 

“Good afternoon, my lady,” greeted a new face. A woman, perhaps in middle age, curtsied low. Her face was glistening with sweat and creased with wrinkles, mostly on her forehead and around the corners of her mouth. This was a woman who was prone to worry and stress.

“Good afternoon,” replied Rhaena. “What may I call you?”

She almost looked like a septa, dressed in a linen habit, but the woman wore no Seven-Pointed Star. “I am Anne. I am a governess at the orphanage near the Old Gate.”

“A governess! How long have you worked with children?”

“Since I was a child myself, my lady,” she answered. “I was raised in the orphanage. I left only when I married, but when my husband died, I decided to return and raise the children there, since I would have none of my own.”

Rhaena nodded solemnly. “That is quite admirable, Missus Anne. Please, tell me what ails you.”

“I am concerned for the orphanage. The war has brought an influx of children to our doors. There was always little to go around, and now even less.” A pause. Anne fiddled with her sleeves, worn but clearly well-loved and taken care of. “And I fear for their safety. We are so close to the gate. If the city fell, it would be a slaughter.”

Rhaenyra would not command her men to slaughter children, Rhaena thought, and then she suppressed a grimace. Perhaps she would, or at least she would not punish those who did. Her father was a prime example. “The city will not fall,” she said instead.

Frowning, the governess’ eyebrows furrowed. “How can you be so sure?”

“My grandmother defends the city. Her dragon, Meleys, is a fearsome beast. And the king will not be away for long.” But Anne did not seem appeased. Rhaena continued. “But if it would ease your mind, I shall instruct some men to watch over your orphanage.”

“My lady, would you truly do such a thing?”

“Of course,” she said simply. “I may not be a princess, but I am a daughter of House Velaryon. We have twenty-five ships stationed in the bay, and more men in the city. The Old Gate is close to the Blackwater, is it not? I will have my household guard send word down to the men there. If King’s Landing is breached, there will be soldiers who will come to protect your children.”

She slumped in relief. “You are too kind, my lady. Few would care about the lives of common orphans. Will you truly see it done?”

“I give you my word,” Rhaena reached forward and pulled reluctant hands into hers. “On my honor, I will see it done.”

Warm, she felt as valiant as a heroic knight on the battlefield. Rhaena had no dragon. She had no sword. She was no warrior like her sister and grandmother. But she could do this, one small gentle kindness.

She sat and held court with the people of the city until the wagon was emptied and all of the money, clothing, and toys were dispersed. At that point, Ser Fell and the other household guards—a mix of Velaryon and Hightower—swooped in to safeguard them against the grumbling crowd. Those who had waited and not received anything were clearly displeased and Rhaena found herself promising that she would be back soon before Ser Wyll escorted her back into the wheelhouse.

Queen Alicent sat down in the seat across from her. Even in private, she remained composed and poised, her back ramrod-straight and her hands elegantly folded in her lap. Ser Fell’s voice rang out and a hand knocked on the wood of the wheelhouse, signaling the driver to move forward. They trundled along through the narrow city streets, ascending back up towards the Red Keep.

They sat in silence for some time until the queen spoke. “You are very friendly with the smallfolk.”

“In what way?” Rhaena tilted her head.

“You touch them,” she said, as if that was surprising. But Helaena was her daughter, after all. Never had Rhaena known anyone so averse to physical contact, although there was an exception made for her children. “You embrace them and hold their hands and wipe their tears.”

“I did not realize you were watching me so closely, your grace. Should I not do so?”

“There is nothing wrong with it. I did the same, back before I became Queen.” A wistful look appeared in her brown eyes. “That changed once I was married. My father and Viserys agreed that there must be some degree of separation between royalty and the common people.”

Personally, Rhaena disagreed. “I think it is more meaningful if they feel that they can connect with me.”

“I agree,” said the queen dowager, with the ghost of a smile. “I did not say that you should stop.”

She exhaled, somewhere between a huff and laugh. “So you did, your grace.” For a moment, there was silence, before Rhaena continued. “Many of the people I spoke with today worry that war will come to the city.”

“Of course, they worry. If Rhaenyra breaches the walls, they will be the ones who will die. Those who live at the Red Keep will be safe from dragonfire and slaughter and the smallfolk know it.”

The queen dowager had begun to fiddle with her hands, running a finger over the nails on her opposite hand. “What I struggle to understand is why they are so convinced that the city will fall in the first place,” Rhaena said.

“You seem quite confident that it will not,” said Queen Alicent.

“Why would it?” The wheelhouse suddenly jolted, hitting a divot in the road. Rhaena idly glanced out the window, catching a glimpse of the procession of guards that surrounded them. “Meleys is here. Seasmoke is only a short flight away. And surely the king will return to us soon.”

Her companion sighed. “Nothing is ever guaranteed, Rhaena. Although I pray that you are right.”

An uneasy feeling settled over the inside of the wheelhouse. Queen Alicent turned her head away, lost in thought, and Rhaena found herself also considering the weeks to come. Rhaenyra would not wait on Dragonstone forever. Perhaps everyone was right to be concerned, but admitting that felt like losing faith in her grandmother, who was working tirelessly to keep the realm safe.

When they arrived back at the courtyard of the Red Keep, it was a little past lunchtime. The queen dowager slipped out of the wheelhouse and Rhaena followed, eyes readjusting to the light.

“Would you care to join me for tea, Rhaena?” Since she had begun attending Queen Alicent with distributing alms, they had always ended their outings with a tea and light luncheon. But today, she had preexisting plans.

Rhaena bowed her head in apology. “Please forgive me, your grace, but I have already made plans with Helaena. She felt up to picnicking in the gardens with the children today.”

“Oh,” she smiled and her eyes were warm and bright. “Oh, Rhaena. That is wonderful. Please go and give my best to Helaena and my grandchildren.”

“As you wish, Queen Alicent.” She curtsied and was dismissed, quickly making her way up to the middle bailey and to the godswood.

In the weak autumn light, the garden was painted in muted shades of red and yellow and moody browns. While the trees had not yet lost their leaves, a cold chill had come in two weeks ago and killed all the flowers, which were rotting away over the grass and filled the garden with the musky scent of autumn. The plant matter muffled her footsteps and all other sound. For once, the godswood almost felt sacred.

The trees grew closer together the deeper Rhaena walked, until the canopy merged into one multicolored mass of leaves. Sunlight dappled weakly onto the grass, tinged red and orange and rich yellow. Before the heart tree, she found Helaena and her children spread out over a quilt.

“Hello, Rhaena,” said the young queen, without having to turn around. Helaena’s silver hair tumbled loosely around her back, nearly glowing in the low light.

Jaehaera snapped her head around and grinned. “Rhaena! You’re here!” Maelor babbled and raised a chubby hand in a wave.

“I hope I did not keep you all waiting long,” she said, kicking off her slippers. She stepped onto the quilted blanket and sunk down to her knees. The young prince immediately began toddling towards her. “Queen Alicent sends her greetings.”

“Mother says we will search for beetles once we finish eating,” said Jaehaera.

Rhaena did not grimace, to her pride. “Is that so? Then we must not keep the beetles waiting!”

A picnic basket was already set out for them, along with a tray of heated cider in a ceramic jug. Together, Rhaena and Helaena unpacked the basket for the children, passing out small sandwiches of roasted turkey and cranberry preserves. Maelor, as always, made a mess of himself and his mother tended to him, while Rhaena entertained Jaehaera.

When they had finished eating, Helaena led them in bug hunting. Rhaena refused on principle to dig in the dirt, but she did hold open the tiny wooden boxes for the children to deposit their finds. Today’s specimen was the Crownlands leaf beetle, one of which Helaena had balanced on the tip of her index finger.

“It will be some time before we can see one again,” began the young queen. Her fingernails were encrusted with moist earth and she spoke of the little insect with naked affection. It was a tiny thing, spotted, with furry jointed legs that made Rhaena shudder. Maelor and Jaehaera observed it with quiet interest. “They hibernate in the winter by burrowing deep into the ground, where the cold cannot reach them.”

“How cold will winter be, mother?”

Helaena blinked owlishly. “I do not know,” she said at last, and seemed almost surprised by it.

“But you know everything,” said Jaehaera.

“It will be cold enough for you to wear a hat,” Rhaena proclaimed, ruffling the girl’s hair. “We must keep that head of yours warm.”

The little princess frowned. “I don’t like hats. What about a scarf?”

When the bug hunting was finished, Helaena inspected their catch while Rhaena read to the children. She was, once again, working through her grandfather’s Nine Voyages, and found herself quite disappointed that it put both children to sleep. The young queen wistfully watched over her slumbering children, but unexpectedly broke the silence of the garden.

“How is my mother?”

“Queen Alicent?” Rhaena whispered; Jaehaera was asleep on her lap. “She is quite well, I think. She enjoys speaking with the commonfolk.”

Helaena hummed. “Yes. She is glad to have you, I think. It has always been too busy and loud for me.”

“I am glad to accompany her. It is good to hear what troubles the people and to help them, if we can.”

A quiet pause. “And what does trouble the people?”

“Many things.” So many things, it sometimes astonished her. “Sickness, hunger, family quarrels. But mostly the war. Many of them fear that King’s Landing will fall.”

“That is a valid fear,” said Helaena softly. “It is war. Anything could happen.”

“Your mother would agree.”

“And you do not?”

“No,” said Rhaena. “Perhaps I am a fool for it. The king should be back soon and regardless my grandmother is here with Meleys.”

Helaena shifted on the quilt, turning her head to look up at Rhaena. Her dark indigo eyes were large and curious, with her silver hair spread out beneath her like a fan. “And if your grandmother isn’t here?”

“What?”

“What if your grandmother isn’t here in the city?”

The thought disquieted her. “Do you know something I don’t, Helaena? Where else would she be?”

“I do not know,” said the young queen. Idly, she reached out and ran her hands over Maelor’s hair. “It is just a thought.”

Frowning, Rhaena looked up at the trees, to the scarlet leaves that matched Meleys’ scales. “If the king and Aemond remain away from the city…and if my grandmother is…away, then I suppose we are doomed.” It was a morbid thought. What would happen to Helaena and the children? To Rhaena?

“Not quite.” An ant was slowly crawling over the blanket, searching for sandwich crumbs. “I suppose the defense of the city would fall to me.”

“To you?”

“To Dreamfyre and I.”

Tilting her head, Rhaena tried to make eye contact with Helaena, who stubbornly insisted on watching the ant. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fly.”

“I rarely did, even before I had the children,” she said. Rhaena tried not to resent her for that, as petty as it was. “Dreamfyre understands, though. She knew my temperament when she claimed me.”

That was unusual wording. Typically, the rider claimed the dragon, not the other way around. “That is very brave of you. To be willing to defend the city.”

“I am the only one who could, in such a scenario,” said Helaena. “I don’t think it’s very brave at all.”

Rhaena hummed and shook her head. “I disagree. You would be a hero.”

“Only if I succeeded.” With that, there was a prolonged silence. The queen returned to her bug watching while Rhaena turned the idea over and over in her head. It will not come to that, she thought. Or maybe I am simply being delusional.

After a long time, Helaena stirred again, sitting up abruptly. She shook the leaves from her hair and turned to Rhaena. “Will you help me bring the children back to the nursery?”

“Gladly, your grace,” she replied. Very gently, she woke Jaehaera, loose-limbed with sleep, and helped carry the bugs and blankets back up the Holdfast.

The thought of war lingered as she went up each step of the Serpentine Stair, as she bid farewell to Helaena and the children, while she ate supper with her grandmother, and until she fell asleep in her bed. Persistent, and maddening.

Chapter Text

Orwyle was the last member of the small council to arrive, slipping in just as Rhaenys finished her tea, a fragrant Dornish Darjeeling sweetened with a drop of clover honey. With Aegon absent, the small council now met first thing in the morning. Warm morning light filtered through the windows, made fuzzy by the slight fog over the Blackwater Bay. To ease the transition, Rhaenys had arranged for light refreshments and a platter of freshly cut fruit to be served.

This decision, it seemed, finally had endeared her to the Master of Laws. Jasper Wylde was still a sexist bruit who doubted Rhaenys’ ability to govern, but at least he was trying to hide it beneath a veneer of civility.

Laden down with a great tome, stacks of journals, and other assorted papers, the grandmaester hurried to his seat, set down his possessions with a nearly comical thump, and then procured another bundle of sealed messages from his cavernous grey sleeves.

“A whole flock of ravens seems to have arrived in the night,” began Orwyle. “For Lord Wylde, a missive from Storm’s End.” He set down a scroll sealed with Baratheon yellow wax, and then another marked with deep scarlet. “One from Casterly Rock to Lord Lannister. And finally, one from Acorn Hall for you, Lady Hand.”

Rhaenys leaned forward and took the missive. It was tightly rolled, with a plain drop of black wax keeping it shut. Perfunctorily, she snapped the seal loose and rolled it open, smoothing the parchment over the table. The king’s slanted handwriting greeted her, nearly as unruly and casual as he was.

Auntie, it began playfully. Were you aware that there are no acorn trees at Acorn Hall? Joseth Smallwood claims there used to be a grove during the Age of Heroes, but it burned down eons ago. He’s an annoying little chit, but Sunfyre made him bend the knee, along with the rest of his men. We took the keep easily. They were prepared for the Westermen, but not for me.

Tell Lord Wylde that you were right, by the way. Rhaenys smiled, a small, subdued thing that lived only in the corners of her mouth. My sister has divided her army into roving bands that can ambush our men and quickly retreat. Houses Piper, Vance, and Smallwood have been dealt with, but the Tullys remain to be seen, and I expect more to lie in wait ahead of us.

There was a smudge of ink and several dark blots on the side of parchment, as if he had been in a hurry. We will not linger here. At first light, Tarbeck will begin the march east. I will escort them as far as the western shore of the God’s Eye. From there, they will turn north towards Harrenhall and I will return to the city, as I expect that you are anxiously awaiting my return.

His signature was simply his name, missing his host of royal titles. Rhaenys set the letter down; Wylde had also finished reading, but Tyland’s eyes were still flickering rapidly over his missive, gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

“Good tidings from the king?” Lord Jasper asked.

“Indeed,” answered Rhaenys. “He reports that the western host has made it to Acorn Hall.”

Orwyle nodded appreciatively. “They are halfway to Harrenhall. If they maintain their pace, they should be at the castle within the next five days. Perhaps less.”

“The king will be back in the city even sooner. He intends to escort them as far as the God’s Eye before turning back south,” she said.

Jasper Wylde took a deep drink from his cup. Rhaenys had been amused to discover that he preferred to drink heated milk spiced with cinnamon in the mornings—a boyish drink that felt at odds with his arrogant grandstanding. “I am happy to say that Lord Baratheon has arrived at Bronzegate and will begin marching through the Kingswood soon.”

She hummed. That would put his arrival within the next two weeks, but knowing the Stormlands, rain would probably delay them. “He will surely arrive before the army from the Reach does. Lord Ormund wrote recently. The Hightower forces are moving slowly.”

“They have had to fight their way up the entirety of the Rose Road,” said Orwyle. “And the Reach is the largest region of the Seven Kingdoms. It is only natural.”

There had not yet been another battle like the one on the banks of the Honeywine, but Rhaenyra’s supporters in the Reach had plagued the Hightower army in other ways. Bridges had been destroyed, obstacles were placed in the roads, anything and everything that could create delays.

“If they are lucky and remain unimpeded, they will arrive in the next two moons,” Rhaenys said, frowning. “But I suppose that is the best we can ask for.”

“What of you, Lannister?” Wylde turned in his seat, looking down at the end of the table. The Master of Coin leaned back, the parchment loose in his hand. A panicked fear was present in his wide, emerald eyes. “Any news?”

“Lannisport has been sacked,” he said, in sheer disbelief; Rhaenys shot forward in her chair in rapt attention. “The fleet is gone.”

“Gone?” She repeated incredulous.

He answered her with three words. “It was burned.”  

Wylde made a horrible coughing noise. “How!? By dragons?”

“No,” said Tyland. His voice was too level and composed, betraying the profound effect of this shocking news. “By the Greyjoys.”

Sucking in a breath, Rhaenys shut her eyes. “They have declared for Rhaenyra.”

“This is calamitous.” Orwyle began flipping through his stack of parchment. Pulling out a quill, he began to write furiously. “Please, tell us what state Lannisport is in.”

Tyland took a moment to recover himself before speaking again. “Half the city has been burned. The reavers stole anything they could—money, gold, grain, furniture, even people. Most of the men are dead and the women and children carried off as thralls.” A painful pause. “My goodsister reports that my brother’s mistress and their daughters were taken. She has barred the gates to Casterly Rock.”

“Will they hold?” Jasper asked.

“Casterly Rock is famously impregnable,” said Rhaenys. The same had been said of the Eyrie once, but then Vhagar and Visenya had proved that false. It was difficult to imagine Vhagar ever being small enough to land inside a castle courtyard.

Seemingly, the same thought had occurred to the Master of Coin. “The main gate, surely. It is the sea gates that worry me. All Greyjoy needs to do is get one ship through and the Rock…” Trailing off, his shoulders slumped and he almost leeched of color, turning pale and wan. Tyland leaned back into his chair, out of the sunlight, and even his hair turned dull and dark.

“They must have known that the Westerlands were vulnerable,” said the Master of Laws.

She made a low noise. “It was no secret that House Lannister had called their banners. And Rhaenyra would have let the ironborn know once they had crossed into the Riverlands. It would take weeks for the western lords to return, even if they turned around and stopped marching for Harrenhall.”

Silently, her eyes roamed over the war map. Rhaenys had begun to resent it, the beautiful lettering, how it reduced the people into little tokens of war, meaningless. What would it accomplish by having the Westermen turn back? All the lives lost, the distance travelled, would be made pointless.

“Do the forces in the Riverlands know?” She asked. If Lady Lannister wrote to her goodbrother, then it was likely that the rest of the impacted noble women had written to their husbands and sons, pleading for them to come home. In muted horror, she wondered how many women and children had been carried off from their keeps, or lay dead along the roads and shore. Innocents, all of them.

Tyland nodded wordlessly. Rustling more paper, Orwyle frowned at the map. “It is likely that desertions may occur. Some men will want to march back and chase the ironborn from their shores.”

“They will not desert!” Lannister said sharply, defensive. “They know their duty.” His voice turned soft again, pleading. “I know that it is not strategic or wise, but my brother is dead. His wife and child and the rest of my family are under siege. I can do nothing except beg the council. Send men to the Westerlands. I implore you all. Do not abandon the people of the west to Greyjoy’s tyranny.”

“The army must continue to Harrenhall.” Wylde ran his fingers through his beard. “They must not be allowed to turn back.”

“No,” echoed Rhaenys, in rare agreement. “They cannot.” She paused, glancing to Tyland, who had closed his eyes in resignation. “But that does not mean that we will abandon them.”

The grandmaester made a noise of curiosity. “What do you propose, Lady Hand?”

What was she proposing? The closest army was weeks away and desperately needed elsewhere. A dragon could resolve the issue easily, but there were none to send. It would be too risky to send Aegon and Sunfyre. Aemond was convinced that the forces in the Riverlands needed the protection of Vhagar. The youngest prince, Daeron, who Rhaenys had never met, had proved himself in battle, but his Tessarion was likely no bigger than Vermax and could be easily shot down.

“While there may not be any ground forces to be spared, Lady Lannister has written for our aid and I will not spit upon the service of the Westermen by abandoning women to be carried off into thralldom—slavery in all but name!—and their children to be slaughtered,” began Rhaenys, voice clear and firm. “A quarter of the Velaryon fleet protects the Gullet and the Blackwater. Another quarter monitors the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. But nearly half waits on standby at High Tide. Let us dispatch Lord Corlys. My husband will deliver the Westerlands.”

“Answering ships with ships,” Orwyle nodded. “That is best.”

Jasper drummed his fingers on the table. “Even if Lord Corlys’ war with the Triarchy was unsanctioned,” a pause, as Rhaenys glared at him, “he proved his skill admirably. Dalton Greyjoy is only ten-and-seven, barely into his majority. What skills he does have pale in comparison to Lord Velaryon’s decades of expertise.”

Tyland leaned forward in his chair, throwing his face back into the bright, warm light of the sun. “As grateful as I am for the support, I caution the council against writing off Greyjoy, boy that he is. He is called the Red Kraken for a reason.”

“Yes,” she said in agreement. At ten, the boy had his first taste of reaving and had been terrorizing the seas ever since. “Which is why I also volunteer myself to the cause. On the rare chance that my husband finds himself matched, Meleys will make short work of Greyjoy’s ships.”

There was a beat of silence. Unlike when Aegon announced his intention to fly to war, the council sat in thoughtful quiet. Each of their eyes flickered in contemplation. Rhaenys understood this as a credit to her years of expertise. She was, after all, the oldest living dragonrider. An old woman, rather than a green boy and new king.

“Princess, it is too dangerous to leave the city undefended at this time,” said Orwyle, aghast.

“I would not leave immediately,” Rhaenys replied. “It will take nearly two weeks for the fleet to sail around Dorne. And I intend to be here when the king returns.”

Tyland reached out and ran his fingers over his orb of office. “Still, that would rest the responsibility of defending the city solely on King Aegon’s shoulders. Sunfyre is a grand beast, but Syrax and Caraxes are larger. And that is not considering Rhaenyra’s other dragonseeds.”

“I am often surprised how often this council forgets that Queen Helaena is a dragonrider as well.” Rhaenys sniffed dismissively. “Dreamfyre is larger than Syrax and Caraxes and Meleys.”

Another silence fell upon them. “It doesn’t sit well with me to send a woman off to battle,” Jasper said, begrudgingly, “but if anyone can handle it, it would be you, princess.” Was that a compliment? “You have my support.”

“And mine as well,” Tyland smiled wanly. “Knowing our Lady Hand, she will be ruthlessly efficient and return to the city quickly.”

“Grandmaester,” she began, “do you have any other grievances?”

“No, Lady Hand. I do not. Would you like me to make any preparations for your departure?”

She paused, thinking. “Send word to the Redwynes. Their fleet can be put to use beyond ferrying supplies up the Mander to the army in the Reach. I will write to the king and my own lord husband.”

He nodded. “As you wish, Princess. If there is nothing else to add, I would recommend proceeding with our meeting as planned. I met with the head of the healer’s guild yesterday and he paints a grave portrait of the state of the city. The influx of refugees has been a strain on their resources.”

“And our treasury,” said Tyland.

Jasper huffed. “And the city watch, as well.”

“These are unprecedented times, gentlemen,” Rhaenys said, “and it is our responsibility to manage the realm as best as we can. We can start with the healers. Proceed, Orwyle.”

So he did. The council spoke at length of the problems facing the city. Overcrowding, a burgeoning crime rate, dwindling access to food. Low morale and anxiety. There had been a focused effort by the crown to relieve some of these issues, primarily through charity, but even that soon would need to come to an end. There was only so much gold that remained, and Rhaenys doubted that it would be easy to access the portions of the treasury that were currently housed in secret at the Hightower and Casterly Rock. Secretly, she admired Otto’s achievement in smuggling that much money out of the city so quickly. It had been done even before the crown had touched Aegon’s head.

They sat there debating and discussing until midday had passed and the sun had begun its meandering descent into the afternoon. “Let us adjourn for the day,” said Rhaenys, plucking her marble from its pedestal. The sun had turned the stone warm to the touch. “We all have our business to attend to.”

Bowing low, the rest of the men vacated the chamber. She had letters to write and, rather than ascend to the Tower of the Hand, Rhaenys remained in the council room. Two letters went to her husband, one written by the Hand of the King to the Lord of the Tides and the other as a wife to her husband. A third letter would be sent to Acorn Hall and brought by messenger to Aegon at the war camp in the Riverlands.

Her other personal correspondence could wait until later. Baela, her wild thing, had little patience for letters, and neither did Alyn, the mysterious grandson she had yet to meet; Alyn loved to write and did so routinely, inundating her with all sorts of questions about his father and Rhaenys herself. While she had yet to respond to his most recent missive, there was a grandchild in the Red Keep that required her attention.

She found Rhaena in her chambers with a massive book on her lap. Curled up in a chair, her granddaughter was slightly more dressed down than usual. A creamy white shawl was pulled over her shoulders and a blanket was resting on her legs, mostly obscuring a simple red day dress. Her silver locs were unbound and flowing freely around her face. Tiny, pale pearl earrings hung from her ears. As Rhaenys entered, Rhaena glanced up from her book and smiled, and she was struck by how much the girl resembled Corlys with her hair loose.

“Grandmother,” said Rhaena, marking her page with a pale pink ribbon. “The council went long today.”

She crossed the room and bent down to press a kiss against the crown of her granddaughter’s head. The faint scent of rose oil greeted her, as delicate and sweet as Rhaena was. “It did,” Rhaenys said. “I hope you will forgive me for missing lunch.”

“It is no matter. I did not eat anyways.”

Frowning, she cupped her granddaughter’s cheek. “Are you unwell, sweetling?”

“My head aches and I am a bit nauseous.” Seemingly at Rhaenys’ concerned expression, Rhaena added quickly. “I am fine truly. My courses began this morning is all.”

She nodded, appeased. “I certainly don’t miss those days. Would you be opposed to my keeping you company?”

“Of course not,” Rhaena gestured to the opposite chair. “Sit, please. Tell me what kept you so long with the small council this morning.”

“None of it is good,” warned Rhaenys.

Her granddaughter’s lips pursed together into a thin and wry smile. “It never is.”

She began with the better tidings. That the crown could support charity and alms for another moon, that the healer’s guild was finally going to take on a new cohort of apprentices to manage the influx of refugees, and trade masters were going to adopt children out to train as replacements for the apprentices sent off to war. Rhaenys mentioned that the Baratheon armies had finally reached the southern edge of the Kingswood, and that the Hightower host had been slowly progressing and would reach Longtable within the next moon. That the Lannisters and their Westermen had met with the king and marched on from Acorn Hall.

“That is all the good news, I suppose,” hummed Rhaenys.

Her granddaughter was worrying the edge of her shawl, pale fabric running through her fingers. “What of the bad?”

“House Greyjoy has brought the Iron Islands under Rhaenyra’s banner,” her voice was grim.

A sigh. “That is unfortunate,” said Rhaena. “But at least once they sail to the Blackwater Bay, they will be no match for grandfather’s ships.” There was a hint of pride in her voice.

“Yes,” Rhaenys agreed. “But they are not targeting other ships, nor does it seem that Greyjoy has any intention of sailing east. The master of coin reported that Lannisport has been sacked and Casterly Rock is under siege. The ironmen are reaving the entire western coastline.”

Rhaena sucked in a breath. “Gods. Then they’re entirely defenseless.”

“It will take a few weeks, but your grandfather will be dispatched to defeat the Greyjoy fleet and end the siege of Casterly Rock.” It was difficult to share, but Rhaena deserved to know. “I will go with them. To make things quicker.”

“What?” The book snapped shut. Her lilac eyes were wide. “You’re leaving?”

“I will. Not for some time. I intend to meet the fleet there.”

Her granddaughter sputtered, reminiscent of Daemon. “You can’t!” Rhaena said incensed. Idly, Rhaenys recalled that she had never seen the girl so flustered. Where Baela was all spitfire and recklessness, Rhaena was calm and composed, calculating even. But she was Daemon and Laena’s daughter; even if most people forgot—Rhaenys included, to her sudden shame—Rhaena was a dragon too. “You can’t just abandon the city! The people will panic!”

“You are the one panicking, child,” Rhaenys said carefully, eyes roving over her granddaughter's face. “I am not abandoning the city. It will be quick. Only a handful of days if we are lucky. The thing about war is that men march weeks to a battle that only lasts a handful of hours. I will wait until the fleet has arrived and Meleys will bring me there in less than a day. I imagine I will return quickly.”

“What do you think will happen if you leave with Meleys, grandmother? Father and Rhaenyra will descend upon King’s Landing.” A pause, and she sullenly added. “Everyone knows it.”

Concerned, Rhaenys slipped from her chair onto the floor, trying to hide the wincing pain in her knees, and knelt beside her granddaughter. “Rhaena, who has filled your head with such fears?”

“The people are terrified. When I go down to the city, everyone worries that King’s Landing is going to burn, that Rhaenyra’s soldiers are going to slaughter everyone,” the girl whispered, curling her knees up to her chin. “I-I am frightened.”

“Rhaenyra will not burn the city because she wants to rule it,” she said firmly. “The smallfolk do not need to fear dragon fire, but they are right to be worried about the ground forces.” A painful sigh. “There are evil men in this world, Rhaena. If the city falls, which it will not, some will go out of their way to slaughter innocents, but such things would not occur at the Red Keep. Your father,” her granddaughter frowned and Rhaenys reached up to take her hands in hers, “he will not hurt you.”

Rhaena yanked her hands away. “He wouldn’t hurt Baela. She’s always been his favorite.” Tears shone in her eyes, Daemon’s eyes, and she wiped furiously at her cheeks. “Gods, why am I crying?”

“Oh, Rhaena,” she said, in the same tone of voice she had used decades ago, when Laenor had come to her, weeping, in the days of his youth. “Come here.”

Crumpling, her granddaughter tucked herself into Rhaenys’ embrace and wept quietly into her shoulder. She ran a hand over Rhaena’s silver locs, staring blankly at the nearby wall. Daemon would pay, she thought angrily, for making his bright and beautiful girl feel unloved and unwanted.

The fabric of her sleeve was uncomfortably damp when Rhaena finally pulled away. “I don’t want you to leave,” she said softly.

“I must go, Rhaena. What the smallfolk here in the city fear—death, devastation, pillage, rape—the people of the Westerlands are suffering now. Even worse, the people are being carried off into thralldom, as little more than slaves. Is it not our duty to protect them?”

Her granddaughter sniffled and then spent a moment in thought. “I understand,” Rhaena said at last. "It is the right thing to do. It is just...it is just hard."

“I am glad you understand.” Rhaenys wiped away any lingering tears on her granddaughter’s face. “Let us turn to happier things. Tell me about what you are reading.”

And so Rhaena did. The great tome was something of an ancient bestiary, remarking upon the fabulous and mystical creatures lost to the ages. Griffins, sea dragons, direwolves, Children of the Forest, and so on. Their afternoon passed with relative peace and, privately, Rhaenys was immensely relieved. If Rhaena had truly pleaded with her to stay, she was not quite sure could have maintained her resolve.

She was right about her resolve, but not for the correct reasons. A handful of days later, a letter came in lieu of the king. Rhaenys read it in the privacy of her own chambers, snapping open the messily applied black wax seal. Aegon’s handwriting was even shakier than it had been the last time, with great blotches and smears of ink over the parchment.

We were cornered on the shore of the God’s Eye, it began bluntly, without any formality or greeting. Surrounded on all sides by a mixture of Rivermen and Northmen. Word was sent to Aemond but it seems all the ravens were shot down. Nearly a thousand bodies lie dead, either burned or cut down by my men. If Sunfyre and I had not been here, I shudder to think of it. The Lannister host would have been decimated, their bodies left to bloat on the lake.

I am mostly unharmed, auntie. I’m bitter to report that one archer was lucky enough to land two arrows on me. Rhaenys sucked in a breath and set the letter down for a moment before she gathered the strength to keep reading. The men call her Black Aly, but her true name is Alysanne, aunt of the young Lord Blackwood, who burned on the field. We have taken her as a hostage, as, with her brother and nephew dead, she will be the Lady of Raventree Hall. For now, she is our only prisoner. Most of the other lords scattered when they realize they could not withstand Sunfyre, including the young Tully and Lord Dustin.

I must admire the woman’s skill. One arrow hit my thigh and the other my shoulder. I assure you that I am in good health, even if it is hard to write. You would think that Lord Tarbeck and his maester are my mother with the way they’ve been fretting over me. Don’t you start as well, Rhaenys.

With all this having happened, I realize that I cannot in good conscience abandon the Westermen. They still have several days of marching before reaching Harrenhall and enemies lurk everywhere. And I must confess that I am curious to see what my little brother has gotten up to.

You have my support with your going to fight the ironborn. Morale is low here, especially with the recent battle. I have spread word that the fearsome Princess Rhaenys will be off soon to burn the Greyjoys on her Meleys. It helped some, but it will cheer them more to know that their families are safe. Do not delay your departure, even though my own return will be later than originally anticipated.

His signature read, Your Nephew, Aegon. Rhaenys briefly permitted herself a moment to hang her head in her hands. Not one arrow, but two! The king was lucky to be alive. In the right spot, a wound to the thigh would leave a man bleeding out in minutes. An arrow to the shoulder could have easily hit the chest, puncturing a lung or his heart. What kind of archer had that sort of skill? This Black Aly was a woman to be reckoned with, having the skill to shoot a rider on dragonback.

She could not say how long it would take for Aegon to return, and the council debated endlessly over the potential timelines for nearly two days before another letter arrived. Instead of the black seal of the king, this one bore a marbled mixture of blue and silver wax impressed with the seal of House Tarbeck. As the Hand of the King, Rhaenys read the missive first, before she slumped in her chair and handed it to Orwyle, who read it aloud.

Aegon had developed a blood fever and fallen unconscious before the Lannister army could even march, it reported. The wound in his shoulder had festered and Lord Tarbeck, once again the de-facto commander, was afraid to move the young king, leaving them trapped against the shores of the God’s Eye. While he was being tended to by the healers present, Orwyle immediately left the small council to write to the battlefield maester and provide his counsel. Those who remained argued in circles until they conceded that there was little they could do except wait and hope.

On the night before her scheduled departure, while dining with her granddaughter, Rhaenys set down her cutlery, having no more appetite. “I cannot leave for the Westerlands tomorrow," she said abruptly, derailing their stilted conversation. "It is not right.”

A fork clinked against the porcelain of a plate. “What?” Rhaena said, confused. “But grandfather and the rest of the fleet are waiting for you.”

“That was under the assumption that Aegon would be here. I am the Hand of the King, I cannot leave the city ungoverned or undefended.”

“Grandmother,” began her granddaughter, voice gentle. “You cannot abandon the people of the Westerlands either. Lord Tyland himself wrote to his goodsister and promised that you would come and deliver them from the siege. That you and grandfather would rescue the people the ironborn kidnapped. You cannot break your word.”

Rhaenys pushed her chair away and stood, suddenly disgusted by the food before her. As she wandered towards the window, she watched Rhaena take a final bite of chicken before she summoned a maid to take their meals away. “I promised to protect the city as well.” She glanced to Rhaena, silhouetted against the flame of the hearth. “And you.”

“Only last week you told me that I would be safe,” she said, stepping near, “and even though I am nervous, I trust you. Trust in yourself too, grandmother. You should not doubt yourself. Several moons ago, Vhagar, Sunfyre, and Meleys left the city for Rook’s Rest and Duskendale and no one was concerned. What is different now?”

The dragonseeds had unbalanced the scales of war. “Rhaenyra has more dragons on her side.”

“So? They have only been riding for a handful of months. Surely they are unskilled. If I had claimed a dragon when they did, would you think that I would be ready to fly into battle?” Rhaena smiled weakly. “The city will not fall into the sea without your oversight, grandmother. If it was going to, it would have happened while Uncle Viserys was ruling.”

Rhaenys barked out a bitter laugh. “You have a point, child.”

“You must go, grandmother.” Stepping forward, Rhaena placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I will be fine.”

Fondness swelled in her chest. Rhaenys was an old woman, a grandmother; it should have been her comforting her granddaughter, not the other way around. “You are such a brave girl, Rhaena.” Her heart ached. “And you are right. I will go as I said I would. Will you see me off tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she smiled, all sweetness. “Now, it is late, and you should get some rest. You have a long flight in the morning.”

Here Rhaenys was, being sent off to bed like a child! Laughing, she pulled Rhaena close and embraced her. It was very difficult to let go. “Goodnight, sweetling.”

“Goodnight,” Rhaena echoed, and then she escorted her to the door.

Rather than return to her own chambers, Rhaenys went to the Tower of the Hand, entering the personal apartments of Lord Otto and his daughter. Ser Fell was guarding the door, blinking in surprise at her, but quietly stepped aside to let Rhaenys knock on a thick mahogany door.

A soft voice floated though the wood. “Enter.”

Immediately, Rhaenys was assaulted by green. The rug, the curtains, the tapestries, the cushions, even the tiny, folded napkins on the table were dyed a rich jade. After nearly two decades, one would think she would be sick of the color, but even in the privacy of her own chambers, Queen Alicent wore green. A sumptuous velvet robe was tied around her, obscuring the pale cream of her nightgown. Her brown curls were braided neatly away from her face, and her eyes were an eerie orange, reflecting back the light of the fire. Sitting at a small table, the queen dowager glanced at her before suddenly rising.

“Princess,” said Alicent. “Please forgive me. I assumed you were my father.”

Rhaenys waved a hand. “There is nothing to forgive. May I join you?”

“Please.” The queen dowager gestured to the opposite chair. Rhaenys sat and glanced around the shadowed room. This could have been Rhaena’s bedchamber after all, if she had decided to move the Velaryon household into the Hand’s apartments. The rooms were smaller than what Alicent Hightower had known as queen, but it was the bedroom of her girlhood. She wondered if that had been comforting, before Jaehaerys had been murdered here. An incredibly heavy-looking wardrobe had been bolted into the wall, blocking off the access point for the secret passageway.

Oddly, there was an open bottle of wine on the table, half-full. Brown eyes followed her gaze, and the queen dowager flushed red. “Arbor gold,” began Alicent, voice subdued and fond. “Aegon’s favorite. He always liked his wine sweet. Once, I ordered the kitchens to only serve dry Dornish reds for a month, in hopes that it would make him stop drinking.” The queen poured a glass and passed it to Rhaenys. 

“Did it work?” She took a sip, swishing it around her mouth. It was sweet and light, nothing like the darker and more full-bodied vintages they preferred at Driftmark.

“No. In hindsight, I think I only made it worse.” A pause. “Now, he lays dying in some war camp. What I would give to see him home safe, with all sweet wine he could possibly want.”

She is quite melancholy, thought Rhaenys. “Are you drunk?”

“No! Of course not!” The queen snapped; the Hand of the King smiled, amused.

“Good. I’m here to discuss an important matter, but first, Aegon is not going to die,” Rhaenys said firmly. “It is an infection. He is a young man, healthy despite his drinking. If my husband, a man over thrice his age, can survive blood fever, so can your son.”

Alicent frowned deeply, resembling Aemond. “Infections are fickle things. Your husband recovered safely in a clean and proper keep, not on some filthy battlefield. Even worse, what if the arrows were poisoned?”

“If it was poison, he would have died by now,” she said, blunt. “The wound simply festered. Orwyle is consulting with the maester and healers in the field, and, if the grandmaester truly thought it serious, I would have flown him there myself.”

“I pray to the Seven that you are right, princess,” began Alicent. A pause. “What is this important matter you speak of?”

Rhaenys took another sip of wine. “I am leaving the city in the morning, as you know.”

“I do.”

“I had originally hoped that the king would have returned, leaving two dragons to protect King’s Landing.” Alicent’s face became very serious, eyebrows drawn together. “If the city falls, there are contingency plans made for the children, yes? Maelor and Jaehaera?”

Leaning forward, she answered, almost reluctantly. “Lord Larys and I have made arrangements. Why?”

“I need to ask you a favor, as one grandmother to another,” Rhaenys made direct eye contact, violet meeting brown. “If something should happen to me, or if the city falls, someone must look after Rhaena.”

There was a beat of silence. “And you want me to do so, in your stead?” Another pause, agonizingly long. “Rhaena is a sweet girl,” said the queen at last, nodding slowly. “I will look after her like she is my own daughter.”

“Give me your word.”

“I give my word. I swear to the Mother Above that, if the city should fall, I will ensure Rhaena’s safety. The plans for Jaehaera and Maelor are quite elaborate, but it should not be difficult to factor in Rhaena. Only Larys and I know the full extent of the details, which I will share with you in confidence. However, this will take some time and you have an early start tomorrow, are you—?”

“I am sure, said Rhaenys. “Tell me everything.”

Queen Alicent sighed and poured herself another glass of wine. “Alright,” she said. “Listen carefully.”

Chapter Text

Inhaling steam, Jace pressed his hands against the heat of the teacup. He sat in his mother’s rarely-used solar at a small, ornately carved table surrounded by ancient and heavy tapestries. Floor to ceiling, dusty, black, velvet covered each wall and muffled all sound. The woven designs, if there had ever been any, had faded away or been turned black by years of dust and smoke. Only the faded, red tassels remained. As much as his mother was proud of her Targaryen heritage, these legacy tapestries did not seem like the kind of thing she would choose to decorate with. It was more plausible that someone else had chosen it long ago, for his mother had only begun to use this solar because of the war. Had these tapestries once belonged to Queen Alysanne? Maegor or Visenya? Or were they older still?

The heat of the teacup was burning his fingers. “Is he doing well?” Jace spoke quietly, as to not disturb the ancient objects slumbering in the solar.

“He says he is bored,” the queen laughed wetly and set the letter down. “And that the Vale is very cold.”

“Joff’s not wrong,” he said. When Jace had flown to the Eyrie, it had been the tail-end of summer and still brisk. “It is cold.”

His mother smiled. “Your grandmother would have been pleased to know that two of her grandsons have visited her homeland. She always wanted to take me, but we never had the chance.” A sad expression crossed her face.

“You would find it very beautiful.” He recalled the first time he had seen it on dragonback. A delicate and small castle precariously balanced on the mountaintop, with seven gleaming white towers stabbing into the sky. Blue and white banners and the verdant green of the valley spread beneath it. It was a convenient castle for a dragonrider. All one had to do was fly up and land; Jace could not imagine having to climb up the perilous mountain stair, or being raised up in a flimsy basket.

“Perhaps your brother will come to appreciate it in time. And hopefully, his studies will keep him busy. His handwriting is horrible."

It was little more than chicken-scratch. “Did he have anything for me?”

“He said hello and asked me to tell you that he commanded Tyraxes to burn his food, as you were teaching him.”

A burst of pride surged in Jace’s chest. “Good.” How he missed his brothers. Would Joff be taller when he came home? Did Aegon and baby Viserys like Pentos? Would they even remember him when they met again? “I miss him.”

“As do I.” Her violet eyes were distant, wistful. “I worry he is lonely, being so far away. If only Rhaena had been here, I would have…” She stopped suddenly and swallowed, her pale throat bobbing beneath her large ruby necklace. “But that doesn’t matter now.”

He sipped his tea, a bit uncomfortable. “Mother, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Jace. Please.”

Swallowing, he opened his mouth, but paused. The question lingered on his tongue, sour and unpleasant. Is this all worth it? Is this what father would have wanted for me? He had not told his mother or Daemon of his encounter with Baela and sworn Nettles to secrecy, but the interaction still gnawed at him. Was it too late for peace?

“Can you pass the sugar?” He said instead, pathetically.

Laughing like a bell, she pushed over the bowl of sugar. “You can be so serious sometimes, Jace. I have no idea who you got that from, certainly not me.” There was silence, interrupted only by the soft clink of his spoon against the porcelain. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms busied herself by pouring another cup of tea, rich and dark. Embarrassed, Jace tried to enjoy the quiet silence. It was rare, now that Daemon had returned, to get time alone with his mother.

The door shot open with a bang, startling them both. Scalding his skin, hot tea poured over his fingers. Tall, lean, and pale, Daemon raced in, holding aloft a letter, and grinning like a boy. It’s like I summoned him, thought Jace, mildly annoyed.

“Daemon! What is it?”

He waved the letter like a battle standard. “Mysaria has written.” A pinched expression passed over his mother’s face as Daemon slapped the letter down. “Read it. Quickly.”

Arcing over the page, Valyrian script was written in a steady, almost elegant hand. The queen picked it up and her eyes skimmed over it quickly. Her silver brows shot up to the band of her crown. “Rhaenys has left King’s Landing?”

“What?” Jace asked. “When?”

“Yesterday, in the morning, if Mysaria is to be believed,” answered his mother, looking pointedly at her husband. “Are you sure we can trust her?”

Daemon tilted his head, cat-like and curious. “I trust her with my life,” he said. Hiding a frown, Jace looked down at his hands, wet with tea. That did not feel like the sort of thing one should say about a former mistress to their wife.

Seemingly, it did not bother his mother. Rhaenyra Targaryen straightened her shoulders and nodded firmly. “We must move quickly and send word to the men hiding in the Riverlands.”

“We must move faster than that,” his stepfather said shortly. “My goldcloaks are already in the city. They will answer my call.”

“Where did she go?” Abruptly, two pairs of purple eyes flickered towards Jace. “Do we know how long my grandmother might be away?”

“Mysaria did not say, but I think it likely that she’s flown west to fight the ironborn,” said his mother.

Shifting his weight, Daemon crossed his arms. “As we had hoped she would. We’ve prepared Greyjoy as much as we can and we cannot sit here wasting time. Rhaenys is efficient. She might be back in a handful of days. Rhaenyra, we must go now.”

“Now?” The queen said incredulously, but she still pushed herself up to her feet. “You intend to take the city in the span of an afternoon?”

“Obviously,” drawled his stepfather. “It is midmorning now. I will send a raven to my contacts in the city watch. In the time it takes to saddle up and fly to the city, they will be ready for us.” A pause. “There is no better chance than now.”

He was right, thought Jace, although he was not going to admit it aloud. Vhagar remained in the Riverlands. Somewhere, Sunfyre guarded Aegon’s unconscious body, which had been spirited away from the God's Eye by the Lannisters, and now Meleys had left as well. They had enough dragons, and even if they did not have enough men to siege the city, Daemon’s goldcloaks would make up for it.

“If it pleases you, your grace, I can fetch Nettles, Hugh, and Ulf?”

His mother looked away from her husband, eyes gentle. “That would be appreciated, Jace. Tell them to be dressed in their riding clothes and meet us in the courtyard.” Daemon’s mouth twitched into a crooked smile, triumphant.

Nodding, he dropped into a bow and the queen dismissed him. While Ulf and Hugh were chaotic with their schedules, Nettles, to everyone’s surprise, maintained a strict routine. Jace passed through the Stone Drum, weaving through a series of arches and doorways shaped like dragon mouths. Carved in relief on the wall, a snarling dragon stalked forward and he ran his fingers over the stone from its snarling snout to the tip of its tail. The castle yard was muddy from rain. Thin streams of water were still draining out of the mouths of the carved dragon waterspouts, dripping steadily down onto the stone.

As a boy, Jace had been enamored by the kitchens of Dragonstone. The building lay separate from the main castle, located on the western side of the yard. The stone had been shaped seamlessly into a sleeping dragon, and the smoke from the ovens was vented through its carved nostrils. Currently, they were dormant, but when Jace pushed open the carved door he found Nettles sitting on a low-lying bench.

“Jace,” she said, a bit disdainfully. “Why are you here? You know that—”

He shut the door behind him. “How did you know it was me?”

“You walk like a lordling.” That was unhelpful. “Same way that Hugh walks like a smith and Ulf walks funny ‘cause he broke his leg as boy. But that doesn’t answer my question—you know well enough that when I’m in the kitchens I want to be left alone.”

Walking over to the table, he leaned over Nettles’ shoulder. A fresh cup of yogurt had been set out for her, along with a spread of neatly sliced fruits from Essos. Pale yellow, star-shaped carambola lay next to fresh soursop and a pair of spiky, pink rambutan fruits. “You’ll like the carambola,” said Jace, reaching down to pluck a slice from her plate. “The rambutan too. Not sure about the sour—”

“Shut up!” A hand swatted him away. “I don’t care if you’re a fuckin’ prince, stop stealin’ my fruit. Don’t you laugh!” Nettles added, brown eyes narrowed into a glare; Jace tried and failed to suppress a smile. “You’ve been able to eat these kinds of things your whole life—I was lucky to get a wormy apple!”

Genuine anger curled in her voice. Jace immediately sobered up and sank down next to her. “Netty, I’m only here because its serious. I’m sorry.” A pause. “I’ll get you a pomegranate to make up for it. I promise.”

“Fine,” groused Nettles. Sheepstealer’s rider inhaled deeply and popped a carambola piece into her mouth. Her lips puckered into a smile, nodding appreciatively. “Well, tell me what it is.”

“The queen has summoned all of us to the courtyard, dressed and ready to fly. We’re taking King’s Landing.”

“Truly?” Her eyes gleamed bright with excitement.

“Truly,” answered Jace. “Finish your fruit. I’ll need your help tracking down Ulf and Hugh.”

As a peace offering, she handed him the other half of the soursop. “It’s not that hard to find them,” she said; Jace scoffed.

She ate quickly and efficiently in a manner that his tutors would have called disgusting and ill-mannered, but Jace knew now that it was a habit ingrained from her childhood, where meals would be stolen if one did not eat it quickly enough. When she was finished, Nettles stood, carried her empty dishes to the washbasin, and exited the kitchen.

“They said they had plans to go drinking last night, which means the boys are probably down in the village.”

She led him out the main gate and down a rarely-used footpath down to the fishing village in the shadow of Dragonstone’s walls. Calling it a village was generous. Ramshackle houses were built along the rocky shore surrounding a muddy trade square which currently sat empty. The only real business was a tavern that primarily served the castle’s garrison rather than the locals. Unlike Driftmark, Dragonstone lacked a proper port city and its population was scattered between dozens of little hamlets. Even then, most were sparsely populated, as the bulk of the island’s residents worked and lived at the castle.

Nudging the door open with her boot, Nettles slipped into the still quiet of the tavern. An exhausted barkeep was washing dishes in a tub, the slapping of the water accompanying the snores of the guards who failed to make it back up to the barrack last night. Sitting at a table, Hugh was idly shuffling a deck of playing cards; Ulf was fast asleep, neck lolling back at a painful angle.

Vermithor’s rider turned his watery blue-purple eyes to them. For such a large man, he was always quiet, somewhat soft-spoken. “We’re not late to practice,” he said simply, but the why are you here? was clear, despite being unspoken.

“There’s no flight practice today,” said Jace. “The queen has summoned us for battle.”

Hugh abruptly rose to his feet, his hulking shadow looming large. With uneasy grace, he kicked Ulf’s chair out from underneath him. The former guard hit the floor with a violent thump, jerking awake and swearing incomprehensibly. He flailed on the ground before he groaned, long and low, and sat up.

“What the fuck, Hugh?”

The older man shrugged. “Get up. We’re going to war.”

“My mother has summoned us.” Jace offered a hand to Ulf, who begrudgingly accepted both the help and the explanation. “Quickly, we need to change and assemble in the courtyard.”

Together, the four dragonriders ascended back up to the formidable fortress of Dragonstone. Jace returned to his bedchambers and hastily dressed in his riding habit. An underlayer of thick red wool to chase away the cold, followed by a set of stamped leather greaves, gloves, bracers, and a matching jerkin.

He was not the last to the courtyard, but he was certainly not the first. Dressed in crimson, the Rogue Prince was leering over Netty, who was half his height and looking up at him. Her eyebrows were drawn together, either confused or thoughtful or disturbed—Jace could not tell. As he approached, Daemon’s lilac eyes caught sight of him and he moved away from Sheepstealer’s young rider. The dragon scales sewn into his riding habit glittered treacherously, like beads of blood.

“Jacaerys.”

“Daemon,” he answered shortly, then turned to whisper to Nettles. "Everything alright?”

She blinked a few times. “I’m fine.” Uncharacteristically, her voice was unsure.

Before he could speak again, Ulf and Hugh burst into the courtyard, howling with laughter that died as they both noticed Daemon. His mother’s husband had become a regular occurrence at Jace’s training sessions and each of the dragonseeds had come to know him well. Hugh’s thin mouth pursed in displeasure, while Ulf’s pale purple eyes glittered with excitement, as shiny as stars. Daemon preened under the attention, shoulders straightening.

“Line up,” he commanded, voice sharp. And so they did, standing in a neat row. Even Jace found himself obeying, an instinctual response. Daemon began to pace before them, his red cloak swaying. “In a handful of hours, we will be at King’s Landing. You will obey my commands, as well as the queen’s, and there will be consequences for any missteps, intentional or otherwise. Under no circumstances, shall dragonfire be unleashed upon the city. Is that clear? My wife wishes to the rule the city, not over its ashes.”

A bell-like laugh. “Daemon, you’re intimidating them.”

“Good,” crowed his step-father, turning around to look at his wife.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms stood in the doorway, flanked by her two kingsguard. Clad in gleaming, ink-black scale, his mother looked every inch a Targaryen queen from old. The armor was as elaborate as any knight’s. The breastplate was chased with red enamel and golden filigree and her shoulder pauldrons were cast in the visage of Syrax, snarling. As a feminine touch, a golden girdle was tied around her waist, studded with rubies and black onyx and cast dragons. Jace spotted Balerion and Meraxes, fearsome Vermithor and gentle Silverwing around her waist. The miniature versions of Caraxes and Syrax were entwined in a mating dance, and below were Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes, and little Stormcloud. He was oddly moved to see the tribute to himself and his siblings.

Twisted up in elaborate braids, her hair was bright and beautiful beneath the golden rainbow of Viserys’ crown. How many pins had been used to keep that secured? His mother walked forward, slowed slightly by the weight of the armor, and stopped beside her husband.

“While we are flying off to war, I expect that there will be little resistance. The sight of six dragons will inspire many to bend the knee and the city is practically defenseless. I will earn the love of my people for not razing the city with dragonfire,” his mother spoke clearly and firmly, but her violet eyes danced as she glanced at Jace, softening slightly. “It is to be a show of strength, and the noble goldcloaks shall lead the fight on the ground.”

“You have been trained well,” added Daemon, shocking Jace. “Do not let your queen down.”

It took nearly an hour to saddle up and ride out towards the Dragonmont. As if heralding their departure, smoke spewed tumultuously from the peak. Vermax greeted him on the moor, clever thing that he was. Forest-green with orange crests, the smallest dragon on Dragonstone landed, nearly spooking Jace’s horse. The other dragons followed in turn. Yellow Syrax, huge and heavy, landed near his mother, with Caraxes in her shadow. Warbling, Sheepstealer greeted Nettles with a purr. While Daemon attempted to help his mother, struggling with the bulk of her armor, into her dragon’s saddle, Ulf and Hugh went to coax Vermithor and Silverwing from their mountain lair.

Vermax flicked the back of Jace’s legs with his tail, jealous at the lack of attention. Huffing a laugh, he turned away. “Hello boy,” he said, scratching the scales behind his crests. “Ready to fly?” Bright orange eyes blinked slowly, affectionately.

Only after his mother was strapped to her saddle did he mount his own. One by one, they all took flight. Syrax first, then Caraxes, followed by Jace. Twin cries marked the ascent of Silverwing and Vermithor, and Sheepstealer ascended last. His mother led them until Dragonstone was out of sight and Syrax dropped back into a more leisurely pace, immediately overtaken by the Blood Wyrm.

They flew low beneath the clouds, crossing the tumultuous water of the bay, and turned south at the tip of Crackclaw Point. Autumn had turned the warm and bright green landscape of the Crownlands into a vision of red and brown and yellow. Interspersed between stretches of forest and grassland, winding, minuscule roads meandered towards the various castle keeps, which looked as small as toys from the sky.

When King’s Landing appeared, a small red-brown smear on the horizon, his mother shouted at the top of her lungs, urging Syrax forward again. “Daemon, with me! Ulf, Hugh, Nettles, circle the city! Jace, to the bay! Burn the ships!”

Burn the ships? As Vermax brought them closer, small dots speckled the water. Boats, an entire fleet of them. Caraxes screeched horrifically and the rest of the dragons roared in answer. In the distant city, bells began to ring.

They drew closer and closer. Below, the smallfolk were shouting in panic and fear, many fleeing out from the city gates holding their children and what little else they could carry. Vermax passed over the Iron Gate and Jace found men already fighting as Daemon’s goldcloaks turned on their brothers. It was here, as they crossed the walls, that Jace broke away and swept east towards the bay. Several merchant cogs were trying to speed away to safety, but the warships had dropped their oars and were sailing towards the docks. Dancing in the wind, the silver and teal banners of House Velaryon hung from each mast.

His father’s house. His grandfather’s ships. His name was Velaryon, was it not? Once, these would have been Luke’s people. The wind and the sun brought a tear to his eye. Jace knew the truth. It did not matter that Laenor had loved him, claimed him as his son, taught Jace to swim and dance, and wiped away his tears when he wept. He was not a Velaryon. He could never be a Velaryon. Nor was he a Strong. All he had was his mother, her legacy.

Jacaerys Targaryen opened his mouth and said one word. “Dracarys!”

The first ship went up in orange flame, then a second, a third, a fourth. Tugging on the reins, he brought Vermax up high, out of the range of any archers, before diving back down as the arrows fell uselessly towards the water. Flame ate away at the wood, at the cream sails, at the silver seahorses that had once adorned Jace’s clothing as a child. It consumed men alive, charring their skin, burning away their hair, and the roar of the fire dulled the sound of men screaming. Some sailors jumped into the water to snuff out the flame, others jumped as they saw Vermax coming, more willing to chance their survival with the sea.

Smoke choked the air as the fleet went up in flames, filtering the sunlight red and strange. Jace weaved Vermax through the shadow, searching for any stragglers, any ships he might have missed. There was only death.

But suddenly, a shriek echoed over the Blackwater Bay, startlingly close. Vermax growled lowly and Jace took him out of the smoke, ascending back into a blue sky. Seasmoke barreled over him, speeding towards the city, and completely ignored Vermax, who must have been hidden from sight.

One dragon would not be enough to turn the tide of battle, unless it had been Vhagar, but Seasmoke was not alone. As the larger dragon curved into a turn, a second dragon was revealed, smaller, delicate, and a beautiful jade green. A silver-haired figure was strapped to Moondancer’s back. Her tell-tale Velaryon curls were flying out behind her and she was on a warpath, shooting like an arrow to Caraxes. To her father. 

Chapter Text

Baela, as she had done for the past fifteen days, rose at daybreak to hold council with Daeron. With her grandfather away, she was to take his place on the Driftwood Throne, where her grandmother once ruled, and serve as the Lady of the Tides. It was temporary, only until her grandfather and Alyn returned triumphant from the Westerlands, but the workload was immense and far exceeded her original expectations. She was to oversee the reserve fleet, inspect the ships, hold meetings with various captains, manage and read reports from the fleet anchored in Hull and the Blackwater Bay. And even that did not include the domestic duties of managing High Tide and Castle Driftmark.

As a parting gift, her grandfather had even briefly resumed public petitions, a practice that had been suspended since the war broke out. Smallfolk from Spicetown and Hull and the small hamlets made pilgrimage to High Tide, begging Baela’s advice and ruling. One man claimed his sheep had been stolen by a neighboring farmer. A middle-aged mother accused her goodson of adultery and wanted him gelded for shaming her daughter. Another man had been injured in the Stepstones and wanted aid and employment.

Her people trusted her and her judgement, even though Baela was newly sixteen and untested. She would return that faith by being just and fair and listening to their plight with compassion. On Driftmark, the war felt very far away, but her people were plagued by different problems. The least she could do was listen and help where she could.

Through it all, Vaemond’s son had been invaluable. Daeron offered his advice freely, nudged Baela forward, but never tried to force his opinion on her. When she asked questions, he answered kindly, patiently, in a manner that didn’t make her feel stupid. So, at dawn, they met in the Hall of Nine.  

Baela arrived first, throwing open the heavy oak doors, and wandered down the curving staircase. A mural of the Sea Snake sailed over her head, cutting through tumultuous waters. Even after all these years, she was still impressed by the hall's splendor. The treasures and trophies of her grandfather’s voyages. As she was alone, Baela reached out and stroked the smooth, fine surface of the monumental shell kept on display. She would have to get her grandfather to tell her about this one when he returned.

Fortunately, Daeron did not keep her waiting long. He arrived with a fresh bundle of correspondence and they began their morning reading in silence. There was little news to be shared. Her grandfather had reached the Shield Islands, but the fleet was still waiting for her grandmother to arrive. The ships posted at the Blackwater had nothing to report. However, there was one thing of note.

“The southern fleet reports that Lysene ships have been spotted in the Stepstones,” said Baela, setting the letter down.

Purple eyes glanced up to her. “That does not surprise me,” answered her cousin. “The Triarchy must be hoping to take advantage of the war and reestablish a foothold.”

“Should we be concerned?”

“Not yet. Lord Corlys left Bloodstone garrisoned for a reason.” A pause. “If Lys wishes to act, they must first deal with those men.”

Baela’s eyes flickered over a map of the Narrow Sea. “Will they need commands? The men there?”

“They know what to do,” said Daeron. “If you wish, I think you should write up what you would order. When your grandfather returns, it might be useful to compare strategy.”

Frowning, she glanced back down to the letter. This was the one area of her education that still felt lacking. What better place to learn about strategy and warcraft than in battle? And yet, Baela had remained safe on Driftmark, distant from the conflict consuming the mainland.

“I think I shall,” she replied.

Her cousin smiled, clearly pleased. “I would also be happy to trade ideas with you if you wish. I have here a missive from Captain Silver and—”

A horrible slam interrupted Daeron. At the sound, Baela stood and watched as the maester, a rather reserved and deliberate man, sprinted down the spiral stair. “Lady Baela!” He cried out. “Lady Baela! News from the King’s Landing! Dragons have been sighted.”

Blinking, she tried to stay calm and collected, as the Lady of the Tides should be. “Thank you for bringing this message to me posthaste, maester." She turned to Daeron. "I must find Addam."

He nodded, and Baela hurried out from the Hall of Nine, taking the stairs two at a time. Instead of finding her cousin, she went first to her bedroom. Baela kicked off her clothes and pulled her riding leathers on, yanking a long cloak over her shoulders to disguise her outfit. Then, she slipped back out into the hallway and ran out to the yard, where Addam was training with the master-of-arms. He had decided, quite recently, that he wanted to learn to fight; Baela suspected that he was going to pursue a knighthood, to follow in the footsteps of Laenor.

She leaned over the railing of the training yard and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Addam!”

“Baela?” He stumbled and narrowly avoided being smacked with the flat side of a tourney sword. “What is it?”

“Dragons! In King’s Landing!”

Addam threw his sword aside and, after hastily bowing to his instructor, sprinted towards her. “You’re not joking, are you?” He said breathlessly, eyes wide. Sweat was beading on his forehead.

“I’m not,” Baela frowned. “You need to be quick. The letter was sent when the dragons were spotted, surely by now they have descended upon the city.”

“I’ll leave right away.” Addam looked down, inspecting himself. “There’s no need to change. What I’m wearing now isn’t too different from riding clothes.”

She nodded. "It should work fine. Now, hurry! I'll see you out!" Grabbing his hand, she pulled him through the yard. Two guards opened the gates at her signal and they raced down to the beach together.

Her cousin paused on the sand. “Baela? In case I don’t come back, will you make sure that Alyn—”

“Come on!” She turned back and pulled him forward, voice tense. “We have to go!”

Fortunately, he kept pace alongside her. “We?” His voice was suspicious. “What do you mean ‘we’—I’m the one flying off to battle!”

“I know that!" Baela rolled her eyes. "You're going, and I’m coming with you! Now shut it, there’s no time to argue!”

There might not be time at all. What if they were too late? What if everything was already over? But there was no use for such thoughts, not now. Baela stuck her fingers into her mouth and whistled as her grandmother had taught her. Addam mimicked the gesture.

Seasmoke and Moondancer crested down the clifftop, landing in the sand. In lieu of her usual kisses and greetings, Baela simply pressed her hand against Moondancer’s flank, climbed into the saddle, and strapped herself in. From atop Seasmoke, Addam signaled that he was ready and they took flight.

They flew as quickly as possible. Even when she had been racing, Baela had never pushed her dragon like this before. Moondancer admirably kept up with Seasmoke and they crossed the narrow stretch of sea in record time. While the day was clear on Driftmark, the sky grew darker as they drew closer to King’s Landing, until the sun turned an ominous red and it became hard to breathe.

The Blackwater Bay was covered by a shroud of thick smoke. Was the city burning? A panicked surprise jolted through her. She had not thought Rhaenyra capable or willing to do so. But as they flew closer, shapes became visible in the shadow. Broken ships littered the bay, towering pillars of flame that listed and sank as fire ate away at the wood. Baela brought Moondancer low into the smoke. Bodies, charred beyond recognition, floated on the waves. There was one that caught her eye, small and scrawny, barely out of boyhood, who clutched a waterlogged Velaryon banner in a death-grip.

A cry burst out of her violently, a keening shout of anger. These were her ships! Her people! The wail was answered by a horrible crack and a burning mast fell in front of her, splashing into the water. It was too dangerous to be down here. With great effort, she tore her eyes away from the carnage and guided Moondancer up. Addam was there, waiting for her, his face twisted in horror.

In the distance, three dragons circled around the walls, one bronze, one silver, and one brown. Caraxes and Syrax were dancing above the center of King’s Landing in some facsimile of a mating dance—like this was all some game! Baela cried out and Moondancer broke into a burst of speed. Hurtling forward, Seasmoke’s shadow was a comforting presence, as his silver belly and wings enveloped her like a shield. Their dragons roared together to announce their arrival. To condemn, to intimidate. Caraxes twisted like a snake, snapping his long neck around; her father was a tiny, white speck on the blood-red scales.

Silverwing, out of all the dragons, reached her first. Coming from the north, the gentle mount of Queen Alysanne snapped her jaws at Moondancer, narrowly missing ripping the smaller dragon out of the sky. Distantly, Baela heard Addam shout angrily and Seasmoke bellowed, showering the elder dragon with grey flame. Sulfur permeated the air and Silverwing reared up again, reaching for Baela. From the corner of her eye, as Moondancer spun away, Seasmoke whipped his spiked tail into the side of the silver dragon’s face.

“Go! Baela, go!” Addam shouted. Brave and loyal man that he was, he turned Seasmoke hard and blocked Silverwing’s pursuit. “I’ve got this! Go!”

He does, Baela thought. He will be fine. Addam will be safe. While the old mount of Good Queen was nearly a century old, Seasmoke could match her, having grown lean and quick and dangerous during the Stepstones War. Whoever rode Silverwing now would not stand a chance against her cousin. Her brother. Her family.

Barreling forward, she continued her path towards Caraxes. What could she even do to him? To her father? Burn him? Try to reason with him? Perhaps she could—

Suddenly, bronze filled her vision. Vermithor surged towards her and opened his gaping maw, red flame glowing at the back of his throat. Baela dived down, pressing herself flat against Moondancer, and felt heat on her neck, narrowly dodging the flame. As they plummeted towards the red-tiled roofs of the city, a taloned claw tried to catch the smaller dragon in its grip. Razor-sharp nails swiped, but at the last minute Vermithor swerved, roaring in alarm, as Caraxes descended upon him.

“Don’t touch her!” A voice yelled. She realized with a hollow throb that it was her father’s voice. How long had it been since she had last heard it? A year? Glancing up, she saw Caraxes snarling above the Bronze Fury, chastising the dragon and its rider with flame. “Make yourself useless elsewhere!”

Reluctantly, Vermithor moved away towards Silverwing, who was trying desperately to avoid Seasmoke’s relentless attacks. Sheepstealer circled high in the sky, an ominous brown blot against the blue, but seemingly was making no effort to come down and join the fight.

“Baela!” Caraxes spiraled around her and Moondancer sang out in concern. “Baela! You wretched, reckless girl—what are you doing here!?”

She snarled. “What do you think I’m doing here!?” Moondancer tried to fly upwards, but found Rhaenyra, clad in a comically elaborate set of armor.

“It is not safe, Baela!” Her stepmother cried. “The dragons—”

“I don’t care!” She screamed. “You killed my men! You burned my ships! How dare you?”

Moondancer spat a ball of flame and Syrax lazily glided away, unwilling to harm her. Following after his mate, Caraxes ascended to eye level and Baela found herself face-to-face with her father. War had not changed him much. He looked the same as he always had, clever and sharp and confident with his silver hair loose around his shoulders.

He opened his mouth and he roared. No, wait. Something else had roared instead, drowning out his words. They both drew their brows together in confusion, a similarity which enraged her, and turned their heads down.

Bounding out of the Dragonpit, Dreamfyre took to the air. In the smoky sunlight, she was a brilliant pale blue, with the membranes of her wings the color of robin’s egg. Her silver horns and crests matched the silver stream of Helaena’s hair. As they drew closer, flew higher, Baela was struck by the sheer size of her. She was larger than Syrax, larger than Caraxes, than both Seasmoke and Sheepstealer. Over a century old, Dreamfyre was the second-oldest living dragon and, for the very first time, she flew to battle.

Almost effortlessly, the blue she-dragon clamped her teeth around Vermithor’s tail and pulled down hard, trying to drag him out of the sky. Bronze scales and steaming blood fell to the ground like rain as the Bronze Fury bellowed. Silverwing cried out in concern, abandoning Seasmoke to aid her mate. Before Addam could pursue, Sheepstealer tucked his leathery brown wings to his side and dived, blocking her cousin’s path.

The balance had shifted with Helaena here. While Vermithor was larger, Dreamfyre was swifter, and Silverwing kept pulling out of her rider’s attempts to attack out of fear of hurting her mate. Baela had never seen her cousin ride before and—gods!—Helaena was good! Flashing her pale-blue underbelly, Dreamfyre twisted and spiraled and rolled, dancing through the air. Blood dripped from her claws as a talon raked over Vermithor’s flank.

Meanwhile, Nettles, that strange, fierce girl, almost looked like she was playing with Addam. Sheepstealer made no attempt to burn or bite or claw; he simply twisted through the air, blocking Seasmoke from aiding Helaena. This left Caraxes and Syrax with Moondancer, who stood no chance against either. But Baela had a duty to this city. To the men who lay dead and drowned in the bay. To her grandmother. To her sister. And the rest of her family.

Caraxes began to move towards Dreamfyre; Moondancer glided beneath his belly and latched her needle-like teeth into the groove of his neck. It did as little damage as a mosquito would do to Baela, but it irritated the larger red dragon all the same. Rumbling, he shook Moondancer off and they fell downwards upon Rhaenyra, blasting weak flame against Syrax’s wings and face.

The yellow dragon lightly slapped them with her tail, a warning. As if this was playful roughhousing and not war. Yanking on the reigns, Baela pulled Moondancer up back to Caraxes, throwing themselves in front of his snarling maw. Her dragon’s claws scratched uselessly against the scales, but her father was forced to pull back as the smaller dragon came dangerously close to slicing out the Blood Wyrm’s eye.

“Baela!” Her father warned, voice distant beneath the roars and screams. “Cease this at once! I cannot control Caraxes forever!”

Instead, Moondancer twisted towards her stepmother’s dragon, blasting her with fire once more. Rhaenyra spiraled downwards, forcibly pulling Syrax away as the yellow dragon tried to snap as Moondancer’s tail. “Baela! Please—“

She did not care to listen. They went up again and bounced off Caraxes’ head, kissing him with flame and claw. The resounding shriek was deafening and infuriated. A jaw unhinged and all Baela saw was rows and rows of teeth, longer than swords, and rich red flame glowing. She smelled sulfur. Faintly, her father was shouting, voice oddly panicked.

Right as Caraxes let loose a stream of broiling flame, something crashed into Baela. The world turned itself upside down, a spinning blur of color and sound, before Vermax snapped his jaws in her face. Moondancer shrieked and answered with flame, trying to roll her body so that Baela was safe and shielded. The other dragon responded by locking their talons together and then they were spinning like falcons, twirling through the air.

It was dizzying. She was going to be sick. Her hair was blowing into her eyes and mouth and nose. Through the wind and the cacophony of the bells and dragon cries, Jace was screaming. “Vermax! Release! Let go!”

For a moment, the dragons parted. Vermax was covered in soot and Jace’s face was smeared with smoke, making his brown eyes unnaturally bright in his face. You burned my ships, realized Baela. Without thinking, she brought Moondancer forward. Her dragon took a swipe at Vermax, who, disregarding his rider’s commands to stop, darted beneath and tried to bite at her neck.

Here, their dance began, as the dragons took control. Moondancer twisted up and raked her claws over Vermax’s face, nearly ripping out an eye. Blood bloomed over his snout and the darker green dragon roared in fury, coughing orange fire. Baela felt heat and then she felt pain, brushing over her cheek and ear and oh gods—the sour smell of burning hair assaulted her.

They dived down at Vermax again. At the last moment, the dragon twisted away, lifted his neck, and took a bite out of the membrane of Moondancer’s wing. Dragon and rider cried out as one in pain, as blood began to pour from the wound. Suddenly, they began to tilt, losing balance; the elder dragon took advantage and dug his claws into the hole, ripping it open further.

Baela screamed and her mouth tasted of iron. Wings flapping, Moondancer tried to right herself, but they were falling. The world slowed at the realization. She looked up towards the blue, blue sky. Vermax was swooping towards them; far above, Syrax was circling in concern; farther still, Dreamfyre wailed as Caraxes crashed into her side and Vermithor bit a chunk of flesh out of her jaw.

Using the last of her momentum, Moondancer flapped her good wing once, twice, three times, and splattered Baela with blood. Her faithful dragon, her fierce companion, stretched out her talons and locked claws with Vermax, dragging him down. Moondancer opened her mouth and bit into the soft, weak-scaled part of the other dragon’s neck. And she did not let go.

Vermax cried, suddenly frightened. The city was closer now, as they plummeted downwards. Jace’s dragon flapped his wings furiously in an attempt to slow their descent, but only ended up spinning them wildly. Baela felt faint. Over and over, they tumbled, until Moondancer summoned some strength and used her good wing to shift the weight so that Baela was right-side up and Vermax pinned beneath her.

Down. Down. Down. Jace was shouting; Baela was shouting too, and a muscle twitched in her jaw. Moondancer bit down hard and ripped out Vermax’s throat.

She knew the other dragon was dead when she heard Jace wailing. Without Vermax trying to keep them aloft, they fell even faster. It would only be a minute now, perhaps less. Baela shut her eyes. Please, she prayed to any god who would listen, let Addam be alright. Let grandfather and grandmother be fine. Keep Alyn and Rhaena safe. Her last thought before she hit the ground was sudden and terrible and heartbreaking. Oh gods, what if Rhaena was watching? 

For a moment, Baela was dead. Or at least it felt that way. She jerked back into consciousness and found herself still strapped in the saddle, head spinning. They had landed in a plaza. Market stalls were still set up, peddling fresh fruits and fine bolts of cloth and little trinkets, but the square was devoid of people.

Moondancer groaned. Slowly, Baela undid her saddle straps and slid limply to the cobblestone. The ground was slick with blood, mostly from the mangled mass of flesh that was once Vermax. His neck had snapped in the fall, his wings were twisted at a cruel angle, and he looked oddly flat, smushed by the impact. Numbly, Baela searched for Jace among the gore, but her stepbrother was not there.

A whimper, somewhere above her. She looked up, blinking against the sun, and found Jace splayed out on a rooftop. He jumped, thought Baela. Blood was leaking from the corner of his mouth and both of his legs were twisted unnaturally, but he was clearly alive, chest heaving. Oddly relieved, she looked past him up towards the sky. Seasmoke was nowhere to be seen, nor was Sheepstealer, but Baela’s mouth went dry as she watched Silverwing, Vermithor, and Caraxes rip Dreamfyre apart.

The second-oldest dragon in the world toppled backwards and began to fall. One of her back legs was completely separated from her body and another wing was holding on by a thread of muscle and sinew. Fire had melted the leather of her saddle, leaving it loose and in pieces. Below her, a small figure was free-falling, completely aflame like a comet.

A warbling noise, followed by the sound of scales over stone. Moondancer purred at Baela, dragging her broken body off the corpse of Vermax. She looked so small, pale and dull. The hole in her wing was still bleeding.

“Moondancer!” Baela ripped off her cloak and sank down to her knees, trying to staunch the blood flow. She could fix this. It could be sewed closed, could it not? Her girl was supposed to be the next Vhagar, a fearsome old woman. This was not the end. It simply could not be.

Hot blood soaked her cloak and yet it still flowed, pooling beneath Moondancer like a twisted mirror. Her dragon blinked sadly at her, moaning. “No,” breathed Baela. This could not be it. And then her voice rose into a shout. “No! No!” There had to be something she could do.

Moondancer made a pained noise of distress, trying to raise her head. Panicked, Baela made a hushing noise that came out more like a sob. She abandoned her cloak and crawled through the blood over to her dragon’s face. “I didn’t mean to scare you, sweet girl.”

With great effort, her fearsome little dragon laid her head on Baela’s lap and cooed. She bent down, peppered kisses all over Moondancer’s bloodied snout, and pressed their foreheads together. “You’ll be alright,” she said, mostly to herself. “You’ll be fine. You’ll see. Oh gods,” her voice cracked painfully. “Please don’t leave me. I love you.”

Warm breath chuffed against her face. Moondancer purred once, and then she stilled. Screaming, Baela crumpled into a sob, a terrible wracking thing that shook her entire body. Tears streamed down her face, her throat burned, and she was alone. Truly alone, for the first time in living memory. 

She did not notice when Caraxes landed roughly in the square, nor when Syrax landed on the rooftops and Rhaenyra started wailing. But she did glance up when a steady hand fell against her shoulder and her father crouched down beside her.

“Baela,” he said simply.

Glancing up, she blinked through the tears. His face was splattered with blood and his hair was stained with smoke. There was so much she wanted to say, to scream at him, but she whimpered quietly. “Papa,” she began, as though she were a child of ten again. “Moondancer—she’s dead.”

She sobbed again, hysterically. Her father settled next to her and pulled her back into his chest. Refusing to be parted from her dragon, Baela fought against the motion before she gave up and cried bitterly. Hands smoothed over her hair, cradling her, and her father spoke softly, murmuring, until darkness took her.

Chapter Text

When the bells began to ring, Rhaena closed her book, walked out the door, and dismissed her guards.

“My lady,” Ser Wyll said, aghast. “You cannot expect us to abandon you. There are dragons approaching the city!”

Ser Gale nodded. “He is right, Lady Rhaena. We have sworn to defend you with our lives. Please do not ask this of us.”

“I must ask this of you,” Rhaena started, voice gentle. “There is nowhere safer for me to be than in the Red Keep. The people in the city will need your protection more than I will. Go to them. Keep the smallfolk safe.”

Bowing his head, Ser Wyll placed a hand over his chest, as one would do when swearing oaths. “If it is your wish for us to defend the smallfolk and aid our brothers in the city, we will go.” A pause, and he glanced up. His eyes were very brown and warm. “But at least let us escort you to the nursery.”

“Please, my lady,” added Ser Gale. “It would ease our minds to know you are safe.”

Rhaena smiled and was deeply touched. These men had been her protectors for nearly a year. She had become fond of them both - Ser Wyll for his kindness and warmth and his easy smile; Ser Gale for his intelligence and wit and how he chatted with Rhaena about books. “It would be honor,” she said sincerely, offering out her arm.

Surely it looked a bit silly, but she could not help but feel happy as each knight gently guided her by her elbows, escorting her through Maegor’s Holdfast to the nursery.

There was an anxious feeling in the keep. The serving staff were almost running through the halls and Rhaena wondered how many of them lived in the city instead of the castle, how many had families down there. Where would they hide, if the keep was breeched?

She shook the thought away as they approached the nursery. Ser Thorne, stony-faced, was guarding the door with his sword already drawn. As they approached, he stepped aside quietly, but did not sheathe his steel.

“Thank you, Ser Wyll, Ser Gale,” said Rhaena, throat oddly tight. Would they see each other again? “While this is no tourney and I have nothing to give you, know that you go with my favor. May you return to my side.”

Her two guards swept into a bow and her vision swam. “We will see you again, my lady,” said Ser Gale. He said it so confidently, so resolutely, that she knew it to be true.

“Farewell, Lady Rhaena.” Ser Wyll said, and both guards turned face and walked down the hallway, before vanishing from sight.

The kingsguard opened the door for her and she entered the nursery. Toys were strewn around the floor as Jaehaera and her nurse, a woman named Rose, entertained Maelor, who was gnawing on a wooden pull-horse. Even here, the bells were a riot of clanging sound.

Rising to her knees, the nurse curtsied quickly and walked out of earshot of the children. “Lady Rhaena! The Queen told me to expect you.” Her eyes flickered nervously out the windows. “What shall we do? The princess is already asking questions.”

“Is Helaena not here?”

Rose shook her head. A strand of blonde hair was slipping out from her wimple. “You just missed her, my lady. Her Grace came quickly to see the children when the bells started ringing, but she left shortly afterwards.”

“Start lighting candles,” said Rhaena, as her heart sank. If Helaena was not here, then there was only one place where she would be heading. “Ask Jaehaera for help, that should keep her busy. I need to close the windows.” The children did not need to see their mother in dragon battle. “Quickly!”

Despite her best effort, a note of panic was audible in her voice. Rose’s face crumpled with anxiety, but she turned and quickly crouched down by Jaehaera, asking for her help. Rhaena turned and nearly ran to the windows. In the distance, drawing ever closer, was a muddled smear of color, which quickly separated into six specks. One yellow, two brown, one green, one silver, and one terrible red. She swallowed and slammed the first shutter closed, hooking the latch together.

The nursery descended into shadow, but as the candles were lit the room turned warm, almost inviting. Maelor was bathed in a pool of yellow candlelight, turning his hair gold. When the windows were all closed, she settled by his side. He grinned up at her, his fat cheeks dimpling. “Rhae.”

“Rhae-na,” she enunciated, running a hand over his head. “What are you playing with, Maelor?”

The prince presented her with his gnawed-on and slightly wet toy. “Horse.”

“Oh yes, you love horses, don’t you?”

“Dragons are better than horses,” said Jaehaera, appearing from the gloom. A candleholder was cradled in her tiny hands, throwing her face in strange shadow. “Mae doesn't get it.” A pause, then almost shyly she added. “Hello, Rhaena.”

Rhaena patted the cushion next to her and the little princess sat by her side. “There’s nothing wrong with preferring horses.” She leaned over, whispering conspiratorially. “But once his egg hatches, Maelor will come to agree with you.”

She had seen the egg only once. A rich deep purple with blue swirls. If the shell was any indication, the dragon that would hatch from it would certainly be uniquely colored.

“His egg is taking too long,” said Jaehaera, authoritatively. “Something must be wrong.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I had an egg once, did you know? I waited ten years for it to hatch.”

The princess frowned. “What happened then? When it hatched?”

“It didn’t,” Rhaena lied. It had hatched and the creature that emerged was sickly and malformed and died within hours, but the girl did not need to be frightened. “The egg turned to stone.”

“I’m sorry, Rhaena.” Jaehaera set the candleholder down and leaned against her. “When father’s home, I’ll ask if I can pick you a new egg. Like Jae and I did for Maelor.”

Her chest was oddly tight. “Oh, Jaehaera. That’s very kind of you.” In response, the princess hummed into her shoulder. There was a moment of silence that was punctuated by a dragon roar.

“What was that?”

“It’s nothing, princess,” answered Rose, visibly shaken. “How about a story?”

The little girl was not convinced. Turning, she looked at Rhaena questioningly with Helaena’s deep and dark indigo eyes. “I think a story would be a wonderful idea," Rhaena agreed. "Why don’t you pick one, Jaehaera?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she was enticed by the offer of choice. “I want the one about Ser Serwyn. Uncle Aemond was going to tell me that one before he left.”

“See Serwyn and the Mirror Shield?” Of course it was a story about dragons. “If you wish, Jaehaera.”

Rose fetched the book and Rhaena hoisted it into her lap, flipping through the lovingly illustrated pages until she found the correct chapter. “Once upon a time, many years ago, during the Age of Heroes, there was a knight named Ser Serwyn,” she began. “While he came from humble stock, he was sworn to House Gardener, the great kings of the Reach.”

“Grandmother says that we are descended from House Gardener,” interrupted Jaehaera, eagerly. “Garth Greenhand’s daughter, Maris the Maid, married the King of the Hightower!”

“Is that so?” She said, a bit amused. “Then you descend from two kings.” And then continuing, “Ser Serwyn served his liege lord admirably and became beloved by the people for his great deeds. He once saved the dear Princess Daeryssa from being killed by giants and in return, she granted him the shield he became so famous for. It had been forged from beaten bronze, which was polished to shine as clear and bright as any mirror.”

Rhaena turned a page. “As you know, the Gardener kings had ties to the Kings of the Hightower. And so, when their kin asked for aid, House Gardener sent their finest knight. These were the days before the Doom, before Valyria fell and the Targaryens, our ancestors, came to Westeros, but wild dragons still roosted here. It happened that a fearsome dragon, named Urrax by the local people, burned down the Hightower and decided to roost on Battle Island.”

Outside, another dragon roared ominously. “How could he burn the tower?”

“It was made of wood at the time, Jaehaera.” Another shriek. Rhaena swallowed, and hurried forth. “Before Bran the Builder came south to make it from stone, the Hightower was made of simpler materials. But anyways, Ser Serwyn rode out from Highgarden with courage, for even a knight as great as he did not know how to face a dragon.”

“As he rode through the Reach,” she continued, “he encountered the people of Oldtown fleeing along the roads, afraid. They told him terrible stories. How the dragon was fearsome and ravenous and jealously guarded the island. By the time he reached the end of the Honeywine, Ser Serwyn was frightened, but he was resolved to stay brave, for his hosts, the King of the Hightower and his family, were the only ones with the courage to remain in Oldtown.”

“He spent one night there, feasting with them. At dawn, the lovely daughter of the king escorted Ser Serwyn to a boat and wrapped a ribbon around the hilt of his spear for good luck. Alone, the brave knight rowed himself to Battle Island and found Urrax.”

Jaehaera leaned forward, enraptured. Maelor, nestled in the arms of Rose, seemed content to listen to the sound of her voice. “The stories were all true. The dragon was large and terrible and covetous, having made his lair atop the ruins of the Hightower’s treasury. He was large enough to swallow griffins and giants whole, and his scales were the same color as salt. Ser Serwyn had slayed giants, and other great creatures, but Urrax was too big to be cut down by a mere blade,” she paused. “Lifting up his shield, Ser Serwyn crept forward, hatching a plot. He would sneak up on the dragon while he slept and cut him down.”

Another page turned. “Ser Serwyn knew how to be sneaky, even if it was unchivalrous. But dragons have sharp hearing, beyond that of man. By accident, our brave knight accidentally stepped on a pile of gold, and the simple sound of tinkling coins was enough to wake Urrax. The great dragon raised his head, looking right at Ser Serwyn, and—”

Outside, a dragon bellowed so loudly that it nearly shook the room. Rose screamed aloud and Maelor erupted into tears. “And Urrax roared,” finished Rhaena numbly.

“What is happening?” Jaehaera demanded, tugging on her skirt. “What’s going on?”

The nurse tried to recover herself, attempting to soothe the crying prince. “It is nothing, princess. Please don’t worry. Everything is fine.”

“No! You’re lying!” Her indigo eyes filled with tears of frustration. “Rhaena! What’s happening?”

Shutting the book, she pulled Jaehaera close, holding her hands. “There are dragons outside, but-”

“Dragons? Does that mean father is home? Is your grandmother back?” She pulled away, trying to go to the windows. “I want to see! I want to see father!”

Rhaena lifted up the princess, who kicked angrily at her. “You can’t! You can’t look, princess. I’m sorry.”

Thrashing in her arms, Jaehaera turned red. “Put me down!” She stumbled, nearly toppling over. While the the girl was only six, Rhaena was not particularly strong. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

Dragons shrieked again. Abruptly, Rhaena realized it smelled like smoke and sulfur. She twisted and put Jaehaera back on the ground, but grabbed the girl firmly by the shoulders. “They’re dancing,” she said quickly, lying through her teeth. “Sunfyre and Meleys, they want to put on a performance for you, but they’re still practicing. It’s supposed to be a surprise, so you can’t watch yet.”

“Really?” The girl’s voice was tearful.

Rhaena nodded. “Really. Now, why don’t we sit back down. I’ll finish the story for you. Would you like that?”

Before Jaehaera could answer, the door to the nursery burst open. Rhaena threw herself in front of the princess, shielding the girl with her body. A terrible fear seized her. Had the castle already been breached? Was someone coming to kill the children? But it was not a stranger in the doorway, some terrible fiend, but the queen dowager, wide eyed and tear-streaked.

“Queen Alicent,” whispered Rhaena, voice unsteady. “Your grace, what is—?”

“Get up.” The queen hurried forward, nearly running, and pulled Rose up to her feet. “Quickly, get the children dressed.”

Rose swallowed nervously. Ser Fell and Ser Thorne were both guarding the doorway, swords glittering. “For what, my queen?”

“Clothes suitable for traveling,” Alicent Hightower’s voice was feverish, frantic, cracking like a whip. “Go! Quickly! Rhaena, come with me.”

Nearly pulling her, the queen dowager brought Rhaena into the linen closet, where Jaehaera had hidden herself all those months ago. The door clicked shut and the older woman turned to her, brown eyes terribly bright.

“Helaena is dead,” she said.

Her hand flew up to her throat. “What?” Rhaena’s vision swam with tears. “That can’t be.”

"I saw it myself. Stop crying,” the queen commanded, blunt, even though her eyes were watery as well. “You cannot cry. It will frighten the children.”

She was right. Rhaena swallowed, blinked, and wiped tears away. “What will we do?”

“The city will fall. Jaehaera and Maelor must be evacuated to safety.” A pause. “Along with you.”

“Me?”

Alicent nodded firmly. Even red-eyed and weeping, she was still beautiful. “I promised your grandmother I would keep you safe. I swore it up on the Seven.” Glancing over Rhaena’s gown, a delicate thing of pale blue silk, she frowned. “Ser Fell has a dress for you. You must change as soon as you can, before you reach the roads.”

“Ser Fell?” Rhaena repeated. “What do you mean change?”

“I will explain in a moment.” She glanced back towards the door. “The maid must be dismissed. No one else can know.”

Before they left, Rhaena made sure she looked calm and collected. The nursery was in a state of chaos as Rose bundled Maelor into a little cloak, brown and drab. His sister was dressed similarly in a plain gown and apron, with her silver hair hidden beneath a wimple.

“Miss Rose,” Alicent said, voice soft. “You are dismissed. I recommend that you go to the kitchens. Much of the staff is hiding there. As I have told all of my household, I thank you for your years of loyalty and service. If Rhaenyra demands fealty, grant it. Do not throw your life away.”

The nurse dipped into a low curtsey. “Your Grace. May the Seven watch over you. Princess, my prince, be good.” Her eyes darted up to meet Rhaena’s. “Farewell, my lady.”

And then she was gone. The kingsguard entered the room, with the stormlander knight keeping his eyes on the door. “Grandmother,” said Jaehaera nervously. “What is going on?”

“Oh, my sweet girl.” The queen knelt down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You’re going on a trip with Ser Fell and Ser Thorne. With your brother and Rhaena.”

“With both us?” Ser Fell began, confused. “Lord Larys said that we would be traveling separately.”

His companion nodded. “He told me the same, your grace.”

“Plans have changed,” said Alicent. “You both will escort my grandchildren, along with my niece, Rhaena.”

That was the first time the queen had ever referred to her as such. Rhaena blinked, surprised. It sounded strange, but not unpleasant. “Where are we going?”

“South." A pause. "You will go south to my son. Daeron will protect you.” Her voice was reverent. “He will keep you all safe.”

Daeron. The youngest child of Uncle Viserys and his wife, sent off to Oldtown when was barely more than a boy. Rhaena had never met him, and she didn’t believe that her father had either. He must have been around Jace’s age, her age, but already he had seen more combat that almost any other dragonrider in the war. If the queen believed that he would protect them, then she believed it as well.

Wiping away a stray tear, the queen crouched down by Jaehaera, her brown eyes roving over her face. “You look so much like your mother,” she said, voice hoarse.

“Is mother coming with us?” Jaehaera pulled at her wimple, clearly uncomfortable wearing it. “Where is she?”

Alicent’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “No, my dear. She is not coming with you.” A painful pause, and then she embraced her granddaughter tightly. “Come now, Ser Fell is going to take your hand and take you somewhere safe.”

Leaving her granddaughter in the protection of the knight, she then picked up Maelor, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and handed him to Rhaena. The prince was a solid, warm weight in her arms.

“Your Grace, we must go,” Ser Thorne said, firm but not cruel. “My lady.” Gently, he led Rhaena out of the nursery by her elbow. They hurried out the door and down the hall, but before they rounded the corner, Rhaena looked back. In the empty nursery, in the low candlelight, Alicent Hightower stood completely alone and wept into her hands.

The pair of kingsguards rushed them out of Maegor’s Holdfast and into the lower courtyard, but rather than turn down the Serpentine Stair, as Rhaena expected, they instead made for the White Sword Tower. They entered through the ground floor and into the first room on the left. With narrow windows, it was a cramped and enclosed space with a makeshift straw bed and a cabinet.

“Why have we stopped?” Rhaena said, readjusting Maelor’s weight on her hip.

Without answering her, the knights moved the cabinet aside. Ser Fell took off his glove and ran his fingers over the stone. Then, there was a click, and the wall slid open, revealing a passageway. Like a gaping wound, it infected the room and turned everything dark and shadowed, stinking of mildew.

Rhaena sucked in a breath. She saw Blood and Cheese silhouetted there. Felt the weight of their hands upon her. Stinking breath ghosting against her face. Their voices whispering in her ears. Involuntarily, she stumbled back, afraid. She could not go in there! She couldn't! Certainly, there was another way. There had to be!

“Lady Rhaena,” said Ser Thorne, offering his hand out to her. “Please, come quickly. We must go.”

Swallowing, her tongue was thick and unwieldy. “I—I can’t,” she stammered. Maelor twisted anxiously in her arms. “Please.”

Ser Fell was there suddenly, his hand on her shoulder, and he pushed her forward. “It’s the only way out, my lady.”

She nearly screamed at his touch, jumping back, but Jaehaera gently reached for her hand. “Rhaena,” she said softly, sadly. “I’m scared.”

A breath. Then another. Thinking of Baela, of her grandmother and grandfather, she found her courage. “Do you know how the story of Ser Serwyn ends?” The little princess shook her head. “When the dragon wakes up, he saw his reflection in Serwyn’s mirror shield and went back to sleep.” They took a step forward.

“Imagine how Ser Serwyn felt. One misstep and Urrax would devour him whole,” continued Rhaena. “But he decided to be brave, so that your ancestors would be safe. That they could return home and rebuild.” Like a kiss, the humid air of the passageway brushed against her face, and she froze, shivering.

In silence, she stood, swaying, but Ser Thorne smiled kindly at her. “And what happens next, my lady?”

“He thrust his lance into the dragon’s eye and killed him,” Rhaena whispered. How many dragons lay dead in the city? How many would be dead at the end of this war? “The Hightower king returned home with his family and the brave knight went off on his next adventure. Do you see, Jaehaera? This is an adventure too. Let’s be brave like Ser Serwyn.”

“I will,” said Jaehaera tearily. “I’ll be brave like you are Rhaena, I promise.”

Squeezing each other’s hands, they stepped forward into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Baela awoke to a soft featherbed and silk sheets. Her eyes fluttered open to a room bright with warm sunlight, filtering through a gauzy white curtain. Sleepily, she murmured, rolled to her right side, and then jerked away as pain stabbed sharp by her jaw and ear, radiating out through her skin.

She sat up, dizzy, and raised a hand against her face. Brushing roughly over her fingertips, she found bandages plastered over her ear and down her jaw. Her head felt light and the back of her neck was cold, despite the weight of the bandages. Baela’s hand wandered further up her scalp and she discovered that her hair had been cropped short, with the longest sections reaching her chin.

“It had to be cut off,” a voice said, droll. “Don’t mourn the loss. Most of it was burned anyways.”

She turned. At her bedside, her father sat smirking. He was leaning back in a regal chair, posture loose, and had one leg crossed over the other. Baela could not guess how long he had been waiting there; it looked like he had simply dropped in casually, having come upon her by chance, but certainly he could not have known when she would wake. Unlike the last time they had seen one another, her father was clean, hair falling neatly brushed to his shoulders, and was dressed lavishly in a tunic of sable with the sleeves slashed with crimson silk.

Some of Baela’s anger returned at the sight of him, but also a strange, misplaced joy, as if she had missed him. There was grief too. Mostly, she felt oddly hungry and that her throat was dry. “How long have I been asleep?”

He tilted his head. “For a day. Longer than the maester anticipated, considering your wounds.” For a moment, his eyes flashed with something akin to concern or perhaps…regret? “Your ear, of all things, got the worst of it. The maester says it was remarkable that it didn’t melt off. If you are lucky, the scarring on your face will be minimal.”

“Whatever scars I have, I will wear them with pride.” Baela said, tilting up her chin. She was many things, but not particularly vain. “I fought well.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” scoffed her father. “You fought like an idiot. Because of the stunt you pulled, Caraxes nearly killed you.”

“You would have let him kill me?” She tried to mimic his mannerisms, the casual set of his posture and voice. “How cruel!”

He suddenly leaned forward, fluid and quick like a snake. “We both you aren’t stupid, girl. Even the most experienced rider cannot stop a provoked and enraged dragon. You knew what you were doing.”

“Of course I did,” Baela replied sweetly. “You taught me well, father.”

Huffing in disgust, he turned away from her, lilac eyes flickering out the window. “Not well enough, obviously. What would the Cunt Queen say? The Seven-Pointed Star tells us that all daughters should be dutiful,” he recited, mimicking the voice of a septa. “We both know what I think of that drivel, but I still expected you to follow my commands.”

“Your commands?” She laughed and the injured side of her face ached. “Should I act like a dog?  I know a number of tricks. I can sit, stay, and fetch.”

A warning note. “Baela.”

“When you say jump, should I ask how high? My apologies father,” she began cruelly, “for not rolling over and let everyone screw me! Although I suppose you wanted Jace to do that.”

Cold water was dumped over her head, as her father upturned a goblet of water resting on the bedside table. Gasping, Baela blinked as it ran over her scalp and face. It felt surprisingly soothing, once the surprise faded, as it ran over the burned bits of skin on the back of her neck. “If you want to act like a dog, I’ll treat you like one,” her father snarled, then he shook his head ruefully. “It was a mistake sending you to Rhaenys. She has let you grow wild, turned you astray.”

Baela had always been wild. She got it from her father, after all. “She’s raised me well, better than you have,” her voice was rising, steadily. “My grandmother is the only one who cares about what’s best for me!”

“What’s best for you?” He shouted, incensed by both her words and her tone. “I would have made you a queen! The most powerful woman in the Seven Kingdoms! How is that not acting in your best interest?!”

“You want that! Not me!” Baela bellowed. “I would be a broodmare! A figurehead! I want to be my own woman. I want to rule my mother’s house and honor her memory!” Still irritated from the smoke from the burning ships, she abruptly began to cough.

When she had finished, there was a quiet silence. Lilac eyes bored into hers. “The life that you wish for is one that some men don’t see,” he said quietly. It seemed that her father was no longer speaking, but rather the second son with no inheritance, forcibly married off at sixteen. “But it matters little now. You will not be queen.”

“I will not?” Relief rushed through her. “I will not have to marry Jace?”

A sharp laugh and his insolent attitude returned viciously. “Oh, no. You will be marrying Jacaerys. But you’ll get what you want and be Lady of Driftmark after all.”

“I don’t understand,” began Baela, as dread choked her. She had a terrible suspicion, but she wanted her father to say it. 

Lazily, he rose to his feet, smoothing out his tunic with a pull, and wandered to the open window. “Jumping from Vermax saved his life, but if I were the boy, I would rather be dead. Both of his legs shattered in the fall, along with part of his back. He will never walk again.”

Baela placed a hand on her throat in mute shock. “Why does that disqualify him from kingship?” She began weakly. “Uncle Viserys could barely walk towards the end.”

“Viserys was hale and healthy when he was crowned and remained so for most of his rule,” said her father, looking at her like she was stupid. “Jace would turn our dynasty into a laughingstock. No one wants a cripple king, who cannot walk, has no dragon, and…well,” he shrugged.

Is a bastard? Baela thought.

“It took some effort to convince your stepmother, but Rhaenyra came around,” he continued. “She always does. The Iron Throne will go to Joffrey. Jace will abdicate and become the Lord of the Tides.”

She nearly collapsed back into the mattress. Drawing a shuddering, ragged breath, Baela summoned up all of her anger and despair and disgust and channeled it into a look of hate. “You despise me, don’t you?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “You are my daughter, my eldest. I could never hate you.”

“Then why?” She spat, nearly shaking. “You deny me my inheritance, you—"

Frowning, her father wandered back over to bedside, looming over her. “It must go to Rhaenyra’s sons, Baela.” A pause, then almost reluctantly, he added. “As well-suited that you are for it.”

She ignored the compliment. “You shackle me to a man I do not wish to marry!”

“And is there someone you do want to marry? What about that boy, Seasmoke’s rider?” He spoke casually, with a boyish curiosity, but something treacherous lingered in his voice. His eyes flashed brightly. “When you hit the ground, he dove from the skies to try and reach you. That’s some devotion.”

“Addam,” Baela breathed. Gods, he should have been the first one she thought of when she woke up. She flushed with shame. “What happened to him?”

A smile. “Addam. Nice name.” At her glare, her father snickered. “He’s fine. Boy surrendered peacefully. Rhaenyra has treated him as she would any highborn captive.” So he was a prisoner kept in a nice room instead of a cell, like she was.

“I want to see him,” she said, voice firm.

Her father’s face turned as cold as steel. “What is he to you? A lover?”

“No!” She said, earnest and slightly aghast. That would be disgusting. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“You already have an abundance of brothers, Baela. I don’t see why you need more.”

“I have stepbrothers.” Baela liked Jace, Luke, and Joff well-enough, loved them even, but it was a distant kind of love. “It’s not the same.”

Focusing on her, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You forget Aegon and Viserys.”

The babes. One silver and one gold. Babes that Baela barely knew. She had been summoned to Dragonstone for Aegon’s birth and, while she missed Viserys’, she had held him when he was two days old. All grasping fingers and wrinkly, purplish faces. She loved them, but the defining emotion she had first felt upon looking at them, especially Aegon, swaddled in black and red, had been confusion. She had looked down and expected to see her own features in his face. Brown skin and Velaryon curls, like the brother she had imagined in Pentos as a little girl.

“I did not forget them,” she said, trying to succinctly explain the painful maelstrom of emotion. Baela was more stranger than sister to them, but that would change when they grew older, or at least she had hoped so. Rhaena was the one good with young children. Once they were dragon-riding troublemakers, she’d know what to do. “It’s just that…they’re not mother’s sons.”

Her father twitched; she had unnerved him. Silently, he examined her, his jaw clenched, eyes blank. “I might have expected this from Rhaena—your sister has always been more emotional between the two of you—if she had not taken to the boys so quickly, but you would truly write off your brothers because you hate Rhaenyra?”

“I don’t hate Rhaenyra!” There had been anger, yes, on that dreary Dragonstone morning when the woman had married her father. But then Baela had been whisked away to Driftmark. “It’s just that she—”

“She has only ever been kind and generous to you,” he said shortly.

That was true. Rhaenyra was kind to Rhaena, was a good mother to their new little brothers, and she had never attempted to replace Laena, which had won her Baela’s respect. But she could not honestly say she liked her stepmother. Rhaenyra was a bit overbearing, arrogant, and impatient, unyielding. Even though many of those characteristics described the Rogue Prince, they were well-matched, so much so that it often felt that Daemon’s daughters had to compete for attention with his wife.

“Rhaenyra always comes first,” finished Baela, frowning. “Before Mother. Before Rhaena. Before me.”

“That’s an exaggeration. You know that’s not true.” But his voice was distant, troubled, and cold.

She scoffed. “You’re doing it now! I’m only being married to Jace because you know Rhaenyra will be upset when she realizes that no one wants to marry their daughters to a man born under his circumstances!” That was putting it as politely and indirectly as possible. “I’m the best match he could make, because my father is the only man in the Seven Kingdoms stupid enough to agree to it!”

Her father suddenly was not her father anymore. The Rogue Prince stood before her, rigid and angry. “You are a child,” he said cruelly, even though she was by rights a woman in her majority now. “Don’t pretend to think you know what goes on in my head. That you know what your mother meant to me. What you and your sister and your brothers mean.”

“One day you will have to choose. You cannot have it all forever.”

“Quiet!” He snapped, face flushing. “Now that Jace is stable, Rhaenyra will hold court. You will be in attendance, as my daughter. As a member of this family!”

If she refused, he would simply have her dragged there. “I want to see Rhaena first,” Baela said simply. How good it would be to lay eyes upon her twin again. Was her sister well? Had she been afraid? “Send her to me. We can get dressed together.”

“Your sister is not here.” Her breath hitched. “She fled the city,” her father said bitterly. “I’m afraid, dear daughter, that you are on your own.” Without another word, he spun on his heels and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Fear came first, but then a wave of cool relief. Rhaena had escaped. Her sister was free. Baela exhaled shortly and managed a quiet grin, tucking her chin against her chest. Alone now, she raised a hand back up to her hair, twining her fingers through it. It felt oddly soft and, no longer weighed down by its own length, her curls were tighter, more coiled.

On the opposite wall, there was a mirror; Baela slipped out of bed, padding towards it. The woman reflected in the glass turned her head from side to side, examining the linen bandages that covered her ear and neck and the lower part of her jaw. Her lavender eyes were swollen and puffy from tears, but still determined and bright. Tight silver curls fell around her face.

She found that she did not mourn the loss of her hair. She had only ever grown in out in the first place because it made her resemble her mother, which pleased her father and grandmother. Shorter hair would be more manageable, certainly when it came to dragon riding…

Baela froze. There would be no more dragon riding, she realized numbly. No more afternoon flights. No more races. Moondancer was dead and she felt her dragon’s absence keenly in her chest, in the raw and sharp-edged chasm near her heart. Was she still laying there in the plaza, rotting away? No, certainly not. Her father would not have left a dragon of their dynasty rot away in the streets.

Morbidly curious, she went to the window. It faced the city and even from this distance, she could see the destruction. Nothing had been burned, thank the gods, but Dreamfyre had clearly destroyed a small, but visible, section of the city in her fall. The dragon’s body was gone, likely moved back to the Dragonpit to be stripped clean of flesh and scale. The crushed houses remained, a mess of brick and tile. Had they recovered Helaena’s body as well? Baela was not sure if she wanted to know if her father was cruel enough to let his niece rot in the streets.

A pair of maids came within the hour. Both were relatively young, perhaps a few years older than Baela, and were clearly nervous. Their gowns and aprons were rumpled, hair frazzled, and had dark shadows under their eyes.

“Please forgive our appearance, my lady,” said the elder of the two, sheepishly. “We have not yet had the chance to refresh ourselves yet. The keep has been quite busy, considering the…” A pause.

“Considering the arrival of our rightful queen!” The other maid finished, with a false cheer, smile strained.

Baela felt for them immediately. Smiling, she pointed loosely to her bandages. “There is no need to apologize. I am quite sure that I am not much to look upon now as well.”

“Nonsense! My lady, you are beautiful. We shall make sure you are even more stunning for court.”

Quickly, they helped her into an elaborate gown that had been brought from Dragonstone and clearly belonged to her sister, based on how it was almost an exact fit, just a bit too loose in the chest. It was made of black silk with red appliques of Myrish lace, embellished with pearls and gemstones. The sleeves were tight and the gown flared out at the waist, as Rhaena favored, rather than beneath the bust.

Where the maids struggled was with her hair. Rhaenyra, or perhaps her father, had sent them with a gauzy black veil to hide the bandages and the disgusted expression she was sure to wear during court. There was so little hair left that Baela’s scalp was more pins than hair as the maids tried to fasten the veil into place.

Not long after she was dressed, a goldcloak came to escort her through the castle and they arrived to a sea of black in the throne room. It seemed as though every member of the court had been summoned, squished together like sheep in a too-small pen, but all were quiet, seized by a palpable anxiety. Most of these men and women had favored Queen Alicent and Aegon, but now there was not a hint of green. As she was brought down the aisle, she saw that most were wearing mourning clothes. For many, it might have been the only thing they owned in black.

Baela was deposited near the dais to the throne, completely alone. Who else could represent their house? After all, Jace was bedridden and likely still unconscious. She realized, quite suddenly, that she had no idea where Joffrey and Aegon and Viserys were. Hundreds of eyes fell upon her, including a familiar pair of dark brown eyes in the front row.

Sticking out like a sore thumb, Nettles stood beside Rhaenyra’s other dragonseeds. Baela had yet to see who rode Vermithor and Silverwing, but she could quickly guess who might have claimed which dragon. One was hulking and impressive, built like a laborer, with eyes so blue and watery it was easy to overlook the violet tint to them. The other was leaner with cruel, pale purple eyes and translucent silver hair. Angry and red against his skin, fresh burns marked his face, less severe than Baela’s.

The men did not seem to know what to make of her, but Nettles inclined her head minutely and mouthed something unclear, the only discernible word being Addam.

Before Baela could figure out what to make of that, a blaring trumpet heralded the arrival of the Realm’s Delight. Rhaenyra appeared at the end of the throne room, with her king consort several paces behind her. Dark Sister hung from his belt in an obvious threat. Sewn from a thick black brocade, her dress was almost as elaborate as her armor, with rubies and pearls embroidered down the front of her bodice. The inside of her dropped sleeves were rich red velvet, and the train of her gown trailed behind her, embroidered with dancing dragons, as she began to walk down the aisle.

“Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen,” bellowed Ser Cargyll. “The first of her name! Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Our Lady of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Her head was held high, bearing the crown of the Old King and Baela’s dead old uncle. Stopping by the stairs, she leaned close to Baela, as though she was a dutiful stepmother greeting her wayward stepdaughter with a kiss on the cheek. “We will have words soon,” Rhaenyra whispered, but it was not said as a threat. Nor was her tone angry or upset, which unsettled her deeply. It was simply calm, level, if a bit self-satisfied.

Taking her hand with fondness, her father escorted his wife up to the throne and moved to the side. When she sat upon its jagged seat, the entire room held its breath.”

“It cheers my heart to see my colors worn so proudly by you all on this fine day,” she began, voice clear like a bell. “As many of you testified last night, as you reaffirmed your oaths of fealty to me, there has been a group of instigators here in my father’s court who have bullied and blackmailed and demanded many here into supporting my usurper brother.”

That was a poor excuse and from the edge in Rhaenyra’s voice, she obviously did not believe most of them. “There must be justice! Punishment for these acts of treason! Bring in the prisoners.”  

Members of the Small Council were forcibly dragged in. Tyland Lannister, still dressed in green, was forced to the floor by his long golden hair. Jasper Wylde, her grandmother’s courtly adversary, was red-faced and fuming. The grandmaester, Orwyle, cried out as his knees hit the ground. His maester’s chain had been ripped from his neck and his face was beaten and bruised. He had been the one to send the letter to Driftmark and clearly, he had paid for it.

Following them, the previous Hand of the King was stoically calm, face solemn and composed. Otto Hightower looked as dignified as he could be with his disheveled hair and clothing. As he was forced down, her father’s mouth twitched up into a delighted smile that quickly faded, as his longtime enemy resolutely refused to even glance at him. His brown eyes were trained on the grooves in the stone floor.  

The queen dowager was brought in last to a chorus of quiet gasps. Rhaenyra had fitted Alicent Hightower with golden chains, as though she was some wild beast in a fighting pit. They rested against her wrists as innocently as bracelets, but the skin beneath was already raw and red. Her warm brown hair was loose around her shoulders and ran like a waterfall down her back. She had the same eyes as her father, however hers displayed far more emotion. There was anger there. Despair, too. Grief and fear.

“The four of you stand accused of treason,” began Rhaenyra coolly, “for plotting to usurp my throne. Grandmaester, would you care to remind the court of the punishment for such a charge?”

Orwyle glanced up, lip darting out to wet his lips. “I—”

“Not you, rat,” said the Rogue Prince.

“The punishment is death, your grace,” answered Gerardys, bobbing his head.

Her stepmother smiled, sharp and broad. “Yes, it is death. And your guilt is readily apparent. Have any of you have anything to say for yourselves?”

“This is ridiculous,” braved Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws. “A farce! We are nobleborn and are entitled to a trial!”

A laugh. “This is your trial,” her father smirked. “Unless you’d like us to ask the thousands of smallfolk who witnessed the Usurper’s false coronation to testify against you.”

The stormlander lord flushed, glancing towards his quiet coconspirators. “I demand a trial by combat!”

“So you shall have it.” Rhaenyra leaned back into the throne and a strange expression suddenly crossed her face. Her hand waved. “Daemon!”

Quick as a snake, her father darted down the dais, drawing Dark Sister. “Give the man a sword,” he smiled playfully, twirling his blade.

“Now?” Jasper said, as a weapon was pressed into his hands.

“My wife is a busy woman.”

Surprisingly, her father waited for his opponent to make the first move. Jasper Wylde swung forward desperately. Steel clanged together, once, twice, three times. The stormlander fell back and her father increased the speed of his blows, flourishing his movement slightly. In less than two minutes, Dark Sister ripped through the meat of his belly.

The Master of Laws toppled forward and hit the ground with a terrible thump. Several voices cried out and Alicent squeezed her eyes shut, beginning to pray. “Guilty as charged,” commented her father, flicking blood off the sword. “Anyone else?”

“The Seven dispense justice,” smiled Rhaenyra, who made little secret of her worship of the Valyrian gods, as Baela did. “But let it be known that I am not without mercy. Maester Orwyle, you served my father admirably and did your best to prolong his life. My own trusted advisor, Gerardys, has spoken on your behalf and you will return to the citadel once my brother has been found. Until then, I believe you may find the Black Cells as a suitable place to contemplate your mistakes.”

He paled, turning nearly as grey as his robes, and was dragged away. “Lord Tyland, while your twin may have made his arrogance abundantly known, you have always been the clever one. My Master of Coin, Lord Celtigar, has asked for you to be sharply questioned,” Baela tensed, frowning beneath her veil, “about your management of the treasury, in hopes that he might acclimate to his role better.”

“And my stepmother, Lady Alicent,” continued Rhaenyra, her voice turning distant and cool. “I will spare your life,” brown eyes snapped open in shock, “for the sake of my father, who loved you once. But I am afraid I will not extend the same courtesy to you, Ser Otto.” A sneer played over her mouth. “You must die.”

At last, the Hightower Hand raised his head. “My work is done. My grandson will return and rip you from that seat, princess.” Baela reluctantly admired his bravery and audacity, but a dying man had little to lose.

Her father came forward, simultaneously eager and annoyed at the older man’s insolence. “I will cut your tongue out and feed it to Caraxes,” he said, almost gleefully. Dark Sister kissed his jaw. “You’ve lost, Otto. Any last words for me?”

“Alicent,” he said, voice level; his daughter shuddered and looked at him for the last time. “Do not weep. I go now to your mother.”

Her father laughed, but Baela knew that he was annoyed Otto had nothing to say to him. His shoulders were tense and his jaw was twitching. “No, you’re going to the Seven Hells.” Then, he sliced off Otto Hightower's head. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenys landed Meleys upon the towering peak of the stone ridge that housed Casterly Rock. Here was the highest point in Westeros that a man could stand, for this rock dwarfed the Wall, and even stood taller than the proud Hightower of Oldtown. Only dragon riders had ever been higher, but not even House Targaryen dared to build at such altitude, House Arryn notwithstanding. The ruined ring fort of the ancient Casterlys could still be seen, collapsed and slowly being consumed by moss. A short distance away, a more recent rookery tower stood proudly, buffeted by wind, and a gatehouse that led into the labyrinthine passageways carved through stone.

Far below, the blackened ruins of Lannisport were a blight against the serene landscape. The sea gates to the Rock were barred shut, but the harbor was empty, not an ironborn ship to be seen. Twinkling in the autumn sun, the sea glittered peacefully, deceptively still.

She dismounted onto the pebbled gravel and watched with quiet interest as the rookery door flew open; a maester, suspiciously blonde, rushed out and the wind billowed his grey maester’s habit like raven’s wings.

“Princess!” He stopped a moderate distance away from Meleys, who eyed the man with muted curiosity. “Welcome to Casterly Rock. I am Maester Gerold, at your service.”

“You have my thanks, although I must admit I expected to be welcomed by ironborn arrows. It was my understanding that Casterly Rock was under siege.” Rhaenys would be slightly wroth if she had flown all this way for nothing.

His face blotched and his gem-green eyes flickered away sheepishly. “The situation has changed, princess,” said Gerold, “but I assure you that the people of the West still need your aid. Lady Johanna will tell you more. If you would follow me?”

At her nod, they entered the gatehouse and stepped into a shadowed room with a staircase leading down. The air turned cool and quiet, like a cave, and the only source of light was the flickering torches. Descending, they walked for some time, before the stone passageway suddenly opened up into a carved cavern. Deep reds and glittering golds covered nearly every surface, emphasized by the flickering firelight. Sumptuous rugs, heavy curtains, tapestries, the chair cushions, cups, sconces, and more. In some cases, veins of untapped gold ran through the walls, almost glowing.

The Lady Lannister was waiting for her in their great hall, a room carved so tall and wide that Rhaenys was shocked that that the entire mountain hadn’t come collapsing down. Tyland’s goodsister was a Westerling by birth, perhaps a niece or grand-niece of Ser Harold, Viserys’ Lord Commander, but the woman had little resemblance to the knight of the Kingsguard. Sitting upon the lord’s seat, Lady Johanna was rigid and regal, with long brown hair and honey-colored eyes. Her lips were rouged the same color as her gown, lavish Lannister red, and a pearl hairnet was the most delicate thing about her.

She sat with her young son balanced upon her lap, a clear symbol of her status as regent. With quiet amusement, Rhaenys noted that the boy, Loreon, was the very image of Ser Tyland. With his molten gold hair, he could not look more different than his mother, and he sat quietly, turning a carved wooden lion in his chubby hands.

“Lady Johanna,” greeted Rhaenys, inclining her head.

“Princess Rhaenys,” replied the lady regent. “Our Hand of the King. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“But not quick enough. It seems that the ironborn have left your shores.”

Solemnly, Johanna shook her head. “The shores of Casterly Rock perhaps, but the ironborn continue to plague my son’s bannermen. They sailed north a handful of days ago and we received word yesterday from Lord Kenning that Fair Isle has been captured.”

A frown. “Word will need to be sent to my husband,” she began. “He set sail from Crakehall this morn with the intention of reaching Lannisport.” Knowing her husband, his rowing crew would be exhausted by the time they arrived.

“Fair Isle is another five hours by sea from here,” said Lady Lannister. “I would recommend instructing Lord Velaryon to sail to Kayce instead. It is two hours away, and Lord Kenning has already agreed to house you and your ships.”

“You work quickly.” It was the best option. If Corlys’ ships were to assault the ironborn, best that they only have to row two hours than five.

A hint of a smirk appeared in the corners of Johanna’s mouth. “My husband always said my best quality was my…efficiency. You are more than welcome to stay here at Casterly Rock until the fleet arrives.”

“No,” Rhaenys answered, voice blunt. The Lady Lannister did not seem the type of woman to be offended by being direct. “I will go to Kayce and scout Fair Isle ahead of my husband. Your goodbrother, Ser Tyland, has been tasked with sending me daily updates from the city. If anything arrives, will you forward it on to Kayce?”

“Of course,” she nodded. Little Loreon hummed, as if he was agreeing as well. “It is the least I can do. The people of the west will not forget that House Velaryon came to our aid.”

Bowing her head, Rhaenys placed her palm over the golden pin that marked her as Hand. “I serve at the discretion of King Aegon.”

“And we thank the king as well.” A glitter appeared in Westerling’s honeyed eyes. “But it is you who is here, my lady.”

“So I am,” she replied, secretly flustered, “but I must be off.” Rhaenys would need to scout the waters, to ensure they would be safe for her husband and their men.

Johanna waved a cream-white hand. A serving maid came forward and offered a bundle to Rhaenys. “Take this. Bread and dried meats. Let it be known that no member of House Velaryon will leave Casterly Rock hungry. When the ironborn are routed, return here and we will host a feast in your honor.”

She took the bundle gladly, feeling a bit peckish. “I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Johanna.” And then, she tilted her head towards the child in her lap. “And thank you, Lord Loreon.”

An earnest smile appeared on his mother’s face, softening her, and Rhaenys followed Maester Gerold back up the winding stone stairs and passageways. Meleys waited for her, nestled down against the brown grass and chunks of ruined stone.

She pressed a hand against the rough scarlet scales. Heat radiated into her skin, boring through the thick leather of her riding gloves. “I’m sorry to disturb your rest,” murmured Rhaenys; Meleys groaned. “Plans have changed. We must go north.”

Stretching lazily, the Red Queen rose back to her feet, shaking out her wings. Rhaenys climbed back into the saddle, secured her buckles and chains, and then urged her dragon back into the sky with a crack of a whip.

Dalton Greyjoy’s destruction was easy to follow. All up the coast, scores of fishing villages and one larger port town lay in ruins, blackened and reduced to ash. Nothing had been spared between Lannisport and Feastfires, but the trail ended where the cliffs near Kayce began. Jagged and rising dramatically above the ocean, the cliffs were a startling stark white, luminous with chalk, and covered with peaty moss.

In the distance, Fair Isle was a distant smear of shadow across the straits. Rhaenys flew further, skirting high, and approached the island from the south. It was mostly mountain, with ridges sweeping down steeply to the sea, and aflame with fall foliage. Deep reds and playful oranges and shy yellows. Here, Greyjoy’s trail resumed. More ruined villages, the smashed remains of ships, bloated bodies washed up on the pale, sandy shores.

Meleys brought them north, to the very tip of the island where Faircastle stood proudly on a ridge overlooking the sea. The beautiful keep that had once housed Rhaena Targaryen, the first rider of Dreamfyre, had been blackened by smoke and marred by the presence of black-and-gold banners emblazoned with a writhing kraken. Greyjoy’s ships were anchored in the natural harbor; with some difficulty, Rhaenys counted close to sixty, and a quiet unease settled upon her.

Corlys would be outnumbered. Quickly, she turned Meleys back south, hoping they had remained unseen. Approximately forty warships were sailing north with her husband. Even if some of the ironborn ships were small, prioritizing speed over strength, enough would overwhelm even the most expertly manned warship.

Warbling lowly, Meleys swayed, shaking Rhaenys from her thoughts. What was a ship to a dragon? She reminded herself. Corlys and their men would be kept safe. The Red Queen and the Queen Who Never Was would see to that.

She returned to Kayce, alighting near the low walls of Kayce Keep, and was promptly greeted by Lord Kenning. The lord was a relatively young man, perhaps in his early thirties, with an unlined face and copper-tinted blonde hair that clashed with the black-and-orange sunbursts of his sigil, which was worn proudly on his tunic.

“Princess Rhaenys,” said the young lord, awkwardly bowing. Unlike the rest of the men his age, he had not ridden off to war, but it was easy to guess why. He leaned heavily on a cane and his left leg was unnaturally rigid, refusing to bend. “Welcome to Kayce.”

She nodded in greeting. “Lord Kenning.”

“Call me Roland, your highness.” A sheepish smile. “I am still not accustomed to using the title.”

“My apologies. Did your father pass recently?”

Roland shook his head. “Oh no, he’s been gone for some time. My elder brother, Terrence, died last year and the lordship passed to me.” Grief flickered in his eyes. “As much as I miss him, I am glad that he did not live to see such times. But enough about me! Welcome to Kayce Keep. Please do not hesitate to ask for whatever it is you and your dragon may need, princess.”

“Meleys can fend for herself,” said Rhaenys, “but I would not be opposed to a bath.”

“I’ll have a bath sent for you straightaway,” he said eagerly. “I’ve vacated the lord’s chambers for you. If you’d follow me, princess, I can show you the way. Kayce Keep is not terribly large, but I would be remiss in my responsibilities as host if I didn’t give you a tour.”

Rhaenys pursed her lips. “There was no need to vacate your rooms, my lord.”

“Of course there was,” disagreed Roland politely, guiding her inside. “My brother was the one who could fight. I couldn’t ride out with the rest of my countrymen to the Riverlands and I couldn’t defend my people from the ironborn.” A painful pause. “Terrence’s widow was visiting Feastfires when the reavers came, you know. They carried her off with the rest of the women they could get their hands on. You’ve come to rescue us, princess. Giving you my room was the least I could do.”

Unable to answer, she followed Lord Kenning through the keep, oddly overwhelmed by the simple generosity of his gesture. He left her before the lord’s chambers, which were modesty decorated in plain, unembroidered velvets. By the standards of High Tide or the Red Keep, it would have better suited for a steward, or a particularly well-regarded servant, rather than a princess of the blood, but Rhaenys found that she appreciated it all the same.

True to his word, Roland had a bath sent up immediately. She scrubbed the scent of Meleys from her skin and, finally, the exhaustion caught up with her. At dawn, she had left King’s Landing with only a handful of hours of sleep. Now, it was well into the afternoon; once her hair dried, she lay down to nap.

She slept for a few hours before a messenger came and announced that ships were seen on the horizon. Rhaenys rode down the ridge to the water, bringing along an additional horse for her husband. By the time she reached the shore, the first rowboat had made landfall with a familiar, silver-haired man climbing out onto the sand.

Corlys grinned at her. In a rare moment of public vulnerability—there was no court here, just loyal Velaryon sailors—she embraced him first, burying her face in the sweaty crook of his neck.

“Rhaenys,” he said. A warm, rumbling laugh purred through his chest as he pressed a kiss against her temple. She breathed deep and recognized the familiar scent of salt and sea and pitch-sealed wood.

Her husband pulled away but kept his hands braced on her shoulders. “Corlys,” she echoed. “I trust your journey was well?”

“The men were not very pleased when we learned we must row another four hours to Kayce, but otherwise, it was smooth sailing.” Gently, he released her and half-turned to speak over his shoulder. “But first, there is someone who is quite eager to—”

A blur streaked past Corlys, racing towards Rhaenys, and, without ceremony, arms wrapped around her. “Grandmother!”

She was hoisted up into the air, spun around, and when she was back on the ground, a boy stood before her. Familiar features, echoes of Addam and Corlys, lived in the planes of his face. Collecting herself, Rhaenys sucked in a breath. “You must be Alyn,” she began, amused. He looked more like his grandfather than Addam did.

“I’ve been waiting forever to meet you,” her grandson said, grinning broadly. His violet eyes danced with laughter. Unlike his brother, Alyn wore his hair short, styled into twists that swayed playfully in the sea breeze. His ears were a bit larger, sticking out slightly, and there was a cleft in his chin, a trait that neither Corlys or her children had. My own father had a chin like that, thought Rhaenys. The memory of his face was distant, almost dream-like to her now, but she was confident. A wave of affection nearly overcame her.

Gently, she cupped his cheek. “As have I.” Ever since Jacaerys had been placed in her arms, she had been waiting for a grandson of her own blood. There was something vibrant in his face, so wonderfully alive. A swagger and confidence that reminded her painfully of Laena.

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” said Corlys, “as he did not come to court.” A good decision. She knew right away that Alyn was completely unsuitable for the stuffy, formal protocol of the Red Keep.

“And I wanted to fight,” the boy added. “Addam’s got Seasmoke and Baela defends Driftmark on Moondancer. I can’t just sit around and let them do everything.”

She nearly scoffed. Battle? Corlys caught her incredulous look and he spoke quickly. “He’ll be with me on the Sea Snake. Where it’s safe.”

“We can discuss such things later,” frowned Rhaenys. There was nowhere safe on the sea, especially in battle. With her hands resting on his shoulders, she steered Alyn towards the horses. “Lord Kenning is waiting. Tell your men, Corlys, that they have permission to use the keep’s garrison. All of his swords have marched east, so there is no one left to use it.”

Out of consideration for the animals, Alyn rode with her. He was small for a boy of four-and-ten, lithe and barely taller than Rhaena, only reaching her chin. “Tell me about yourself,” commanded Rhaenys, after her grandson had climbed behind her in the saddle. “Addam has told me a bit about you, but I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.”

A huff, almost suspicious. “What has he told you?”

“Only good things, of course.” It was true. Addam only had kind things to say. The affection he had for his little brother was apparent.

“Sure he did,” laughed Alyn. “Well, you know my name already. I love to sail, swim, and I can whittle. Really well, in fact. I could make you a miniature Red Queen if you'd like.”

She smiled. “Would you?”

“Yeah. Promise. I’m really good at it. Even Baela says so.” A pause. “What else? My favorite fish is cod. I like clams but I don’t like scallops. When I captain my own ship, I want to go on a great voyage, like grandfather.”

Another Sea Snake in the making, he was. “You sound like a sailor at heart,” commented Rhaenys, a bit sentimental. She had never known Corlys this young. Had he been the same at this age?

“It’s in my blood.” There was an audible grin in Alyn’s voice. “Mum’s got her trading cog. Her dad was a shipwright. And then grandfather is grandfather, of course.”

“Don’t forget,” began Rhaenys, slightly turning her head. “You have dragon’s blood too.”

“I think Addam has more of it than me, seeing how he claimed Seasmoke.” There was no trace of bitterness there. Or she did not know him well enough yet to tell. 

She hummed. “Your brother told me you had tried to claim a dragon.”

“I’ve got the scars to prove it. Doesn’t bother me too much anymore. Addam’s got the sky. I’ve got the sea. Seems fair enough to me,” said Alyn. “And Baela says Rhaena doesn’t have a dragon either, so we'll have that in common.”

“So you do,” she said thoughtfully. It might be good for Rhaena to have someone in her life who seemed so unaffected and cheerful about not having a dragon. When all this was over, maybe she could convince Corlys to let her bring Alyn back to King’s Landing. At least for a little while.

They spoke all the way up to Kayce Keep, pausing only to let Corlys and Alyn wash up for dinner, before continuing into the evening. Her youngest grandson was a funny one, charming and clever and unabashed. He was bolder than Addam, but a bit more abrasive compared to his elder brother’s easy charm. That might have been because of his youth. Most fourteen year old boys, in Rhaenys’ experience, tended to lack any sense of shame whatsoever.

That night, after months apart, Rhaenys slept enveloped in her husband’s arms, her neck tucked beneath his chin and their silver hair mixing together on the sheets. In the morning, they bathed together as they had done as newlyweds and broke their fast with their grandson. Kayce Keep spared no expense, despite the war and the raids and the changing of the seasons. They were lavished with freshly baked pastries dusted with sugar and honey, smoked ham, and creamy eggs.

It was shortly after they finished eating that Lord Kenning burst into the room with a frantic knock, flushed. “Princess Rhaenys,” he began, offering out a rolled scroll. “This was forwarded from Casterly Rock.”

She expected to see the golden wax that Tyland so favored, impressed with his personal sigil of a lion holding a coin between its teeth. Instead, marbled red and black wax sealed the letter shut. Viserys’ royal seal shimmered in low relief.

“Thank you, Lord Kenning. May we have some privacy?” Without another word, Roland left, his cane clicking on the floor.

Rhaenys stared at the scroll. Her thumb trailed over the wax, lingering long enough for it to begin to melt. Corlys sidled up alongside her, his presence steady and warm; he cleared his throat. “What does it say?”

With dread, she snapped the melting seal away and unrolled the parchment. A three-headed dragon stamped in red ink greeted her. Below, in an elaborate, embellished script, there was a simple command.

Rejoice! It began. On the twelfth day of the second moon, our rightful queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, claimed King’s Landing from the usurper…

The words swam before her eyes and, suddenly, a moan burst out of Rhaenys as she buckled forward. The letter slipped from her hands and fell pathetically to the floor. Rhaena! Her aged knees felt weak, quivering, and unsteady. Nearly falling, she stumbled to a nearby chair, bracing herself. Oh, Rhaena! Her fears had come true. Was her granddaughter safe? Had Alicent managed to spirit her away? Pressed against her forehead, the solid wood of the back of the chair was almost grounding. Almost.

Distantly, she noted that Corlys bent down and took the letter in hand. “What does it say?” Alyn hissed. “What’s wrong with grandmother?”

He was silent for a long time. Then, the parchment crumpled in his fist. A hand rested on her back, half an effort to comfort her and half an attempt to keep himself upright. “Rhaenyra has taken King’s Landing.”

“That’s impossible!” Hands came up and ran angrily over Alyn's young face. “Grandmother has only been away for two days!”

With disgust, the letter was thrown onto the table. “It was sent with the royal seal,” explained Corlys patiently, even though his voice was strained. “It must be true.”

Alyn’s chair screeched as he rose to his feet. “What about Addam!?” His voice rose with something akin to panic, for once sounding like the young boy he was. Oh gods, Rhaenys thought perilously. If all had gone as planned, Addam would have come to defend the city. A stab of pain plunged through her abdomen and she nearly buckled over again.

“He isn’t mentioned, Alyn.” The hand on her back shook.

Slowly, Rhaenys pushed herself upright. “We must assume he was there,” she began, taking a breath. “These types of royal edicts are meant to celebrate Rhaenyra’s victory. Addam would not be mentioned, not even if he was—”

“If he was dead?” Alyn spat, snaking with either anger or anguish. “He can’t be dead! He can’t be! He wouldn’t leave me behind!”

Rhaenys imagined Caraxes ripping Seasmoke from the sky, slaughtering two of Laenor’s last remnants on this earth—his dragon and his son. The vision was so vivid that bile burned in her mouth.

“As news trickles out of the city, we will learn the truth,” said Corlys, walking over to comfort their grandson. He placed a hand on Alyn’s shoulder and clumsily drew him close. “Rhaenyra is not stupid. She knows that Addam would be a valuable hostage.”

He would also be a threat. A living embodiment of Jace and Joffrey’s illegitimacy. If he had been captured, Addam would be entirely defenseless, so easy to put to the sword. Or to arrange an accident like the one that had befallen his father. The memory of Laenor’s charred body came unbidden, followed by reminders of all the other suffering her family had endured. Laena’s bones slipping into the sea. Vaemond’s blood pooling over the floor of the Red Keep. Rhaenys envisioned Driftmark under attack. Baela entirely alone. She thought of Rhaena and Daemon’s assassins laying their filthy, bloodstained hands upon her.

A breath, heaving and sharp. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the chair. Across the room, Corlys cupped Alyn’s cheek. “Rhaenyra has summoned the lords to the city for the anniversary of Viserys’ death.” In less than a moon’s turn. “To swear fealty to her and her heir. We can send a spy,” he paused. “Someone who can report back what’s truly happening. To find Addam.”

Rhaenys stood. “No.”

“No?” Her husband echoed.

“I will not wait around and abandon our grandchildren to Rhaenyra’s mercy. Send word to your ships, Corlys. We sail for Faircastle now. And when the ironborn have paid for their crimes with fire and blood,” her voice rose suddenly, “we will sail back to King’s Landing and rip Rhaenyra from that throne.”

Corlys looked at her the same way he had all those years ago when he had sworn to make her his queen. "My lady,” he said reverently. “I will see it done. Alyn, with me.”

But she followed quickly, seizing her husband by the crook of his arm. “You will keep him safe,” she whispered into his ear. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” Her husband swore, his violet eyes bright and earnest.

While Corlys summoned his sailors to begin the march down to the ships, Rhaenys went out near the cliffs and found Meleys. The Red Queen lounged near the cliff side, her tail swinging over the edge. Almost crankily, a rumble sounded through her chest.

“You are in an irritable mood,” Rhaenys whispered, pressing her forehead against Meleys’ jaw. “Could you sense it? When King’s Landing fell?”

Tell me, is Seasmoke alive? Is Addam safe? What of Baela and Rhaena? Rhaenys thought, praying to her dragon as if she were a god. One of the Fourteen Flames reborn. Meleys said nothing and only blew a chuffing breath over her hair.

Heat radiated from her red scales. “I am angry,” she confessed. “Perhaps you are upset because I am. They have taken the city, Meleys. The woman who killed my son might have killed my grandson.” And who knew where Rhaena was? “My granddaughter might be her captive. How much more can she take from me?”

Stepping back, she ran a hand over one of the she-dragon's crests. “We must make them pay. Today, you and I fly to battle, old girl.”

Meleys snorted, as though to say we are both old women. With a final caress, Rhaenys climbed up into the saddle, methodically securing the straps and chains around her. They waited for a time in silence, listening to the crashing sound of the sea and the gentle breeze.

As Corlys' sails appeared around the cliffs, the Red Queen took flight. It was a cloudy, blustery day, which carried their ships swiftly to Fair Isle. Circling protectively, Rhaenys brought them up high into the cloud cover before they approached Fair Castle, where Greyjoy had based himself. Let them see the ships, but not her. Let the ironborn experience the horrible surprise their victims had felt when the iron fleet first raided western shores.

Up, up, up they went, until the clouds vanished and a great, bright blue sky opened up above them. The sun felt painfully bright, but cold. At this altitude, Rhaenys’ breath came out in puffs of steam that were swiftly stolen by the wind. Meleys' crimson scales glittered beautifully.

She listened for a long time. Ice crystals formed in her hair, dampened by cloud vapor, and Meleys groused, displeased by the chill. And then, at last, the faint sound of shouting, of wood splintering. With a glad cry and a crack of her whip, Rhaenys urged Meleys into a dive.

They plunged through the cloud cover to a battlefield. The ironborn were swift sailors, she had to admit; in the time Rhaenys had been lying in wait, the first wave of ships had met with the Velaryon fleet. Several were already listing and, in the distance, the bulk of Greyjoy's fleet was making haste out of the harbor of Faircastle. The Sea Snake, an old, familiar beauty, cut through the water, leading the charge.

Angling north, she swept over the ironborn ships, targeting the ones that had yet to weigh anchor and the little rowboats full of sailors trying to board their vessels. Rhaenys shouted at the top of her lungs - Dracarys! - and scarlet flame erupted from Meleys' maw. The little ships went up like kindling. As they burned, a commotion started in the castle. Distant shouts rose as the people rose up against their ironborn captors. Those still left on the shore were attacked by the smallfolk. In the tallest tower of Faircastle, a man was thrown from a window, crashing down into the courtyard.

She turned back south when all the ships in the harbor were burning. Perhaps twenty had been engulfed in flame, but nearly another thirty had advanced towards Corlys, including a behemoth flagship that flew Greyjoy’s banners. The kraken flapped innocuously in the breeze, almost mocking her.

As Meleys approached the rear, something shot past her. It was longer than an arrow, close to the size of a spear, and heavy, falling into the water with a crash. Another followed, whooshing over Meleys’ wing. Rhaenys laughed in surprise. Scorpion bolts! The reavers had fitted their ships with scorpions!

There was another distant cracking sound as Corlys rammed into another ship, the bronze figurehead breaking apart the hull. They were doing well and Rhaenys would not fail them. Easing Meleys into a more cautious spin, they dodged another bolt and burned another ship. Then, she moved to the next closest boat and the she-dragon ripped a scorpion from the deck.

Up they went again, weaving through the breeze. Meleys' wings flapped strongly, fiercely, and each spew of dragon flame was heralded by a terrible roar. Rhaenys roared with her, almost smiling. This was for the innocents. The old men and little children killed along the coastline. For the women and girls carried off as war prizes, raped and murdered. This was for Rhaena and Baela, for Addam and Alyn. For Corlys. For Laena. For Laenor. For herself.

Rhaenys reached Greyjoy’s flagship before Corlys did and, for the first time, she let Meleys play with her food. They tore the mast off, plucked men from the deck and sent them careening into the sea. A young man in black and gold glared hatefully at her from the helm as he rolled away from a jet of flame. She spun elegantly past whistling scorpion bolts, igniting the broken splinter of the mast and the portside.  Then, the Red Queen alighted on the burning deck, leering over Dalton Greyjoy.

Meleys’ jaws ensnared him, severing his torso from his legs. The she-dragon shook the body like a ragdoll and then threw it into the water with something akin to disgust. He was not worth eating. 

They took flight again. Between Corlys and the Red Queen, few ships remained. But as they approached a modestly-sized warship, jaws open and waiting to spit dragon flame, something strange happened.

A sharp pain tore through the roof of her mouth; Rhaenys tasted iron on her tongue and her vision was abruptly obscured by dark spots. Beneath her, Meleys shuddered, twitching unnaturally from snout to spine. She cried out in confusion, nearly collapsing against the saddle horn.

Like a scab was ripped away from a still-healing wound, so too did her chest ache as something violently vanished, leaving behind a vast emptiness. There was a popping sound in her nose and a wet sensation as blood ran down her lips. Blinking, Rhaenys shook her head and her vision returned, blurry and red.

There was a scorpion bolt sticking out of Meleys’ head. The Red Queen’s face was stuck mid-roar, her jaw held open by the rod of metal that tore through the roof of her mouth and erupted out of her skull in a mess of blood, bone, and brain.

What were the odds? The first Rhaenys had been brought down by a miraculous shot. Now, one hundred and twenty years later, it had happened again. Meleys’ wings stuttered, as though her dragon was fighting to stay alive, to survive against all odds, and then went still.

Numbly, Rhaenys registered that they were falling. The ship that had shot the bolt was cheering, but the triumphant shouting quickly turned to panic as they realized Meleys was plummeting towards them. She turned her head; the Sea Snake was not far, rowing furiously towards her. For a moment, Rhaenys thought she saw a silver-haired figure dive into the water.

She fumbled with the buckles and chains. Her fingers felt clumsy and stiff, slick with blood. “Meleys,” she said, even though the she-dragon could not hear her anymore. “Thank you for everything.”

As the chains came free, the corpse of the Red Queen crashed into the top of the boat’s mast. The impact threw her violently back up into the air before she began to fall down towards the sea, churning with blood and broken wood.

Father, I’m coming, thought Rhaenys, and then she hit the water.

END OF PART TWO

Chapter Text

There was a small, black fly on the wall of the lord’s solar in Harrenhal.

With his hands clasped neatly behind his back, Ser Criston Cole’s dark brown eyes were fixed on the insect, face stoic as a pitcher shattered against the floor.

“Lies! These are all lies!” Aemond Targaryen, the kinslayer, gestured angrily at an innocuous letter laid open upon the table. “A trick meant to draw me out.”

The kingsguard cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from the fly. “It was sent with the royal seal, my prince.”

A scoff, made harsher by how it twisted the prince’s face. “I am not blind, Criston. I would not put it past my sister and her wretched husband to have a forgery made.”

“Yet the maester claims the raven came from King’s Landing.”

Jaw twitching, the prince faced his mentor, who looked woefully out of place in the charred gloom with his sparking white armor. “Perhaps the maester cannot be trusted.”

A very complex emotion flickered over the knight’s face. Annoyance, disappointment, and then resignation. “You have grown paranoid here.”

“And you have grown complacent!”

Stoicism melted away as irritation transformed venerable knight into man. Cole’s eyes turned cold, despite the warm brown of his iris. “I ask forgiveness, my prince," he said. "It is difficult to perform my duties when my charge repeatedly refuses to take action.”

“Take action?” The one-eyed prince’s voice was low, terse. “I have taken action.” His arm swept angrily through the air. “I have done everything in my power to ensure that we will retain Harrenhal. To defend it.”

“Defend it against who?” Cole said sharply, uncharacteristically harsh with his royal charge. “No one is coming, Aemond.”

Almost childishly, the boy stomped his foot, slamming his hand on the table. “They will come!” He insisted. “I ride Vhagar! The largest dragon in the world is under my command! I have taken their stronghold in the Riverlands. My uncle will face me. He will.”

“What is Harrenhal compared to the Red Keep?” A finger, encased in a spiked glove of white enamel, pointed at the forgotten letter. “They have taken the city. The throne. By now, your grandfather is surely dead, and your mother—”

“It is always about my mother with you.” Aemond’s lone violet eye narrowed; a cruel smirk played over his mouth. “I’ve seen how you look at her when you think no one else is watching. She’s never going to give you what you want.”

The fly buzzed on the wall. Swallowing, the knight’s face shuttered entirely. “You are grieving,” he said bluntly, ignoring the prince’s insinuation, “so I will keep this simple. Tomorrow morning, I am marching south with the army. For your mother’s sake, and out of my own love for you, I will leave three hundred men to garrison Harrenhal, but the remaining three thousand will go with me.”

“You’re leaving?” The kinslayer laughed in disbelief. “You are under my command, Criston.”

“No,” said the knight. “I am under the command of the king. Aegon has gone into hiding, but surely Lord Tarbeck knows where he could be found. The Lannister host remains camped on the western shore—surely your brother cannot be far.” A pause. “Come with us, Aemond. Please. This place is not good for you.”

A long silence. “Go then,” spat the prince bitterly. “I don’t need you. Vhagar and I will hold Harrenhal on our own.”

Bowing his head, Ser Cole headed for the door, his armor clinking softly and his white cloak billowing out. He paused in the threshold, his dark wavy hair curling around his ears, and glanced back once at the prince, the boy he had helped raise. Without farewell, he vanished from view.

The fly left the wall, buzzing through the air. Alone, Aemond grimaced at the shattered porcelain pitcher and then, quick as a cat, slapped the fly out of the air as it flew close to his ear.

Several rooms away, Alys opened her eyes.

She was kneeling before the hearth, face angled towards the flame, and itchy in the ill-suited gown that she recalled once belonged to Simon's wife. It was green, noxiously so, and Alys suspected the color was the only reason why Aemond One-Eye had commanded her to wear it. 

Along with her father and brother, the lord’s chambers had been reduced to ash. Many things had been in the fire all those years ago. Where Lyonel would have labored to rebuild, Larys, the special man her baby brother was, had left it all to rot. An offering. A sacrifice. With the lord’s rooms denied to him, the kinslayer occupied the apartments in the Widow’s Tower instead, where Rhaena Targaryen once lived; it was here that Alys had found herself imprisoned.

How was her favorite brother doing? He was not dead—she would have seen it. Felt it. If King’s Landing had fallen, Larys would have slipped away as Alys taught him to. She considered looking for him in the flame, but decided against it. He liked his privacy and Aemond was surely on his way. Besides, whenever she had tried to see into the fire or into a still pool of water or through the leaves in the trees, her gods kept showing Alys the same thing. The pale boy asleep on a bed of gold, surrounded by crying weirwoods.

Behind her, the lock clicked and the heavy wooden door creaked open. “Alys?”

“I’m here,” she said, biting back a frown.

Footsteps drew near and a pair of sturdy, well-oiled leather boots stopped to her left. “What are you doing?” Aemond said shortly.

“I was looking for something,” answered Alys.

“In the fire?” Firmly, he grabbed her arm. “Get up. You’ll get ash on your dress.”

She flashed an empty smile. “Finery like this is wasted on me, my lord. I’ll ruin it, like the others.” Abruptly, the velvet felt unbearable. Too soft, too sumptuous. Alys longed for her roughspun wools and linens, her loose, dirty dresses and her grass-stained stockings.

“I like you in finery,” the prince said. “It suits you.”

It makes it easy to pretend I’m not a bastard, Alys thought. A baseborn slattern. What suited her was her cottage. The moth-eaten dress and her good apron—the one with deep pockets for herbs and flowers. Dirt under her nails and her hair frizzy from steam while brewing tinctures.

She should have never come here. A woman of her age should have known better. She had seen the dragon—fearsome, terrible Vhagar—in the water of the babbling brook, seen her scales in the stormclouds. That should have been enough, yet she had come all the same, the childish wonder she thought had been beaten out of her taking over. Alys returned to Harrenhal’s motherly embrace and found only death. Her cousins beheaded. All the little children she had once nursed at her breast executed in the yard. Even the women had not been spared.

Some she would mourn, like Marissa, her youngest half-sister. Others had deserved to die. But they should have been killed by Alys’ own hand, or at least swallowed up by the castle, like so many that had come before. Instead, their executioner had been a boy-prince who didn’t even have a Valyrian steel sword! It felt unfair.

“You flatter me, m’lord,” she said at last.

“My lord,” he corrected absentmindedly. “Come, I wish to speak to you.”

He guided her to the four-poster bed, sat her down upon the mattress like a girl would arrange a doll, and then laid his head down in her lap. Servants whispered that she was his bedmate, but the princeling had never attempted to even kiss her. A shame really. It would have been easier to manipulate him if he had. Rather, he preferred to touch her, to hold and be held. To share their meals together in some mummer’s farce of domesticity. Alys as the lady wife and Aemond as the ruling lord, a second son no longer.

“Criston is leaving,” said Aemond.

She ran her fingers over the band of his eyepatch, stroking his hair. “Yes, I know. In the morning.”

His good eye blinked. “You know? How could you possibly know? Did he speak to you?”

“Foolish boy,” Alys said unkindly. “He did not speak with me. I saw it.”

“I told you to stop lying about such things. Half the castle is convinced you are a witch.”

She was many things. A bastard. A midwife, wet nurse, and healer. Daughter, sister, mother. A gardener, a hunter, a butcher. Her father’s greatest shame. A whore, a disgrace. And, most certainly, a witch.

“Only half?” Alys pouted, then she added, quite innocently. “It is a shame he is leaving. I was hoping Ser Cole would finally come around on me. Will you march with him?”

He was silent for a long time, but she did not dare to hope. “I must stay. I have to be here when Daemon comes.”

Ah, the Rogue Prince. Alys had not left her cottage for him, having little interest in a dragon as mundane as Caraxes. Besides, she knew already that he would return, even if the gods had not deigned to tell her when.

“He has taken King’s Landing. Why are you so certain he will bother to return?”

“How did you—” Aemond paused, eyeing her suspiciously. Then, as though he were embarrassed, he turned his face into her lap. “It is just a feeling.”

She hummed. “Feelings are powerful things.” Pitiful as he was, Alys felt compelled to grant him some sincerity. Maybe he would learn something. “Emotion and intent are crucial for any spell.” Before he could denounce her practices again, she continued. “In the summer, there is an herb that grows along the banks of the God’s Eye. Entirely useless. Tastes like soap. Sometimes, when the children were sick, I would give it to them and claim that it had powerful healing properties.”

“Why would you lie?”

“Everyone lies to children,” smirked Alys. “They had driven me, their mothers, and all the ghosts in Harrenhal mad with their whining. Besides, the point is that when they ate it, they felt better. Even though it was useless, simply because they believed in it—felt that it was true—it worked. If you feel that your uncle will come, then perhaps he will.”

A pause. “Have you seen him? My uncle?”

“Once before,” said Alys honestly, a bit surprised that he had asked.“When he first came to Harrenhal, but I have not searched for him since.”

Aemond’s face turned distant, cold, but he remained on her lap, which counted for something. “Anyone can claim to see the past,” he said petulantly. “The future is what matters.”

“And if I told you that over a century from now, a Lannister would hold Harrenhal, what good would that do you?” Alys tutted. It had done little good for her as well, for she had seen it as child and wailed about it for weeks. In her frantic doomsaying, she had made Harwin cry and that was when her father took his belt to her. “The past can be insightful, but the present more so. The difficult part is telling which is which.”

Leaning down, her long black hair cascaded down around him, blotting out silver. “Tell me,” she began, running a long, uncomfortably clean finger down the bridge of Aemond’s nose. “In this moment, what is it that you desire above all else?”

“I want many things,” he said softly, his one eye looking up at her in quiet surprise. “It should have been me.”

The little boy who had fought tooth-and-nail to claim the largest dragon in the world was still there inside him, confused that merit would not also grant him a crown and a long-coveted Valyrian steel sword. Some things one had to be born to. That was a lesson that most highborn folk never learned.

“It could be you,” offered Alys, tapping her finger against his chin. A crown would look pretty on his head. “But are you willing to pay the price?”

Disquieted, he gnawed on his bottom lip. “I think you are the type of woman who would take more than I was willing to pay.”

“Good boy,” she said, pushing him off her lap. “That makes you very wise.”

He grabbed her wrist as she stood, eye studying her intently. “What do you desire, Alys?”

Many things, she thought. I want my freedom. To go home to my cottage and walk through the forest at dawn. I want my children to be alive. I want another chance to be a mother, to teach my craft to a son or daughter. She wanted to like him, but he treated her like her father did, like a pet to be coddled and trained into obedience.

Instead of these things, Alys simply bowed her head. “I only want to serve you, my prince.”

That evening, he kissed her for the first time. Chaste and shy, almost like a farewell. Then, he granted her an even greater gift and left Alys to her own devices for the night. She threw all the windows open, inviting in the chill, and tore the drapes off their rods, feeding them into the fire.

Alys knelt before the open window, basking in the light of the moon. The God’s Eye glittered white like a silver mirror; the Isle of Faces was a dark pit at the center of the lake, distant and shadowed. If she could not journey to Harrenhal’s grief-filled godswood to pray, the Isle was the next best thing.

“Grant me guidance,” she whispered. “Show me the way forward.”

On the face of the moon, Alys saw the pale boy again, clearer than before. His hair was silver like starlight, curling loosely around his chin and shoulders. Sweat beaded on his brow and his eyes flitted rapidly beneath his shut, shadowed eyelids. Fever sweat, she noted. Whoever he was, he was ill.

A nervous voice whispered through the trees. “He has gotten worse.”

“It’s because of these blasted weirwoods,” answered another. “The Seven cannot see us here.”

“Calm yourself.” A maester in ragged grey robes came out of the shadow. “The trees are simply trees. His wounds are healing well. I am confident the fever will break soon.”

“I hope so,” said the first voice. “Unless he wakes to call his beast, we are trapped here.”

The vision vanished abruptly as a cloud covered the face of the moon. Gasping, Alys returned to the frigid bedchamber. The fire was dormant and still in the hearth. She numbly dragged herself over the chilled stone to the bed, cocooning herself in the sheets.

She slept for an unusually long time. When Alys awoke, Ser Cole had already begun his march out of Harrenhal and she watched warily from the balcony. Had Aemond marched with them? Vhagar was nowhere to be seen, but that was not so unusual—the great old beast could easily be asleep out of sight behind the castle.

But the door swung open as the last wagons trundled out of the gates. Familiar arms encircled her waist and drew her back into his chest. Alys bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

It seemed that Harrenhal had sunk her teeth into Aemond, which meant the time for waiting games was over. Alys would need to escape on her own. A sleeping potion would do the trick. Knock the boy out after dinner and she could easily vanish into the night, especially now that the army had gone. She knew this castle better than anyone; any of the servants smart or lucky enough to catch her would let her go. Alys’ reputation preceded her.

A mixture of chamomile, valerian, lavender, and two strands of Aemond’s hair would do it. With spit and blood, it could be mashed into a paste with one of the ceramic vases in the bedchamber. The hardest part would be slipping it into his wine at dinner, but Alys had performed even greater feats before.

Over the next few days, she became a needy companion, begging for tea and romantic bouquets until there were enough herbs and flowers to stash away in the false compartment in the writing desk. But before Alys could enact her plan, a messenger arrived at Harrenhal.

The party had arrived at dawn, so said the page boy, bearing a verbal message from Lord Tarbeck, who camped along the shores of the God’s Eye. Sometimes, when the night was exceptionally clear, the distant specks of their fires could be seen across the water. The stranger was escorted to the Widow’s Tower, interrupting their breakfast.

“What is it?” Aemond said irritably once the page disappeared. As always, Alys was seated near the hearth and the prince near the door, the impressively long table stretching between them.

The messenger was shrouded in a ragged, hooded cloak that obscured his face in shadow. “I bring news from Lord Tarbeck, your grace,” he said in a gruff, scratchy voice. “King Aegon is dead.”

A beat of silence before the chair toppled over, screeching, and Aemond leapt to his feet. His long fingers violently wrapped around the stranger’s throat. Skin flushed an ugly red, his eye was glazed over, blinded by emotion. “Liar! I dare you to say that again you wretched—”

As he broke off into a stream of half-mad obscenities, the messenger gagged and the hood began to slide back. Alys caught a flash of silver hair and then she was on her feet, sprinting across the room.

“Let him go!” She shouted, but Aemond shoved her away. Finally, the anger she had worked so hard to keep hidden erupted out. Snarling, she dug her nails into his chin, forcibly turning his head to look at her. “Let go!”

He stumbled back and the messenger collapsed to the floor, wheezed thrice, and then erupted into scratchy laughter, boyish. Flushing again, Aemond turned back but froze as the mysterious messenger ripped his hood off.

“You nearly killed me!” The boy from her dreams began delightedly, his violet eyes dancing with mirth. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see me!”

“Aegon?”

The king! Despite their matched coloring, the brothers could not look more different. Where Aemond was tall and sharp and sullen, Aegon was shorter and softer, with a rounder, squarer jaw and a more pleasant countenance. When he was healthy, Alys supposed he was probably quite handsome, but presently the boy was pale and sickly. Sweat glistened on his brow, tangling his hair, and Aemond’s hands had left an angry mark on the skin of his throat.

Irritated, Aemond hauled the older boy to his feet. “Why did you say you were dead?”

“It was a joke!” The king shrugged. “I thought you would cry, not try to murder me!”

“Your life is not a joke,” snapped the prince. Then, he embraced his brother.

Alys slipped back around the table, placing the chair upright. “You should stop trying to end it then, little brother,” said Aegon, sitting down immediately. “Who’s this? I owe her my life.”

“My name is Alys,” she began. “I saw you in my dreams.”

That got her a curious look from Aemond. The king cracked an amused smile, chuckling. “Many women have told me that before.”

“Their dreams were nothing like mine, I can assure you. Is your shoulder still bothering you?”

Aegon blinked. “It is,” he said cautiously before turning to his brother. “Where’d you find this one? I should have guessed you liked them older and weird.”

“Shut up!”

“Shut up, Your Grace.”

At this, Alys swept away unnoticed—just as she liked it—and went to the bouquet of lavender and roses Aemond had somehow procured in Harrentown. She upturned a bowl of grapes on the table, filling it back up with sprigs of lavender.

“Stop joking around!” The kinslayer hissed. “Where have you been? King’s Landing has fallen. There are rumors that Helaena is dead and that mother is—”

“Helaena is dead,” interrupted Aegon.

There was a long silence, broken only by the soft sound of Alys pouring water into a bowl. “What?”

“Helaena is dead. Our grandfather is dead.” Aemond sank into a chair, head falling into his hands as Aegon spoke. “Rhaenyra sent a personal missive to Tarbeck’s camp for me. She says Mother is alive, but who knows for how long if I don’t surrender. They even have Rhaenys’ grandson, Addam.” A pause. “You asked where I’ve been? I could say the same to you. I was dying of fever on the Isle of Faces. At least that’s a decent excuse.”

The Isle? Oh, how clever, Alys smirked, methodically dripping candlewax into the bowl. For most, it was impossible to get to the island by conventional means. As children, Alys and Larys stole a boat and tried to sail there, only to be pushed back a sudden rogue wave. Others reported that a crazed flock of ravens would swarm any potential visitors or that a frigid wind would blow boats away. A dragon could bypass such obstacles easily.

Aemond glanced up. “You commanded me to take Harrenhal,” he said firmly.

“And then you sat around doing nothing!” Aegon’s voice was tinged with a frustrated exasperation. “You had three thousand men at your disposal!”

“Daemon could have returned at any moment! I judged that it was better strategy to remain at the castle.”

“Strategy?” A mocking laugh. “What do you know about strategy?”

Incensed, Aemond stood, brandishing his words like swords. “I’ve studied it for years! I know more than you do, Aegon!”

“No, you don’t! I’ve been in more battles than you have, you idiot!” Aegon shouted. “While you waited and did nothing, I had to come up to help the Westermen! And clearly Criston agreed with me because he fucking left you!”

At this moment, Alys chose to intervene. “Take off your shirt,” she said to the king, gesturing loosely with her wooden bowl. He eyed her a bit suspiciously.

“Can’t say I’m really in the mood for that right now, love.”

“It’s for your shoulder,” replied Alys dryly. Aemond looked pinched, sour, and that seemed to be what convinced Aegon.

Unclasping his cloak, the king wriggled out of his linen shirt. The wound on his shoulder had healed nicely—whoever had sewn it shut had done it neat and straight—but clearly the fever had taken much out of him. There was an emaciated look to him, as though he had quite rapidly lost weight, and the skin around his wound was still red and inflamed. No pus though, noted Alys. Aegon hissed lowly as she dabbed a dollop of salve against his shoulder.

Aemond cleared his throat. “How is Criston?”

“I don’t know,” his brother shrugged. “Just missed him. Tarbeck sent him on with the same instructions as the rest of the men.” A pause. “Do you really have nothing to say for yourself?”

The kinslayer was quiet for a moment. “I was supposed to kill him for Helaena,” he began. “For you. It’s my fault that Jaehaerys is dead. I was to kill Daemon and capture Harrenhal for our cause. But he fled and the castle yielded without a fight. There is no glory in that.”

He is only a boy, thought Alys. A child playing at war. There was no glory in killing. It simply was a chore that needed to be done.

“So you slaughtered the Strongs because you were angry? Don’t give me that look,” snapped Aegon. “Did you really think that wouldn’t have any consequences?”

“I killed them because they were traitors!” Amused, she raised her eyebrows and finished smearing the salve against Aegon’s skin. “Because I had to do something! And I remained at Harrenhal because Daemon will be back. I know it! I will lure him out if I have to.”

The king made a strangled laugh. “What is it?” Aemond began, accusatory.

“I came all this way to tell you to do just that,” answered Aegon; Alys handed him his shirt. “There’s no chance of retaking King’s Landing with all Rhaenyra’s dragons there. We need to get draw them out. It’s our best chance.”

Leaning back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossed over Aemond’s face. For the first time, Alys almost thought he was handsome. “What do you want me to do, Aegon?”

“Whatever it takes, brother. I leave that at your discretion. You can even stay here, if you think it best. If you stir up enough trouble, maybe Rhaenyra will even send two dragons.”

“Vhagar could handle three easily," said Aemond. "And you? What will you do?”

With a sharp smile, Aegon ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going south. As are the rest of the Westermen and the forces under Cole’s command.”

A frown. “That is risky.”

“If we marched as one, yes. But I’ve decided to take a page out of Rhaenyra’s book. They will march in small, staggered bands—thirty men at most—to avoid discovery. It will make my own travel safer. As bold as my Sunfyre is, he would stand little chance against five dragons at once. Each group will have a man disguised as myself to throw off my scent. Sunfyre will travel at night to avoid being seen.”

“That is clever,” Aemond admitted quietly.

The king laughed. “Didn’t think I had it in me, did you? I’ve been sneaking around since I was a child.”

“If you plan to be on the roads,” began Alys, “you will need to dye your hair.”

Both men snapped their heads towards her, as though she had forgotten she was there. Alys was quite good at that after all, going unnoticed. “I suppose so.” Aegon sheepishly touched his silver curls.

She smiled. “I can take care of that for you.” It was always good to have a king in one’s debt. Perhaps things were looking up after all.

Chapter Text

A pair of dragons was perched on the branch of an oak tree along the dusty Roseroad.

As small as they were, one could almost mistake them for birds. Or lost ravens, for one was black as night and the other bone-white, like the white ravens sent out from the Citadel to announce the changing of the seasons.

Morghul and Shrykos had appeared the morning after the second worst day in Rhaena’s life. Even a month later, the memory still haunted her. The oppressive darkness of the secret passageways. Frantically changing into a rough and itchy woolen dress and apron, abandoning her silk gown in a shadowed room with a dragon mosaic on the floor. The ash falling from the sky, the screaming hordes of people running for the gates. A horrible, sleepless, and cold night spent lying on the ground with Maelor nestled between herself and Jaehaera.

When the sun had risen and she had seen them roosting in the trees, it had felt like a sign that, despite everything, all would be well. They were Helaena’s final gift to her children, for the young queen was the only person who could have released them from the Dragonpit. It was only then that Rhaena had told Jaehaera and Maelor what had happened to their mother. The prince had not quite understood, but Jaehaera did and sobbed inconsolably into her hands before Morghul descended from the trees, worming his way into his bonded human’s arms.

The dragons had followed dutifully for the past month on the road, often disappearing into the woods to hunt, reappearing throughout the day, before joining them at night. It was safer that way. It would take only one lucky traveler to spot a dragon for the news to be spread like wildfire up and down the Roseroad. As they rode past, Morghul blinked one noxious green eye before vanishing into the shadow of the forest, Shrykos tailing behind him.

“Rhaena,” whined Jaehaera plaintively. “I’m hungry.”

She was too. “I might have an apple in my saddlebag,” she called to the princess, who was riding with Ser Thorne. “Just a moment!”

Leaning back, Rhaena gently turned and tried not to disturb Maelor. The little prince was strapped to her chest in a sling made from the torn remnants of Ser Fell’s white cloak. His mood had fluctuated wildly through this journey, agreeable one moment and inconsolably upset the next, but as the weather grew colder, he became quieter, anxiously cocooning himself against her chest and neck. Maelor preferred her to both the kingsguard, which would have been oddly sweet if it did not leave her back aching from carrying him all day.

She dug through the saddlebag. There was no apple, but there was a single slice of stale bread left over from the last time Ser Thorne had ridden off into a nearby town to buy food. “Here,” Rhaena fished it out of the bag and stretched her arm out. Guiding his horse over, the kingsguard brought Jaehaera near.

Using the knight as support, Jaehaera reached out for the bread and then settled back into the saddle. The poor thing looked absolutely miserable, her hair hastily stuffed into the protective disguise of her wimple. Her round cheeks were sunken and smeared with dirt. When had they last bathed? It must have been close to a fortnight now—Sers Fell and Thorne were only willing to risk stopping at an inn once. That might have been their last hot meal as well. All that remained now were strips of dried meat and stale bread.

Oh, how Rhaena longed for a proper feast at the Red Keep. Warm greens and potatoes, gravy and fish. For tea with cream and sugar and sweet wines. Pastries and eggs and sausage. Cakes and tarts and cookies dusted with sparkling sugar.

Jaehaera seemed of a similar mind, for her large indigo eyes welled up with tears. Angered, she threw the piece of bread on the ground where it was summarily crushed by a hoof into the dirt.

“Jaehaera!” Rhaena admonished. At least you should have let me have it, she thought desperately. “Why did you do that?”

“I-I-I want real food!” She hiccuped. Behind her, Ser Thorne’s expression turned uncomfortable and strange as he half-heartedly raised his hand, as though he was going to comfort the girl. He struggled more than Ser Fell when hearing the children cry. “I’m hungry!”

Maelor snuffled sleepily against her neck. When his sister cried, he tended to join her, but perhaps there was still time to avert disaster. “Can we stop for a moment?” Rhaena called to Ser Fell, who was walking ahead and guiding her horse by the reins. “Please, Ser Willis?”

“If you wish it, my lady,” smiled the knight wearily. “Come, Rickard. Let’s get off the road.”

Their horses trotted into the sparse wood that lined the Roseroad. Gently, she freed herself from Maelor’s sling and handed the prince to Willis before she slid off the quiet-tempered brown mare. Her legs shook, muscles burning, but Rhaena righted herself. Ser Rickard hopped to the ground and lifted Jaehaera onto the long grass.

Shaking, the princess was still weeping. Rhaena walked over and took the girl’s hand, leading her quietly farther away, to grant them the semblance of privacy. While both kingsguard had been guarding Jaehaera since she was born, they were still mostly strangers to her despite the past month on the road.

“Rhaena,” the girl began tremulously. Fat tears rolled down her white cheeks, washing away some of the grime. “I’m tired. I want to go home. Please.”

She knelt down on the grass—there was no need to care about stains on a dress like this—and placed a hand on Jaehaera’s shoulder. “Oh dear one, I’m sorry, but you know why we can’t go home.” Wiping her cheek, Rhaena pulled the princess, who shuddered and sobbed, into a hug.

“I want my mama.”

“I know, sweetling. I know,” murmured Rhaena, as a familiar ache appeared in heart. Even if she could not remember her mother’s face clearly, she remembered the pain of her sudden loss. Of waking up to find her father, haggard and pale, sitting at their bedside. She knew Jaehaera’s pain as keenly as she knew her own. That long, ever-present grief that stretched forward, unyieldingly, through the rest of her life.

She took the girl’s hand and bundled it to her chest, beneath her sternum. “It hurts here, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” nodded the princess.

“I will not lie to you, Jaehaera,” said Rhaena softly. “Part of you will always hurt, always miss her, but your mother would hate to see you so sad.” She brushed away a stray strand of silver hair. “I cannot bring you home or bring your mother back to you, no matter how desperately I wish to. But if there is something, anything, I can do to comfort you, tell me and I will see it done. I promise.”

“You promise?” Her cousin repeated, almost incredulously.

Trying to smile, she nodded. “I promise.”

“I want…” She paused for a moment, tilting her head curiously in thought. “I want round cake,” Jaehaera declared firmly.

Gods, she should have been more specific. It would not be easy, but she had given her word. Rhaena refused to let Jaehaera down again. “As you wish, sweetling,” she said brightly, standing up and brushing dirt off her skirt. “Let us go and tell our brave knights.”

Together, they went hand in hand back to the kingsguard. Maelor was awake, a bit irritable judging by the squint of his eyes, but Willis was cheerily contorting his fingers into animal shapes for the boy’s amusement, having handed the prince to Ser Rickard.

“Lady Rhaena,” greeted the knight quietly, readjusting his grip on Maelor. “Princess Jaehaera, I hope you are feeling better.”

She hummed, nodding. “I am. Rhaena’s promised me a treat.”

“Has she?” Willas said, as he mimed a rabbit jumping with his hands. Maelor managed a smile, but his violet eyes flickered over to Rhaena. At the sight of her, he began to squirm, reaching towards her.

She took him from Ser Rickard and balanced the boy on her hip. “Rhae,” he cooed. He was a babe no longer, not really. In the months since Rhaena had first come to King’s Landing—oh, how that felt so far away now!—he had grown taller, more confident and coordinated on his feet. Speech came easier to him now and he mumbled softly into her neck. “Rhae, ‘m cold.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” she murmured, bundling him safely in the protective embrace of her apron. Then, Rhaena turned to the knight. “Yes, Jaehaera wants cake and she will have it. Surely, we must be coming up on a town soon?”

Willis made a noise, a strangled choke. “My lady, I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Why not? We need to stop for more provisions. The bread is already stale and I doubt it will keep much longer.” Besides, she thought. I gave Jaehaera my word. “And Maelor is cold. Perhaps we could find a room for the night, just to regain our strength.”

“We are only three or four days away from Longtable, perhaps less if the Hightower host has made any further progress up the Mander,” said the kingsguard, shaking his head. “We are too close to tarry now.”

Even after thirty days, another three or four more felt agonizing. “Are we not near Bitterbridge?” Rhaena pleaded, for Jaehaera and Maelor and herself. She was so tired.

But then, Ser Rickard spoke. “Look at them, Willis. The children are miserable. Exhausted. One of us would need to ride to Bitterbridge for supplies anyways. We might as well give Lady Rhaena, the prince, and the princess a chance to rest.”

The stormlander knight bit his lip, frowning. Warm brown eyes flickered to her, Maelor tucked beneath her chin, and Jaehaera’s tear-stained face. “Fine,” Willis said reluctantly. “But we must remain vigilant. If anyone asks, remember our cover story.”

“I remember,” said Rhaena. Sers Thorne and Fell posed as best friends and refugees, escorting their loved ones to safety. She was masquerading as Rickard’s goodsister, newly widowed, while the children were to be referred to as Willis’ niece and nephew.

“And Rickard! We’re trading. It’s your turn to walk.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Thorne’s sunken face. Helping Rhaena back up upon the horse, he took the reins of her mare and guided her back out of the forest. The Roseroad winded through a truly beautiful section of the Reach. Patches of woodland gave way to rolling fields of farmland as far as the eye could see and sometimes the path itself would run directly along the banks of the Mander, which ran so deep and wide that ships could sail it. In the spring and summertime, Rhaena imagined that the journey could be quite pleasant, when the trees were green and the rosebushes alongside the road were blooming. Now, it was brown and cold and still, subdued by war and the impending winter.

They rode for some time, well into the afternoon, before they rounded a bend in the road and Bitterbridge stretched before them. The namesake of House Caswell’s seat, a long, sturdy stone bridge, spanned either side of the Mander. Beside it, just offset from the Roseroad, was a modest town clustered alongside the walls of Castle Caswell, smaller and humbler than the grandeur of the Red Keep or High Tide. In some ways, the ancient bridge was more impressive.

As Rickard led her through the streets, Rhaena realized that it was more crowded than it should be. Tents and wagons were clustered in the alleyways between the provincial stone brick houses. People sat on the streetside, careworn and exhausted, sleeping beneath awnings and huddled together to ward off the chill. Refugees, thought Rhaena. Little different than we are. Hungry and afraid.

A market square sat at the center of the town, although there was little business done there now. Most people seemed to be milling around for the sake of it, playing cards, chatting. Those who still had money to spend were clustered near an alehouse on the far side of the plaza.

“Look!” Rhaena cried out eagerly, pointing to a warmly-lit building. “A bakery!”

“So it is,” smiled Ser Willis, trotting his horse in its direction.

Once they had crossed the square, Ser Rickard helped Rhaena down. “I’ll take the horses and find an inn,” he said to his fellow knight. “Buy as much bread as you think we’ll need and then find a butcher. Anything smoked should do.”

“Why don’t you do the honors?” Willis said, once Rickard had left with the horses. Undoing the ties, he took the coin purse off his belt and handed it to Rhaena. “I’ll be waiting right outside.”

She went in with the children, Jaehaera holding her hand and Maelor balanced on her hip. The bakery was small, but cozy and warm, well-lit by the glow of the oven. Loaves of fresh bread were stacked neatly in linen-lined baskets, dough was rising in smooth wooden bowls, and the baker was in the process of pulling out a fresh tray of small meat pies from the oven.

Oddly, he frowned when he saw them in his doorway. “I have sympathy for you refugees, I really do,” he began firmly, almost rude. “But I don’t run a charity. If you can’t pay, get out.”

“I can assure you, my good man, we can pay.” Rhaena blinked slowly, surprised.

A silent glance, eyes lingering on their dust and dirt-stained faces with barely veiled disdain. “Hm. What can I get for you?”

“Five loaves of bread and four of the meat pies, please,” she began, walking further into the shop. “Do you happen to have anything sweet? It’s for the children.”

Wordlessly, the baker reached for a basket and unveiled a number of small, but densely baked discs with raisins and clove embedded within. Jaehaera bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “Round cakes!” She nearly shrieked, a smile lighting up her face. “Oh look!”

“I see them, Jenny,” said Rhaena, using the girl’s fake name. “Tell the baker nicely how many we want.”

“I’d like five.” A pause. “Please.” The baker leaned over the counter, making eye contact with the princess; his brow furrowed, but he dutifully began to gather up the items ordered.

Readjusting her grip on Maelor, she shifted him to her other hip. “Five?”

“For each of us,” declared Jaehaera. It was the first time she had seen the girl so happy in nearly a month and certainly they could afford it. Nearly one hundred gold dragons clinked softly in the coin purse.

The baker glanced at them again, then quickly looked away. “Lovely children you’ve got there.”  

“They are, aren’t they? I’m travelling with their uncle,” lied Rhaena, putting on a sad smile. “Their mother died and their father went off to war.” That much was true. “Someone has to look out for them, like their mother would have. Might as well be me.”

“Quite kind of you.” A bundle of neatly wrapped bread and pastries was set before her. The baker looked expectant, elbows braced on the counter.

Idly, Maelor grabbed at the straps of her apron, oddly awake. “Will this be enough?” Rhaena set down a single gold dragon.

His eyes went wide, but the he quickly schooled his expression; an opportunistic coldness flickered in his ice-blue eyes. “For the bread, perhaps. Give me everything else you’ve got in that purse and I won’t tell anyone that the missing prince and princess are standing in my bakery.”

“What?” Rhaena whispered, thunderstruck. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Do you take me for an idiot? What other purple-eyed woman would pay for some loaves of bread with a fucking gold dragon?”

A horrible fear seized her, crawling up her spine, and her fingers pressed firmly into the soft meat of Maelor’s leg. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He laughed cruelly. “I would have thought the Rogue Prince’s daughter would be sharper. Give me your gold, sweetling, and I'll leave you be. It’ll be easier than turning you in for the bounty.”

“How can I trust that you won’t turn us in anyway?” Rhaena replied, a trembling hand gripping the coin purse.

“You don’t,” said the baker. “There’s nearly a thousand gold dragons on your head alone. Your da must want you back badly. But I reckon it’d be more work to turn you in and I’d rather not worry about my neighbors trying to rob me blind afterwards.” A shrug. “You must have a pretty sum with you. All you have to do is give it to me and everyone leaves happy.”

Exhaling, Rhaena raised the coin purse up and then something, perhaps the spirit of her sister, possessed her. Rather than set it down, she walloped it against the man’s head with all the strength she could muster. The coins sang prettily as they clattered against each other; the man stumbled back, crying out in alarm.

“Jaehaera!” She grabbed the bundle of bread. “Run!”

They burst out the door, surprising Ser Willis. “Rose,” he began, confused. “What is it?”

“We have to go! Now! Grab Jaehaera!” Rhaena shouted. Any moment now the baker would come after her.

Willis swept the princess up into his arms, instincts taking over, and they ran through the square. The door to the bakery slammed open with a clatter. “Stop them! It’s the missing Targaryens!”

Curious faces turned towards them, eyes sharp. Those who had been loitering in the square harmlessly playing cards or talking seemed threatening now, eyeing Rhaena and the children like prey. Slowly, men began to file out of the alehouse.

“Oi,” one drunkard shouted. “Is that true?”

Another voice echoed through the silent square. “Queen Rhaenyra’s promised thousands of gold dragons for ‘em!”

A group of people moved to prevent their escape, blocking off the entrance to a side street that led back towards the Roseroad. Other people lingered, clearly watching, but not invested enough to physically involve themselves. At least not yet.

The kingsguard set down Jaehaera, striding forward up to the crowd. “Out of the way!”

“That much coin would change my family’s life,” whispered a voice hungrily. Jaehaera fisted a hand into the fabric of Rhaena’s skirt, gripping it like a lifeline at sea.

“Seven Hells!” Ser Willis swore, uncharacteristic, and the knight drew his sword. “Get back! Move!”

No one moved, so he did. Ser Fell’s steel sword swung out and slashed the throat of a leering man, who crumpled down to the ground like a limp doll. Another swing and the crowd parted, skittering away.

Shielding her and the children with an arm, Willis used his blade to cut a path through the street. “Come, Rhaena! Rickard went this way!” More people were watching now, pale, haggard faces peering out of doorways and windows.

“C’mon,” a brave man shouted. “What can one man do against all of us?”

Another voice crowed in reply. “Yeah! We outnumber ‘im!”

Ser Willis was just one man, but he was a knight of the kingsguard, one of the seven most talented and skilled fighters in the realm. He would not go down without a fight. Singing, steel sliced through the air and blood audibly splattered against the cobblestone.

In some stroke of luck, the street was narrow, and Ser Willis could keep the encroaching mob at bay. “Go!” He shouted. Rhaena did not need to hear him say it a second time. With Maelor in her arms, she ran down the street, refusing to look back, and emerged into a second, smaller plaza. A shabby looking inn sat at the farthest edge with a lopsided stable leaning against the building at a severe angle.

“Ser Rickard! Ser Rickard, help!”

He was nowhere to be seen, although their horses were grazing on dried hay in the doorway of the stable. What now? Rhaena thought frantically, stopping abruptly. What do I do? Without the kingsguard, they would be completely undefended on the road—she could not just abandon them.

Suddenly, Jaehaera cried out in alarm. The comforting pull of a hand gripping the fabric of her skirt vanished. “Rhaena!”

She spun around and her mouth fell open in shock and horror. A young boy, no older than twelve, had run up and seized Jaehaera by the arm, hauling the six-year-old away.

“No!” Lurching forward, she dropped their bundle of bread, which broke open and spilled over the ground, and snatched the princess’ other hand. “Let go of her!”

The boy pulled roughly. “She’s mine! Find another bounty!”

“Rhaena!” Jaehaera cried, tears glimmering in her indigo eyes. “Don’t let them take me.”

Her vision blurred. “I won’t let you go, sweetling.” Don’t cry. She needs you to be strong, Rhaena. In her ear, Maelor began to scream.

“Give her to me!” A snarl, as the boy yanked on Jaehaera’s arm. “My mother’s starving. I need the money!”

“Take the bread! There’s food in the bag. Just let us go! Please!”

Before he could reply, a longsword cut through the flesh and bone of his wrist. A hand fell limply to the ground and blood spurted hot, red, and violently from the stump of the boy’s arm. Screaming, he fell back; Rhaena wrenched Jaehaera close with a sudden sob.

“My lady.” Ser Rickard loomed protectively over them, watching with disdain as the boy writhed in pain. A short distance away, his horse stood calmly, unperturbed. “Are you all unharmed?”

Jaehaera buried her blood-flecked face into her skirt, shuddering. Despite his crying, Maelor was still safe in her arms. “I think so.” A short, painful exhale of breath. “Ser Willis—he needs help!”

“He can hold his own for a while longer,” answered the knight, although his eyes flickered towards the street behind her. “You three must come first.”

Firmly, but not unkindly, he led Rhaena over to the horse, hoisted Jaehaera up into the saddle first, and then took Maelor as she climbed up after her cousin. She glanced back and found Ser Willis fighting where the street connected with the plaza. A pile of bodies surrounded him, but the mob had wrenched his sword from his grasp. As Ser Rickard handed Maelor back to Rhaena, there was a shout; they both watched in quiet horror as the stormlander knight toppled to the ground and was trampled by the crowd.

“You must ride south to Longtable. If I can, I will catch up to you, my lady,” began Rickard gruffly, eyes trained on the mob racing towards them. “But if I cannot, follow the Mander as best you can and stay off the main road. Word will spread quickly that we were spotted here.”

“I can’t!” Rhaena cried. “I wouldn’t know what to do. You have to come with us.”

The horde was drawing near, moments away. “There’s a map in the saddlebag. Now, go!” With a slap against the flank of the horse, they went galloping out of the plaza, racing past the inn and down a sloping road. Houses and people streamed by a blur.

They emerged to the quiet, sleepy outskirts of Bitterbridge and its namesake, which stretched over the river. The crossing was old, covered in writhing ivy. It was wide enough for nearly three wagons to pass abreast, but there was little traffic, almost oddly deserted. War was not good for trade after all. The only other person was a lone crossbowman, standing guard and casually leaning against the stone parapets. Rhaena slowed the horse into a trot.

“Thought I’d find you here,” said the guard slowly. “I was getting a drink at the inn when I heard the commotion in the plaza. Figured it would be easier to hedge my bets and wait here.” His crossbow tilted up, angled at Rhaena’s chest.

“Let us pass, please.” Clutching the reins, her arms bracketed Maelor and Jaehaera. Both were petrified. “They’re only children. Rhaenyra will kill them.” Or be convinced to do so.

The guard laughed, drawing closer. His face was pock-scarred and there were wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. “I can’t do that. What do you think they’ll do to my own children if it gets out that I let you go?” But he paused, glancing over their tear-streaked faces. “Oh hells, don’t look at me like that. How ‘bout this. I’ll take just the boy. He’s probably worth the most.”

“You will do no such thing,” Rhaena commanded, with false courage. “Stay back.”

“Or what? One move and this bolt will be buried between your breasts.”

Frozen, she watched helplessly as he stopped alongside their horse. “If you hurt me,” her voice was a whisper. “My father will kill you.”

“Will he?” With a cruel grin, he grabbed Maelor, yanking the boy from the saddle.

Rhaena did not care about the crossbow trained on her. She did not care if she died, because it would be worse to live and do nothing as the boy cried out and reached for her. Hooking her hands beneath the prince’s armpits, she tried to pull him back with all her strength. Maelor’s head lolled back in confusion and alarm, violet eyes watery and wide.

I’ve got you, she thought wildly. Helaena was dead, their father couldn’t help them now; the only person could protect these children was Rhaena, and she would not let them be taken from her without a fight.

“Leave my brother alone!” Jaehaera kicked at the man’s arms, grabbing at Maelor’s shirt. “Let go!”

The guard pulled again and the prince shrieked in pain. If this kept up for much longer, he would be ripped apart. “Fuck! You bitch, let go!”

“No! If you want him, you’ll have to kill me first!” Mustering up all of her anger and exhaustion and disgust, she spat into his face.

His eyes burned with hatred as spit dripped down his brow, but then he ceased having eyes altogether. Razor sharp claws ripped through the flesh of his face and there was only red, bright and terrible. The guard stumbled back, mouth gaping, and dropped both Maelor and the crossbow.

Talons wet with blood, Shrykos flew up; Morghul, his shadow, descended from the air with a screech and showered the guard in a stream of green fire. The man seemed very still for a moment, before he began to scream painfully, and the sound echoed behind them as Rhaena urged the horse into a gallop.

They raced over the bridge, dragons following overhead. Adrenaline took over, a numb madness that only left Rhaena when they had safely crossed the river and disappeared into the nearby wood. Exhausted, their horse finally refused to go further when they came upon a quiet glade.

“Are you both alright?” Precariously, she dismounted, bringing both children to the ground.

Blood-flecked the pale skin of Jaehaera’s cheeks and there was a ring of freshly-forming bruises on her wrist. Her little brother was shaken and silent, refusing to let Rhaena put him down, but nothing seemed dislocated or broken. Relieved, she fell to her knees, sucking in air. They were alive. They had escaped.

“Rhaena,” began the princess timidly. Her cousin sniffled and her voice warbled. “I-I’m sorry!” She wailed.

“What? Oh darling, there’s nothing for you to apologize for.”

But Jaehaera did not seem appeased. “It’s my fault! My fault! I wanted cake and now—"

“Hush now, it’s okay.” Somehow, Rhaena managed to embrace her, sandwiching Maelor between them. “It’s my fault,” she murmured into her shoulder. “I convinced Ser Willis and Ser Rickard to go into town. I should have known better. It’s my job to protect you.”

Now, due to her folly, she would have to do it alone. Jaehaera kept crying, Maelor joined her, and Rhaena let herself fall apart as the weight of the situation crushed her. Longtable was another three or four days away. How could she get there on her own? What if some wild animal came upon them? She did not know how to fight, to forage, and certainly people would be looking for them on the road. Rhaena would be surprised if they weren’t out there now.

She dried her tears reluctantly. There was no time to cry. Gently extricating herself from Maelor, Rhaena entrusted the prince to his sister and went to search the saddlebags. She found a map, as Ser Rickard had said, along with four half-stale slices of bread, a strip of dried jerky, and a skein of water. That was it. Biting back a cry of despair, Rhaena unhooked the small knife from the saddle and brought the food over to the children.

“Here, perhaps eating will lift our spirits,” she smiled unconvincingly The bread and jerky was sliced and passed around, with the children getting larger cuts. They were smaller, more easily exhausted; Rhaena could last on less. And perhaps their kingsguard would come upon them any moment now, alive and well and laden with food.

In the unlikely event that Ser Rickard or, even more unrealistically, Ser Fell came upon them, they waited in the glade until sunset; afterwards, Rhaena unpacked the bedroll and set the children down to sleep. She sat against the trunk of a nearby tree and kept watch, as the knights had done. As Jaehaera nodded off to sleep, clutching her brother like a stuffed toy, Morghul crept to his bonded princess, wrapping his little body around her neck and shoulders, as though he was a scarf to keep her warm. Shrykos vanished into the darkness. Rhaena was alone.

The chill of the autumn night felt even colder than usual as she sat shivering in her cloak. For the very first time, Rhaena wondered where she would be if Baela and her grandmother had decided to back Rhaenyra. Would she have claimed Silverwing or Vermithor and flown to battle? Or would she have been sent away, like Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys? But then, what would have happened to Maelor and Jaehaera? Would they have ever discovered Addam and Alyn? Rhaena could not imagine Rhaenyra making her grandmother Hand of the Queen.

There was no use dwelling on it now, she decided. All that mattered was the present. Surviving. Keeping Jaehaera and Maelor safe. In the distance, a branch snapped. Rhaena tensed, eyes scanning the bushes, and she nearly screamed as Shrykos crawled back out of the underbrush. Ghostly white in the starlight, he threw a dead squirrel on the ground, blinked warily at her, and then charred it with a burst of yellow flame. The dragon was still for a moment and, rather than begin eating, nudged it towards Rhaena with his snout.

“For me?”

Shrykos looked at her as though she was stupid, flicking his tail. He nudged it forwards again before turning around and crawling over to Maelor. Inspecting the prince, he sniffed at the boy’s silver hair once, blinked slowly, and made a soft, low noise. The dragon lay down and rested his head on the boy’s chest.

In disbelief, she gingerly took the squirrel’s body in hand and bit into it tentatively, somehow afraid that someone was watching her. Beneath the layer of char, the meat was warm. Fat and juice ran down her chin, but Rhaena found she did not care. It was the first hot meal she had had in weeks.

The sun rose hours later, turning the sky a pretty pink streaked with gold. Rhaena roused the children, fed them what remained of their food—squirrel included—and set off south.

For the next three days, they rode from dawn until dusk. Water was gathered from forest streams or directly from the Mander, when Rhaena strayed too far out from the safety of the woods. Their bread was gone, as was the jerky. What little they ate was hunted by Morghul and Shrykos, who were young and inexperienced with catching prey. While Rhaena reserved a few bites of squirrel or bird meat for herself, most of what the dragons brought in was fed to the children. All of her nights were sleepless, but, in some act of providence, no one had found them yet.

Rhaena was nearly delirious by the morning of the fourth day. Exhausted, hungry, dehydrated, and sore. “Are you alright?” Jaehaera asked worriedly, pulling on her apron.

“What?” She jolted back into awareness, finding herself in the saddle. Stopped at the edge of the tree line, there was a long stretch of open farmland and a smear of faint color on the horizon. “Oh, yes! I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Maelor patted her cheek. “I worry,” he said, stumbling on the ‘w’ sound. “I love Rhae.”

“I love you too,” she managed, a bit breathless at the revelation. They were her family. Her kin. She loved them deeply. When had that happened?

Jaehaera huffed. “It’s Rhae-na, silly.” Then, she flushed shyly. “Mama loved you. I do too, and so does Morghul. And probably Shrykos too, I think.”

“Even Shrykos?” She said, amused, and then they were off, their horse trotting down the hill into the plain.

Eventually, the blot of color on the horizon grew larger, more distinct, and exploded into a wall of tents. Orange and black, red and blue, plum, white, and a sea of silver-grey. Morghul and Shrykos descended from the sky and crawled into the saddlebags before they entered the camp properly; the children had fallen asleep perhaps an hour ago, leaning back against her.

We made it, Rhaena realized, nearly shuddering in relief. They rode into the war camp with little protest; in fact, it was almost like they were not truly there at all. Soldiers sat by their tents, smoking, chatting, eating. Others, likely squires, were in the arduous process of cleaning weapons and armor.

As they went deeper, there was more suspicion. Several knights began following after their horse, muttering lowly to each other. A guard stopped them for the first time when they neared the heart of the camp, where a great grey pavilion was set up. The Hightower of Oldtown flew on its flag and was emblazoned on the tunic of the guard standing before her.

“Hold!” He said. “We’ve got nothing to spare, lassie. Ride up to Bitterbridge. I hear that they’ll take refugees.”

“I’m here to see Lord Hightower,” answered Rhaena, a bit annoyed. To come this far only to be turned away?

A scoff. “To see Lord Ormund? He doesn’t have time for the likes of you.”

The likes of her? She urged the horse forward anyways, and that was when the steel came out. “Stop!” The guard insisted, brandishing his sword. “I know you’ve got children, but we won’t hesitate to use force if we have to.”

“You will do no such thing!” Rhaena snapped, trying to channel the effortlessly commanding demeanor of her grandmother. As if sensing she needed the help, Morghul stuck his head out of the saddlebag and hissed angrily. “I am Rhaena Targaryen, daughter of the Rogue Prince and granddaughter of your allies, Corlys Velaryon and the Hand of the King, Princess Rhaenys!”

The soldiers and guards backed away, likely more at the sight of the dragon than her anger, but they retreated, nonetheless. Blanching, the rude guard finally noticed her silver hair and lilac eyes beneath the layer of grime. “Send word to your commander that I bring with me Princess Jaehaera and Prince Maelor, his kin,” she continued. “You will let me through.”

One by one they fell into a bow, averting their eyes. “My lady,” breathed the first guard, dropping his sword. “You heard her!” He said to another. “Alert Lord Hightower!”

A man broke into a sprint across the grass, racing towards the tent pavilion. Numbly, Rhaena urged the horse after him in a slow canter—if they went any faster, she might just slip off the horse in exhaustion.

When they drew near, a large man in rich grey velvet burst out and sped towards her, followed by a blonde boy in deep blue. He was tall, with chestnut hair and bright green eyes, and his mouth was moving beneath his reddish beard; Rhaena found that she could not make out the words, overwhelmed as she was, but she recognized the flaming tower embroidered on his chest.

“Take the children,” she started. It felt as though she were slurring, her tongue unwieldy. “Maelor and Jaehaera need food and water. Find something for their dragons as well.”

The man obeyed without question, gently taking the sleeping prince and princess into his arms. Morghul and Shrykos hurried after, perhaps to keep an eye on them. When they disappeared into the pavilion, Rhaena nearly collapsed in relief. It was over. She had done it.

But the man’s younger companion remained. Up close, she realized that he was not blonde at all, but as silver-haired as she was. He offered his hand up to her. “My lady? Would you like help?”

She placed her hand over his. At her silent nod, he helped her down from the horse, his eyes crinkling in a friendly smile, and caught her as she stumbled. What an unusual color, thought Rhaena. The outer edge of his iris was a light purple which darkened to brown near his pupil, the same warm and honeyed color as Queen Alicent.

“You’re Daeron.” The fourth and final child. She had imagined some amalgamation of Aegon and Aemond, but their brother looked like neither. Nor did he look much like his father. There was something of the queen in his face, but much less so than Aegon, who was his mother reborn.

“I am,” he said. “And you are Rhaena? Helaena wrote about you. It is nice to finally meet you, although these aren’t the circumstances I imagined.”

Helaena had written about her? There was a bittersweet ache in her chest. Touched, she blurted out. “Your mother said you would keep us safe.”

“I will,” Daeron nodded, and then he tilted his head. “Ormund will have his maester look after all of you. Are you able to walk?”

The tent seemed so far away, somehow insurmountable after everything. “I don’t know,” admitted Rhaena quietly.

“That’s nothing to be ashamed about. It’s clear you’ve been through much.” A pause. “Do you trust me?”

She nodded. The prince placed a hand on her shoulder, bent down, and swept her feet out from beneath her, lifting her up in his arms. Carrying her, he started towards the tent.

It was this simple act of chivalry that brought Rhaena to tears once more. Sniffling, she hid her face in his shoulder and wept. “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” said Daeron softly. “Whatever has happened, it’s over now. You’re safe here. I promise.” Then, he brought her inside.

Chapter Text

A knock sounded at her door. Cocooned in the warm embrace of her bedsheets, Baela stopped staring at the grooves in the ceiling and rolled over onto her side.

“Yes?”

On the other side of the door, the herald coughed presumptuously. “I announce Her Grace—” She groaned, rolling her eyes. Not this again. “Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name—”

I know who she bloody is, thought Baela darkly.

“And her king consort, Daemon—”

The door swung open. “She knows who we are,” her father snipped.

Rhaenyra entered first, imposing in a gown of black velvet that rippled with onyx and rubies. Upon her head, the crown of the Old King brought out the gold undertones of her silver hair, which she wore braided in the style of the warrior queen Visenya. She stopped in the center of Baela’s chamber and primly folded her hands over her stomach, idly fidgeting at a ring.

“What do you want?” Baela frowned.

“What do you want, Your Grace,” corrected her father, following after his wife. He was dressed as he always was, practical but lavish. “Get out of bed.”

Rhaenyra smiled, visibly strained. “It is alright. We’re all family here.” Each time they did this, it grew harder and harder for the queen to maintain her composure. Baela endeavored to break it completely. Perhaps then they would leave her be.

“And because we are family,” stressed her stepmother, continuing. “We must put on a united front. Which is why I ask you, again, my dear stepdaughter,” Daemon glanced at his wife, almost amused at her blatant attempt at flattery, “that you be afforded a position in my court and serve as my cupbearer.”

Baela’s answer was simple. “No.”

“No?” Rhaenyra sighed, exasperated and short. “Baela, you must stop being so childish. I have forgiven you for your actions and you refuse to grant me the courtesy to not throw this honor back in my face!”

“I tire of this song and dance,” she said. “My answer is no. Same as it was the last time and the same it will be the next.”

A huff. “We would not have to do this song and dance if you had not gone and thrown yourself into bed with our enemy!” Her voice rose sharply, bordering on a shout. Good, thought Baela. Get angry. 

“I’d gladly throw myself into anyone’s bed,” she drawled, smirking, “as long as it’s not Jace’s.”

Rhaenyra stormed forward, dress swishing, but her husband caught her by the arm, shaking his head. “Peace, wife. Let me.”

In a quick motion, he ripped the sheets off Baela. A sudden chill assaulted her as the autumn air raised gooseflesh along her arms. Her father glanced at her night gown in barely-veiled disapproval. “You haven’t dressed yourself? Wallowing like this is unlike you, daughter.”

“What does it matter? I have nothing to do,” replied Baela.

“Well, here I am,” he smirked, leaning over her, “offering you something to do.”

Annoyed, she rolled away. “And I don’t like what you’re offering.”

“So hard-headed you are,” he said, turning her back around firmly. “Much like your mother in that way.” For a terrible moment, Baela considered leaning up and slapping him in the mouth. How dare he talk about her mother? But another, more pitiful, part of her was secretly glad. He so rarely talked about her. Sometimes, he acted as though Laena Velaryon had never existed. “What if I offer you something better?”

“Is this some sort of trick?” Baela narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Everyone has a price. What will it take for you to serve as Rhaenyra’s cupbearer?” A pause. “Anything within reason, of course.”

Silence, so long that Rhaenyra began to fidget, spinning a golden ring around her finger. She searched her father’s lilac eyes for some hidden test, some trick, but they were sharp and sincere. What did she want? She could not ask for her freedom, and Baela would not waste it on something silly and fleeting. It would have to be important. "Let me write to my grandmother. I want her to know that I'm alright."

"Your grandmother knows where you are," said her father. "Try again."

“Addam,” she answered. Confined in this room, her father could tell her anything and there would be no way to know if it were true. For the past moon, Baela had been reassured that he was well, but imprisoned as she was. She needed to see with her own eyes that her cousin was alive. “Grant him his freedom."

Rhaenyra scoffed loudly. "Absolutely not, he is a criminal! And obviously unwell in the head. He is dangerous."

“Mentally unwell?” Baela repeated, incredulous. Had they done something to him?

“He believes himself to be Laenor’s bastard and has continued to claim as much.” Rhaenyra’s voice was sincere as she spoke, as though she were trying to convince herself of it. It would be laughable if not so startling.

She glanced to her father; he had his back turned to Rhaenyra and had simply raised his brows high, eyes trained still on his daughter. “Then I will be permitted to visit him,” Baela began cautiously. “For each council session I attend as cupbearer, I get three hours with Addam.”

“One hour,” said her father.

She rose to his challenge. “Two.”

“Daemon, her request is unreasonable—”

“Two. And you will be chaperoned.” Rhaenyra made an affronted cluck, but her father turned back to his wife. “You have your cupbearer,” he said, leaving no room for protest, “and Baela has something to do. Why, I’ve just brokered peace. What would Otto say?”

He finished that thought with a tight chuckle. Silently, her stepmother swallowed, eyes narrowed in displeasure. “It is out of love for you, Daemon, that I will overlook Baela’s insolence.” Then, she turned to Baela, any pretense of sweetness gone. “The council will be called this afternoon. You will bathe, dress yourself properly in the clothes sent to you, and I expect you to behave.”

She was not some wild dog. Baela had been rigorously trained by her grandmother, who would have made an impeccable queen. She knew the song and dance of court—it was only that she did not feel inclined to perform it for Rhaenyra.

“There’s no need to send a dress,” she said instead. “I have a perfectly fine one in my closet.” While it was a bit plain, it was simple and comfortable black wool, reminiscent of a mourning gown. Could one formally mourn for a dragon? Baela thought it would be quite nice to do so. Moondancer had been closer to her than any husband could have been.

“You want to wear that to court?” Rhaenyra laughed sharply. “Absolutely not. A maid will be sent with one of Rhaena’s dresses.”

Snapping her skirts, her stepmother marched out of the room; her father followed, casting a final, unreadable, look at her over his shoulder, and they vanished. The door to her room shut again, but for the first time in weeks, it did not lock.

It did not take long for the first wave of servants to arrive. A tub was carried in and somehow set down in the cramped space. For the better part of the next half hour, a trio of maids carried in buckets of steaming water; as the door open and shut, Baela caught a glimpse of the set of knights guarding her room. Strong, tall, and burly, she could have taken one by surprise, but not both of them. She felt warm, oddly validated that she was seen as a threat.

The three maids bathed her, even though it was entirely unnecessary. Afterwards, she was left sitting on her bed in a clean shift, quietly watching as the bath was drained and carried out. A fourth maid arrived, carrying a scarlet red dress. She was older, hair streaked with grey, and her kind brown eyes were lined with wrinkles.

“M’lady,” the woman said with a smile. “My name is Jeyne.” Then, she glanced over her shoulder to the closed door and lowered her voice. “You are just as beautiful as your sister, if I can be so bold."

Blinking, Baela stood up suddenly. “You know Rhaena?” Her voice was a low whisper.

“I served her since she came to the city.” Then, the woman unfurled the gown and spoke louder, performatively so. “The queen has commanded me to help you dress.”

Anyone could be listening. Nodding, she stepped forward, slightly raising her arms. Jeyne grinned and stepped forward, shaking out the kirtle. As it was pulled over her head, Baela whispered lowly to the maid.  “Please, if you know anything about where my sister is, tell me. My father said she fled the city, but I know little else.”

“I am afraid I do not know.” Deft fingers began to secure the laces on the back of the dress. “She vanished with the prince and princess when the city fell. I have heard nothing beyond that, but the servants of the castle are listening for news to pass on to the queen.”

Baela stiffened. “The queen?”

“The true queen!” Jeyne replied, cinching the bodice firmly. “Queen Alicent asks after her grandchildren each day. She has treated the staff kindly since she first arrived here all those years ago—it is the least we can do.” A pause. “Serving Lady Rhaena was a pleasure and an honor. I know it is presumptuous of me, m’lady, but I will look after you the best I can.”

Was this woman some sort of spy? Another test from her father and Rhaenyra? Narrowing her eyes, Baela looked over this elderly maid. There was something earnest in her face, a bright warmth. A sincerity. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“It is nothing, m’lady,” smiled the older woman. “Now, for your hair. I’m afraid I’m it’s too short for me to do much, but I’ve brought a headband and hood that should match.” With gentle hands, she pinned it to Baela’s silver curls. “Ah, you look lovely.”

She seemed like a stranger. Rhaena’s dress was luxurious and soft, sewn from rippling red silk. The hems of her sleeves and gown were embroidered with a meander pattern in bright gold thread. Pressing on her collarbones, the jewel-studded neckline was heavy and oppressive, flashing darkly in the mirror. Baela’s hair was hidden entirely beneath the crimson headband, lined with diamonds, and the attached chiffon veil.

With a jolt, she realized that resembled her sister. Their hair was often the fastest way to tell them apart—that, and their taste in clothing. Other than the faint burn scars on her cheek, it almost seemed as though Rhaena could step out of the mirror and they would be reunited at last.

A knock, before the door swung open. One of her father’s goldcloaks stood in the threshold, face stoic. “I am to escort you to the small council chamber, Lady Baela. You are not to cause any trouble or—”

“Shut up,” Baela said, pushing herself past the guard. “As long as you’re quiet, I’ll behave.”

She had never seen the small council chamber before now. It was a simple, rectangular room with a long wooden table placed at the center. Here, matters of state were decided by great lords, remarkable men, and, more recently, powerful women, but the room did not reflect that. It was plain and undecorated; the grandest thing about it was the large window behind the king’s seat.

In the ornately carved chair at the head of the table, Rhaenyra sat sipping on wine. She did not look pleased to see Baela, but there was a clear sense of relief in her eyes. Her husband sat to her right in the seat reserved for the Hand of the King, although she noted with some pleasure that he still did not wear a pin on his tunic. His lilac eyes widened as Baela entered, perhaps reeling at the sudden resemblance to Rhaena, and he turned away.

There was a small side table against the wall with a carafe of wine. Baela stationed herself beside it and glared around the room. Other than her father and Rhaenyra, there was a young man sitting in the chair closest to the door. He had cornsilk blonde hair and light blue eyes, dressed in a deep blue-green. For a moment, she thought he had a Velaryon seahorse embroidered on his doublet, but she quickly realized it was a merman.

In the next handful of quiet minutes, more members of Rhaenyra’s small council trickled in. First came Lord Celtigar, brandishing a ream of parchment and a beleaguered expression. Then, a woman followed. She was dressed head-to-toe in white, which highlighted her dark eyes and silken black hair, which fell perfectly straight past the small of her back. Lastly, Gerardys entered and he smiled earnestly at the sight of her.

“Lady Baela, it is good to see you,” said the maester.

“Gerardys,” she greeted. She could not find it in herself to be mean to him. He was a good maester, a wonderful teacher, and had only been kind and courteous when treating the burn scars on her face. He had been summoned quickly from Dragonstone to care for Jace and had remained to council his queen. “Care for some wine?”

He laughed. “Oh no, I am fine with water. Thank you, my lady.” Several of the other small council members pushed their cups to the side, signaling for her service.

“It gladdens my heart to see peace made between you and your stepdaughter, your grace,” began Lord Celtigar. He frowned as Baela purposefully overfilled his cup, splashing wine onto his hand.

Rhaenyra smiled tightly. “Yes. We are all very happy to bring Baela back into the fold.” A pause. “Let us officially call this council into session. Has there been any news from the Reach?”

“There has been nothing further from Lady Caswell since her report that Bitterbridge surrendered to the Hightower host,” began Gerardys. “And it has been nearly a week since I have received anything from her maester or any other member of her household. I fear that the worst has happened and she has been executed.”

“I am not surprised,” began the young man with the mermaid sigil. “Her smallfolk tore two kingsguard apart. Certainly the Hightowers would hold her responsible for such negligence.”

A cough. “They were false knights, Ser Manderly,” corrected her stepmother. “It was what they deserved.” The young man bowed his head apologetically, and the queen continued. “What of the knight inquisitors? Has there been any further sighting of my…niece and nephew?”

Brow furrowed, Baela ran her finger over the sloping neck of the carafe. Aegon’s children had fled to the Reach, but clearly there had been some sort of incident.

“No,” said Gerardys. “Ser Costayne was the only one to write a report back. Princess Jaehaera and Prince Maelor have yet to be seen on the road again.” A pause, and then the maester looked to her father. “Nor has the Lady Rhaena.”

Droplets of wine spilled to the floor as her hand shook. Rhaena? In the Reach? Thank the gods, each and every one of them—the Fourteen Flames, the Merling King, all the gods of Essos, and even the Seven and the strange tree gods of the North. She must be making her way to the Hightower army, where surely their grandmother was waiting and plotting to rescue Baela.

“From the accounts we have, they were accompanied only by Sers Fell and Thorne. If they travelled onwards, they were alone and without protection,” Lord Celtigar offered cautiously, almost afraid. “Brigands and dangerous animals have run rampant since the war began. It has been ten days since they were spotted in Bitterbridge. We should prepare for the chance that they did not survive in the wilderness.”

“No,” Baela snapped, voice whip-like. All the heads in the room turned to her in unison and she met the gaze of each member of the council. “You’re wrong. Rhaena is alive.”

The old man looked at her with pity. “Just because you believe it so, does not mean that it is true.”

“I disagree.” Her father took a deep drink, eyes watching her. “They could have met with someone at Bitterbridge. In truth, I think it more likely that they have joined with the Hightower host.”

“The Hightowers,” began Rhaenyra. She was spinning one of her ruby rings around her finger. “Are they still marching towards Tumbleton?”

Gerardys nodded. “Yes, your grace. There has been no sign that they plan to veer north towards the Riverlands. Surely they will continue up the Mander towards Tumbleton, where they will be forced to contend with our armies. Lord Footly has informed us that nearly nine thousand men have gathered there.”

“It is not enough,” said her father. “We should send a dragon, perhaps two, to deal with the cunt’s youngest whelp.”

“We need a dragon in the Riverlands as well,” countered Rhaenyra. “That wretched kinslayer is razing the realm.” This was news to Baela, who paused while topping off the mysterious woman’s cup. It ached to think of Vhagar used for such violence, but perhaps that was a childish holdover from her youth, when dragons were companions and protectors, not weapons of war. “He must be stopped.”

Ser Manderly, the master of ships, cleared his throat. “He has stuck mostly to the land north of Harrenhall. Perhaps the Lannister army is finally moving south? What are the odds that the usurper is with them?”

“If I may,” spoke the woman at last, voice soft and lyrical. A Lyseni accent colored her speech and each word felt deliberate and thoughtful. “As you instructed me last time, your grace, I looked into the matter of the usurper. There have been several sightings of men who resemble Prince Aegon passing through inns and towns in the Riverlands and Crownlands, but these reports are inconsistent. Some of my informants have claimed to see him at two different inns miles apart on the same night, traveling with different parties of men.”

Lord Celtigar rose a golden brow. “So your spies are incompetent?” He said, a bit accusingly. “This is why a common whore should not have been appointed Master of Whispers.”

“No. It means he is using decoys,” replied the woman, unruffled.

“And that he has broken the Lannister army into smaller bands, as we did. This is valuable information, Mysaria.”

She bowed her head at her father. “Thank you, your grace. There have been no sightings of his dragon, but I will continue to look.”

“Speaking of news," began Ser Manderly, "I received a reply from Dalton Greyjoy’s sister. She informed me, quite bluntly, that the ironborn are unable to offer any additional support. What occurred off the shores of Fair Isle has left them—”

“Not now,” interrupted Daemon, glancing at Baela. That was suspicious. “We can speak of the ironborn later.”

Manderly swallowed. “As you wish, your grace.”

“If there are no other field reports," the Master of Coin coughed. "I would like to take a moment to discuss the treasury and our income.”

“Of course, Bartimos,” said Rhaenyra, her eyes glazing over.

Wetting his fingertips with his tongue, Lord Celtigar began to leaf through a stack of parchment. “The situation is bordering on dire, I must say,” he began, direct. “Even though the Gullet remains open, there has been little trade coming into King’s Landing, which has historically been the foundation of the crown’s income. I have tried to counteract this by enacting several new taxes on the smallfolk, but that has not been as successful as I would like.”

“For example,” the Master of Coin continued, after pausing to take a drink. “I have instituted a bread tax. But because there is no grain coming from the Reach, the bakeries are not open, and there is no bread being sold.” He wiped at his forehead; Baela went and refilled his goblet. “There are many examples such as this that concern me. Now, I can raise taxes again, but the smallfolk are discontent, and I would prefer to not be the next Rego Draz.”

Are they truly so desperate for coin? Baela thought. Taxes on bread? The way they are acting, it’s as if the treasury is entirely empty.

“What do you suggest, Bartimos?” Gerardys asked, bushy grey eyebrows drawn together in concern. He was perhaps the only person other than Baela who was earnestly listening.

“I’d like to propose cutting back—temporarily, of course—on non-essential spending.” His indigo eyes flickered with nervousness. “For example, the feast scheduled three days hence—”

Rhaenyra jolted. “Oh, yes. Joffrey’s confirmation feast. What of it, Lord Celtigar?”

“I would like to suggest that it be greatly reduced in size, or postponed altogether until the war is won and the coffers recovered.”

“Absolutely not,” said her stepmother, annoyed. “He is to be the Prince of Dragonstone. It is an important milestone in his life, as well as a symbol of the power and legitimacy of my rule. The smallfolk will be cheered by such a celebration. We will proceed as originally planned, Bartimos. Is that clear?”

The Master of Coin glanced away, submissive. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good. If there is nothing else, then I believe this meeting is concluded,” said Rhaenyra. She rose to her feet and left immediately, as though she were so riled up by the idea of scaling back her spending that could not stand to be in the room any longer. Baela was not surprised by her reaction. King Viserys was not known for his austerity; having to cut back would make Rhaenyra look weak.

Notably, her father did not follow after his wife, rather he made his way to Mysaria. The Lyseni woman regarded him with a glint in her eye. “Daemon,” she said, overly familiar. Her father stood oddly close to her, smirking down at the Master of Whispers. Mysaria. Her name was oddly familiar. 

Baela caught him by the arm. “Take me to Addam. That was the deal.”

“So it was.” His eyes were bright and amused, even as he turned reluctantly away. “We shall speak some other time, Mysaria.” Bowing his head at the Mistress of Whispers, he linked arms with Baela and swept them both away, escorting her in a mockery of a father-daughter relationship.

“You are overeager,” said her father once they were in the hallway. “It makes you appear desperate.”

Baela dug her fingers into the meat of his forearm, smiling stiffly at the poorly-hidden courtiers watching them. “Perhaps I am. I only have your word that he’s unharmed, and you have made it clear I can no longer trust you." A pause. "What is happening with the ironborn? Were you embarrassed to admit in front of me that my grandmother has routed them?"

"That's nothing for you to worry about," he hummed, and he brought her to the upper level of the dungeons, where a row of private rooms with barred windows were reserved for nobleborn prisoners. Signaling the warden for this level, the third door was unlocked.

“There,” said her father. “Go and see if I have been lying to you.”

She pushed open the door and there he was. Addam was asleep at a small desk beneath the narrow window, head resting on his arms in a thin strip of sunlight. At the sight of him, Baela felt joy for the first time in weeks. A laugh burst out of her and she ran towards him, crossing the cell in seconds.

Clapping her hands on his shoulders, she shook him awake; her cousin shot up, locs flying loose around his face, and he shrank back defensively before freezing.

“Baela?” Addam said, slowly. “Baela, is that really you?” He surged up and pulled her into a hug, nearly lifting her into the air.

“Who else?”

He stepped back, releasing her. “I’ve been so worried about you. The guards have refused to tell me anything and—” The grin on his face died as he caught sight of her father, leaning against the door. “What do you want?”

“Don’t mind me,” her father answered. A hand was resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. Teeth flashed in a smile. “Just chaperoning.”

“Ignore him.” Baela pulled Addam over to the bed, sitting them both down on the threadbare and thin mattress. “I’ve been worried about you for weeks,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "What happened when the city fell? How did you end up captured?”

Addam ripped his violet eyes away from her father. “I was trying to keep the dragons off you,” he began, matching her volume. “But when your cousin joined us in the air, I tried to help Dreamfyre. That’s when Nettles came down on Sheepsteeler.” A pause, as his shoulders hunched down. “She was playing with me,” he said bitterly. “No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake her."

“I failed the queen and I failed you. It was my responsibility to keep you safe,” he continued.

“That’s not true.” Baela placed a hand on his arm. “I was never supposed to be there.” But if I hadn’t been there, Addam would be dead, she thought. The other six dragons would have ripped him apart. Even if she had lost Moondancer, she did not regret it. Not if it meant he was alive.

He frowned. “Doesn’t matter. I should have been watching out for you. I lost track of you in the fighting and by the time I looked for you again, Moondancer was already about to hit the ground.” Sucking in a breath, it looked as though Addam was about to cry. “I—I landed Seasmoke in the next closest plaza and tried to run for you. I was caught and forced to surrender.”

“You should have left. Flown away to warn grandmother and grandfather.”

“And leave you behind? Are you crazy?” Her cousin said, raising his voice slightly. “I had no idea if you were alive or dead. I couldn’t just abandon you.”

Abruptly, Baela hugged him again. Her wonderful, loyal, and brave cousin. “I’m alive. I’m here. We’re fine, we both are.”

“I asked for you and Rhaena every day. Is she well? Why isn’t she here?” Addam said into her hair.

“Rhaena escaped,” Baela smiled, despite the sudden feeling of sadness. Thinking of Moondancer prodded at some raw and still-healing hole in her heart. “She fled the city.”

Addam’s grin returned, flashing the gap between his front teeth. “Of course she did. I should have guessed. Why else would you be wearing her dress?”

She pushed him away. “Was it so easy to tell?”

“I remember seeing her wear it when I was here with grandfather.” A pause; he swallowed. “Have they hurt you?”

“No,” answered Baela. “I’m fine. The scars are from dragonflame. I’ve been locked up—in a room far nicer than this one to be sure—but a prisoner all the same.”

Glancing at her father, Addam furrowed his brow. “Then how are you here?”

“I cut a deal with my father,” she admitted. The man in question was idly picking at his fingernails, so obviously eavesdropping. “I get two hours with you for each small council meeting I serve at. If Rhaenyra is making any effort to govern, you should be seeing me fairly often.”

She took a moment to look over her cousin’s face. His skin was ashy from lack of sunlight and he had lost some weight, creating a hollow look to his face. “But enough about me,” Baela continued. “What of you? Have they treated you well? Tell me.”

And so he did, speaking softly about the past month and a half imprisoned in this little room. The loneliness, the ache of being separated from Alyn, from Seasmoke, from Baela and the rest of their kin. Only once had someone dared to lay a hand on him—an interrogator who had come within the first few weeks and slapped him for each time Addam said he was a bastard of Ser Laenor. He had been beaten unconscious, which made her vibrate with rage, but no one had come again. They fed him regularly, but the food was worse than what he had eaten in Hull as a shipwright’s son. He received a bath once a week, but otherwise was mostly left alone.

“You’re the first person I’ve truly spoken to since we left High Tide,” finished Addam.

There was a cough. “A tragic tale, to be sure,” said her father, “but I’m afraid my daughter’s time is up for today.”

“No!” There was still so much to say! Baela looked up at the Rogue Prince. “Please, just a few more minutes.”

“Two hours, those were the terms. Unless you’d like to rescind our deal?”

If she did, she was confident she would never see Addam again. “I’ll be back soon,” Baela said quickly to her cousin, who nodded grimly.

“I’ll be here,” he said softly. Then, the door shut and he was lost to her again. 

The council did not meet again in the days leading up to Joffrey’s feast, and so Baela languished in her chambers, bored out of her mind. Before now, during these last weeks of imprisonment, she had not realized how busy her life had been. There had always been something to do on Driftmark, whether that be lessons with her grandfather, inspecting ships with Alyn, flying with Addam, sitting in on meetings with their steward, or training with Daeron.  Even when it had just been Baela and her grandmother at High Tide, there was business to be managed.

But an unforeseen visitor came to her door on the second day. At the knock, Baela called them in flatly, expecting her father or perhaps even Rhaenyra, preceded by all her titles, to come bother her. The door flew open and clanged against the wall like a clap of thunder. She nearly fell out of bed, trying to get to her feet, when someone collided into her with shrieking laughter. “Baela!”

Falling back onto the mattress, her hand settled on a crown of thick brown curls. Joffrey grinned up at her, eyes twinkling with joy, and squeezed her tightly into a hug. “Baela!”

“Joffrey,” she said, breathless; he had thrown his entire weight into her. When did he get so tall? “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you,” he chirped. “Tyraxes and I got here yesterday.” Then, his dark eyebrows drew together in concern. “Is Mother angry at you and Rhaena and Jace? She wouldn’t let me see anyone when I came home.”

With a hum, she sat back up, extricating herself from Joffrey’s grip. Her stepbrother pouted, but insisted on leaning against her side. “Rhaena isn’t here, Joff. She went to the Reach.” said Baela cautiously. “As for your mother, she is upset with me. And I am angry with her, to be completely honest with you.”

“Are you mad at me?” Joffrey asked, sounding almost nervous.

Was she? They were on sides separated by war, Baela was his mother’s prisoner, but she could not find it in her to look at him as an enemy. Joffrey, who had run to her with a smile, who had begged his mother to see her, who looked at her with love. Baela recalled a distant memory of balancing Joffrey on her feet when he was still learning to walk, back with Aegon had been born. She spoke at last. “No. Of course not, Joff.”

“I missed you, Baela,” he grinned, clearly pleased by her answer. “Rhaena said you’d stay at Dragonstone with us, but then you left again. I was sad.”

“I’m sorry for not saying goodbye.” But she was not sorry for leaving. “What was it you said about Jace? Rhaenyra would not let you visit him?”

He sighed dramatically, in the way that a nine-year-old was wont to do. “No. Mother says he is sick. But Jace never gets sick!”

“Jace was hurt when he took the city, Joffrey,” began Baela slowly. This was a conversation he should be having with his mother, not with her. “Did Lady Arryn not tell you?”

“Jeyne told me that Vermax is dead, like Visenya and Luke.” Something angry warped his features, ruining his innocence. Then, her stepbrother shook his head violently, as though he were trying to cast his dark thoughts away. “That’s why I need to see him. Jace must be sad. I’ll tell him about the Vale and Jeyne and that I’m going to be a knight! Do you think that’ll cheer him?”

Baela turned to her stepbrother, raising an eyebrow. “You want to be a knight?” His mother wanted to make him a king. “When did that happen?”

“Ser Corbray has been teaching me!” Joffrey leapt off the bed and brandished an imaginary sword. “He says if I improve with a sword, he’ll ask Mother to let me be his squire. And when I’m a knight, I’ll kill Uncle Aemond!” His voice was bright, excited. “And I’ll protect Mother from her enemies!”

She hummed lowly, smiling weakly. “What of me, Joff?” Sometimes, she forgot that, for House Velaryon, this war was less about the Iron Throne and more about the succession for Driftmark. If Rhaenyra had agreed to grant it to Baela, would grandmother had chosen to side with King Aegon? “Am I your mother’s enemy?”

“You’re my sister,” said Joffrey, as if it was that simple. “I’ll protect you and Rhaena and Jace and Aegon and Viserys!”

“I’m the elder,” she said fondly, ruffling his hair. “It’s my job to look after you, even if I’m stuck in this room. If you need to talk, or need help, know that you can always come to me, Joff. It would be nice to actually have a visitor I’d enjoy talking to for once.”

Before his mother could come looking for him, Baela sent her stepbrother on his way, placating him by saying she would see him tomorrow for dinner. More serving maids came the next day in the late afternoon and prepared her for the feast, dressing her once more in another borrowed gown of Rhaena’s.

She was escorted to the antechamber before the throne room, where Rhaenyra, her father, and Joffrey waited. Low voices from the guests already seated inside, and the herald signaled the trumpeters to open the door at her arrival. After waving to Baela, Joffrey offered his arm to his mother, who accepted it with an earnest, warm smile.

Announced by the trumpets, the doors swung open and the herald began to shout their names. Rhaenyra came down the aisle first, while Baela and her father walked side by side, having refused the king consort’s offered arm.

As Bartimos had feared, Joffrey’s confirmation feast was ostentatiously lavish. Between the pillars leading to the Iron Throne, boughs of sweet-smelling cedar were suspended from the ceiling and twined with autumn blooms. Bright mums and cyclamen and salvia glowed in the torchlight among the red, yellow, and orange leaves still attached to the branches, a final farewell to the lush beauty of summer.

There was already someone sitting on the dais, alone in the room full of people. As they drew closer, she realized it was Jace, sitting at the right end of the table. All the other guests stood, but he remained seated, pale and shadowed in the light. Together, they climbed the dais. Rhaenyra sat at the center, the throne looming over her, with Joffrey sitting between his mother and brother. Her father sat on the other side of his wife, leaving Baela at the edge, as far away as possible from her older stepbrother.

There was a rustling noise as everyone sat back down. After a beat of silence, Rhaenyra stood and raised her goblet high. The torchlight turned her hair orange-gold and the rubies at her ears and throat were luminescent. She looked beautiful.

“A warm welcome to my loyal friends and allies,” she began. “We have joined together on this night to celebrate the confirmation of my son, Joffrey Velaryon, as Prince of Dragonstone and your future king!” Quiet applause echoed through the room, dying quickly to let Rhaenyra continue speaking. “I shall not lie—it has been a difficult moon.” Her eyes flickered to the end of the table, where Jace sat quietly. “But may this night mark the beginning of a new chapter. Eat! Drink! Be merry!”

With great applause, the courtiers began to eat. Rhaenyra’s favorite jester, a dwarf known as Mushroom, began to sing a ribald tale. The high table was laden with pork, venison, and artfully arranged pheasants. Meat swam in rich sauces; fruits were cut into flowers. Upon silver platters, pies and pastries were brushed with butter and dusted with sugar and decorated with candied orange peels. From what she could see from the dais, all the other tables in the hall were laden with similar fare. Baela pushed her food around her plate, wondering what bland gruel Addam was eating tonight.

She sat in silence for hours, ignored happily by her father and Rhaenyra. By the time the dancing started, Joffrey had been put to bed. Rhaenyra, likely trying to escape the courtiers who wanted to speak with her, convinced her husband to dance, leaving Baela alone with Jace.

After a moment of consideration, she stood and made her way to the other side of the table, sitting down in Joffrey’s vacated seat. Jace looked up at her, brown eyes blinking in surprise. He looked wan and thin, and his face was haggard.

“Jacaerys.”

“Baela.” He took a sip of wine, throat bobbing. “It’s—it’s good to see you.”

She felt like laughing. Instead, some absurd, cruel-sounding snort burst out of her. “Is it?”

Jace was quiet. “I think so,” he said. “A month ago, I would have been furious at you. Now? I’m just exhausted.” A shrug.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asked, oddly irritated by how cynical he seemed. “Why aren't you angry? Where's your fire? Are you truly fine with being forced to renounce your claim?”

“I don’t know, Baela,” snapped Jace, acerbic. “How did you feel when your father wanted you to give up Driftmark?” He grimaced, taking another drink, then added quietly, “And I wasn’t forced.”

To keep her hands busy, Baela grabbed a piece of bread, breaking open the crust and picking at the soft, steaming innards. The death of their dragons hung between them, along with a terrible silence.

She chose to break it first. “Father told me about your legs. Is it true?”

“Here,” he abruptly handed her a fork. “Stick it into my thigh. As hard as you can.” At her hesitant look, the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Go ahead. Do it.”

She pressed it against his leg and then began to push down, digging it into his muscle. Watching with disinterest, Jace was stoic and still. “See?” He said wryly. “Can’t feel a thing. I can't move anything below my hips. Mother had me carried in here before anyone else arrived.” A sigh. “I’ve been sitting here for a long time.”

“She’s embarrassed of you,” commented Baela. On the dance floor, Rhaenyra was twirling in the arms of her father, red gown flying out behind her.

To her surprise, Jace agreed. “I think so. It’s hard for her.”

“Forget your mother. This is hard for you too.”

“It is,” he answered simply. "It's very hard, Baela."

She gnawed on her bottom lip, struck by the sudden wave of pity. “I—” A pause. Her stepbrother glanced at her, eyes trailing over her burn scar. “I feel like I should apologize,” she said in disbelief, “but I’m not sorry for what happened.”

He deserved it for what he did. For all the ships he burned and the men he killed, but a treacherous voice whispered in the back of her head. How was that so different from the Pentoshi ships Baela had burned with Moondancer?

“I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t intervened, Caraxes would have killed you.”

That doesn’t make you a hero, she thought bitterly. “Why save me? We’re enemies.”

“Because we’re family, Baela,” he said sharply, turning his head away. “Even if I’m not…not what my mother claims I am. Our parents are married. Do you think I want to see Joff cry over you? To tell Aegon and Viserys that their sister is dead?” Jace huffed, annoyed. Some life returned to him, a healthy flush to his skin. “I don’t care if my mother hates you, or if grandmother hates me, or even if you despise me. I didn’t want you dead.”

Silence. Baela realized distantly that she ripped the bread into shreds, dropping the crumbs to the floor. “Jace,” she said, firm but not unkind, “I don’t think we can ever be friends again, but…I’m glad you’re alive.” A pause. “I’m sorry about Vermax.”

There was almost a smile on his face. His eyes were very warm. “I’m sorry about Moondancer. And your grandmother.”

“What?” Her grandmother? Blood rushed through her ears, roaring. “What did you say?”

“I—” Jace paused, his mouth parting. “You didn’t know? Mother didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Baela nearly hissed.

Twitching, he raised his hand as if he were going to comfort her, but clearly thought better of it. “The Greyjoys shot grandmother down over the Sunset Sea,” he said, worried. “Meleys is dead. I don’t know much more. Baela?” He reached for her, cursing as he failed to stand. “Baela, where are you going?”

Clutching a pitch of wine, she stalked down towards the dance floor, shoving courtiers out of the way, until she came upon Rhaenyra and her father. All music died as she upturned the wine over the Rogue Prince’s head, splashing her stepmother in the process.

“When were you going to tell me my grandmother was dead?” Baela shouted, anguished, and then she chucked the pitcher against the floor. It shattered into pieces, skittering over stone. “You lied to my face for weeks!”

She swatted at her father like a wild animal; Rhaenyra reeled back, wiping wine from her face. “Guards! Ser Darklynn, get her out of here!”

Hands seized Baela’s wrists. “Behave yourself!” Father spat. His hair was stained red.

“Did you kill her?” She spat in his face. “Like you murdered that little boy, your nephew? Like you killed Uncle Laenor? How you killed my mother?”

Arms reached around her waist, hoisting her up into the air. Stiffly, her father released his grip on her and stood, frighteningly quiet. "I hate you!" Baela shouted as she was carried away. "I hate you!" She imagined, for a short moment, that there was hurt in his lilac eyes.

Kicking and shouting, she was dragged back through the castle, up the serpentine stairs, before the kingsguard threw her onto the floor with a grunt. The door slammed shut and her ragged breath echoed through the empty room. One breath, another, a third. Baela thought of grandmother’s body sinking through the sea, still strapped to Meleys' saddle, and she buckled over, screaming in anger and grief.

Whatever darkness came over her, Baela did not remember, for she came to in a destroyed bedroom. The mirror lay shattered in pieces on the floor, the bedsheets were torn to shreds, and her knuckles were bloody and bruised. I ruined Rhaena's dress, she noted, numb. Part of the skirt was ripped and there was blood on the cuff of her sleeve. Baela half expected her father to burst through the door, or Rhaenyra to come and order her execution, but no one came for her. It hurt more than she expected.

Dawn turned to day, and when the sun reached its zenith in the sky, a dragon roared. Distant and familiar. Baela stumbled to her feet, slapping her numb legs, and went to the window. Silverwing and Vermithor had taken to the sky, angling towards the castle. Favoring his left wing, the Old King's dragon had clearly taken a beating from Dreamfyre, and even from the ground Baela could see the still-healing rends in his side. Together, they swept to the south west, rounding the castle and vanishing from view. 

Several moments later, Sheepstealer erupted out of the pit; Caraxes followed, an angry red blot against the blue sky. Her father did not come circle around the castle, as he had done when he escorted her back to High Tide. Nor did he wave, or make any sign that indicated that he was thinking of his eldest daughter. It felt anticlimactic and cold, oddly devastating, as her father turned Caraxes north away from the city, and disappeared into the sky. 

Chapter Text

With a bright laugh, Maelor was thrown up into the air, arms outstretched. Daeron caught the boy as he came back down, spinning in place and pressing a kiss against his chubby cheeks.

“Again?” Daeron asked, almost as amused as his nephew was.

He nodded vigorously, silver hair framing his face. “Again, Dae! Again!”

Unlike Jaehaera and poor, lost Jaehaerys, he had not been called back to King’s Landing for the birth of his youngest nephew, but Maelor had taken to him easily and eagerly. It was almost surprising that a boy who had endured so much, been subjected to so much violence, was so open to a complete stranger. Perhaps there was some innate connection between them as kin, a trust. Daeron thought it more likely that Maelor liked him because he resembled his father. How many silver-haired men with both their eyes were there in Westeros?

“You’ll spoil the lad,” said Ormund, half-heartedly. There was a smile beneath his beard as he watched on, green eyes soft.

“Come now,” he replied. “Don’t tell me you never played with Lyonel and Martyn and Garmund like this.”

The Lord of Oldtown chuckled and nodded sheepishly. “Aye, I did.”

They were standing in the open space of Ormund’s pavilion, light filtered through the grey and silver silks. Plush rugs lay underfoot, blanketing the grass and rocks that lay beneath the tarp floor. His uncle was sitting at a large wooden desk, which was adjacent to a sitting area with a large, long table that often doubled as a dining room and war council. Beyond a fabric archway, the lord general’s sleeping quarters lay unseen.

Dressed casually in a grey surcoat trimmed with green thread, the Lord of Oldtown leaned over a map, sorting through stacks of papers and missives from the various lords in their war camp. A weariness had found its way to his brow, aging him beyond his thirty-six years, but there had been a quiet, muted joy in watching Maelor play.

“Up you go,” Daeron said, tossing his nephew up again. When he came back down into his arms, he sat the prince over his shoulders. Maelor, very pleased, laughed and fisted his hands in his hair, steering his uncle towards the desk.

Daeron looked over the war map. It was clearly old, for Bitterbridge was still named Stonebridge, and the vellum was beginning to fray at the edges. Painted in lush blue, the Mander curved over the landscape. Tumbleton was drawn at the river’s headwaters, where gentle hills rose up. In vivid black, the sigil of House Footly was stamped above the settlement.  

Atop the map, a number of tokens sat, slightly oversized for a map of this scale. They were carved from wood in the shape of shields with sigils painted on in a fine hand. Apples for Fossoway, grapes for the Redwynes, the black fortress of House Peake, among others. Yet, the token for the Hightower was carved in the round, resembling a piece for a gameboard. It stood proudly at the front, placed on the plain outside Tumbleton.

“You plan to lead the van?”

Ormund nodded and spoke. “I do. Brynden will ride with me. Tristan will lead the middleguard and Hobert will take the rear.”

“Cousin Hobert?” Daeron repeated, surprised. Hobert was an old man, cousin to his grandfather, Lord Otto, and had only ridden off to war to keep an eye on his own son, Ser Brynden. “Truly?”

“He feels well enough to ride out, and I will not deny him a chance at glory in his old age.” Many years ago, or so he had been told, Hobert had been an accomplished tourney knight, but such achievements were easily forgotten with time. All knights dreamed of war, of battlefield glory. So had Daeron, until he had seen the reality of it. The ugliness. The dead and dying. The mundanity.

“And where will I be?” Even though he was now a fully-fledged knight, Daeron knew his uncle would not put him in the van.

Ormund pulled a token out of a box, hastily painted with the sigil of a blue, three-headed dragon on a field of green. At the sight of it, Daeron smiled, but quickly frowned as it was set firmly between the rear and middleguard.

“Don’t give me that look boy,” began his uncle. “It may seem that I’ve put you far from the action, but, in truth, I’m sending you to the most dangerous part of the battlefield.” A pause, as if saying it was physically painful for him. “If those dragons take flight, we will need you to…”

“Tessarion and I are ready,” said Daeron, insistent; Maelor made a soft sound. “We’ve spoken about this. Several times now.”

“I know. But you are only six-and-ten and newly knighted, close in age to my own sons.” Ormund looked away, chestnut brows furrowed deeply. “You cannot understand how difficult this is, especially now that I’ve seen the damned beasts.”  

The mounts of the Old King and the Good Queen had arrived yesterday, waylaying their original plan to siege Tumbleton the day before. Silverwing was perhaps ten times the size of brave Tessarion, and Vermithor larger still. Surviving a fight with one would be difficult. The both of them? Impossible.

Daeron pursed his lips, making eye contact with his uncle, his mentor, the nearest thing he had to a father—a true one. “It is my responsibility all the same. Tessa and I are the only ones who can protect the men on the ground. Unless one of my brothers happens to drop out of the sky, it has to be me.”

Even if it kills me, he thought somberly.

Before Ormund could reply, a beam of sunlight cut through the main room of the pavilion. Two shadows stretched over the floor, holding each other’s hands.

“I hope we aren’t interrupting,” said Rhaena. Backlit by the sun, her hair was luminescent, her locs falling neatly over her shoulders. She was smiling, and Daeron was oddly struck by the expression.

“Please, come in!” Ormund called, waving them inside. “You aren’t interrupting anything."

“Yes,” Daeron echoed quickly. “We were only talking.”

They stepped inside, the grey silk doorway cascading shut. “The quartermaster had to open up a crate of oranges that were close to spoiling, so Jaehaera and I thought we should bring some for you.”

Bounding forward, his niece had an apron full of oranges. She was wearing a child’s dress that had been seized from Longtable, dyed in plain yellow to match the colors of House Merryweather. It was a far cry from the silks and velvets fit for a princess, but Jaehaera seemed happy enough to wear something clean. With her face and hair washed, she looked so much like Helaena that it hurt.

Daeron had wept like a child into Tessarion’s neck when the news had come from King’s Landing. He had spent only eight years living with his sister before Oldtown separated them, and now she was gone, lost to him in this life. Blinking away a sudden rush of tears, Daeron knelt down beside his niece and forced cheery smile. 

“Here, Uncle Daeron,” she chirped, waving an overlarge orange in her hand. Three others rolled around in the cradle of her apron.

Very gently, he lifted Maelor off his shoulders, setting the boy back down on the ground, and took the fruit. “Thank you very much, Jaehaera. That is very kind of you.”

She hummed and flushed red, still shy around him, but she quickly sped off. “One for you, Lord Ormund.”

“Call me Uncle Ormund, dear,” he said with a loud laugh. “We’re kin after all.”

“But you aren’t Mama or Papa’s brother,” Jaehaera said suspiciously, narrowing her eyes.

Ormund raised his eyebrows; Rhaena laughed quietly into her hand, a sweet, bell-like sound, bright and clear. “That’s true. Your grandmother Alicent is my cousin, for our fathers were brothers. That makes you and I cousins as well, princess, but since I am so much older, I’ve always thought Uncle Ormund sounds better. Don’t you agree?”

“If you say so,” said the little princess. This time, Daeron snickered at his uncle’s face, pinched in disbelief. “One orange for Rhaena, and one for me!”

Maelor, who had been toddling along after his sister, stopped suddenly, yanking on her dress. “And me?”

She turned to him authoritatively. “You’re a baby, Mae. You don’t need a whole orange.”

The prince immediately burst into tears, as wretched as a man dying on a battlefield. In unison, both Daeron and Rhaena rushed towards him, nearly running into each other. He drew back, letting her pass, and watched Ormund flutter his hands awkwardly, knowing that neither child would welcome his touch.

“Why don’t you give Maelor my orange, Jaehaera?” Rhaena said, crouching down and gently wiping his nephew’s cheeks. The prince hiccupped miserably.

Daeron’s niece was displeased, eyes also filling with tears. Like Aegon, she could be as volitaile as a cask of wildfire, although he suspected most of the children’s outbursts were borne from the lingering emotions of their long, turmoil-filled month on the Roseroad.  “Then what about you? There aren’t any more oranges left!”

“We can share,” he offered suddenly. “I’ll share with her, Jaehaera. How does that sound?”

Sniffling once, she seemed to calm down, blinking away her tears. “That’s fine,” she said, and then firmly handed the last orange to her little brother. Maelor grinned and started gnawing on the rind. “Uncle Ormund, Uncle Daeron says you have a special sword. Can you cut this up for me please?”

“You mean Vigilance?” A rough laugh. “If you insist, child, I’ll cut up your orange with Valyrian steel. Come over here and bring your brother.”

With authority, the Lord of Oldtown herded the children away and sat them down on a rug, leaving Daeron and Rhaena alone. The Sea Snake’s granddaughter pushed herself back to her feet, using Ormund’s writing desk as a support.

“Quick thinking,” she said.

“It was nothing.” He dug his thumbnail into the orange rind, beginning to peel it. “I spent the first few years of my life playing mediator between Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond.” He was skilled in this sort of thing.

Her lilac eyes—a lovely color—roved silently over Ormund’s desk, the map, and the battle tokens. Slowly, her smile faded away and something more somber took its place. “Is this for tomorrow?”

Daeron hummed, wrenching another chunk of rind away. “It is. But you and the children will be far away from the front line. Ormund has arranged an honor guard to protect you, and…in the event that anything goes wrong, they’ll escort you to Oldtown, in case you were worried.”

“I’m not worried.” A pause, and she bit down lightly on her bottom lip. “I just wish that this was all over.”

“We all do.”

Silence was suspended between them, broken by Jaehaera’s distant giggles and Ormund’s deep voice. Rhaena lifted her eyes and exhaled softly. “I know,” she said. “It must sound silly to hear me complain. I’m not the one fighting on the battlefield.”

“It’s not silly.” His hands stilled, and she smiled wryly, unconvinced. “It’s not,” Daeron insisted.

The last bit of peel fell away. Daeron pulled the orange apart into two halves, tearing away the white pith at the core. After piling the detritus on the corner of the desk, he offered out his hand.

Rhaena took the fruit and the tips of her fingers brushed against the heart of his palm, warm and soft. “Thank you,” she said kindly, popping a slice into her mouth. Then, she spoke again, voice lighter. “What do you think you’ll do when the war is over, Ser Daeron?”

“Just Daeron is fine, Lady Rhaena,” he said, laughing as she raised a silver eyebrow. “In truth, I don’t know.”

Taking a moment to consider it, he ate an orange slice, savoring the rush of sweet juice on his tongue. He truly had never thought of it. A year ago, he thought this war would be a quick and simple thing. Aegon would be crowned, Rhaenyra subdued, Helaena alive and well. Daeron would kiss his mother on the cheek and head triumphant back to Oldtown. Now, the struggle seemed endless. Even once it was over, what he had seen on the battlefield would linger with him for the rest of his life.

“I will return to King’s Landing, I think. To be with my mother and keep an eye on my brothers and look after Jaehaera and Maelor. After that, maybe I’ll become a tourney knight. If the realm is ever in a place to hold tourneys again.”

“I’ve never been to a tourney before,” said Rhaena thoughtfully. “Baela, my sister, has always wanted to compete in one though.”

A nod. “Ormund hosted one in my honor when I was first sent to Oldtown.” Daeron recalled the fear, the anxiety, the terrible homesickness, all which had been washed away by the pageantry of it all. The banners in the wind, the streets of Oldtown strung up with lanterns and ribbons. How proud the horses were and the way that polished armor shone in the sunlight.

He remembered linking arms with Martyn and Lyonel and Garmund, shrieking with joy as Gwayne won the tilt and crowned baby Bethany as Queen of Love and Beauty. On that day, Daeron had decided he wanted to be a knight.

“Having now been acquainted with you, my lady, I think you would enjoy one very much. The contests are fun, of course, but there is always dancing and music and food.”

She tilted her head and her hair cascaded to the side. Daeron distantly remembered the face of Ser Laenor, who had often worn beads in his hair. Had she done the same before being forced into disguise on the road? “What would you compete in, ser?”

“Quintain, of course!” He said, completely overeager. Daeron felt himself flush. “And the joust, too. The lance is my weapon of choice.”

Appearing suddenly, Maelor sprang out from behind him and ran towards Rhaena, proffering a half-eaten orange in his sticky hands. “Rhae! Rhae, for you!”

“Are you talking about tourneys, lad?” Ormund said, voice loud in his ear. Following in his shadow, Jaehaera squinted at her brother, who Rhaena had picked up, as though she were trying to say I told you he wouldn’t eat a whole orange. “I suppose now that you’re knighted, you could compete in one.”

“Lady Rhaena has never been to a tourney,” he answered instead.

Ormund settled back at his desk. “Is that so?” His green eyes were oddly mischievous. “When we retake King’s Landing and the war is settled, I’ll help your mother arrange one, and, when you compete in the joust, you will ask Lady Rhaena here for her favor. Tis good luck to wear a lady’s first favor.”

“Only if she’s willing to.” Daeron said, resolutely watching as Jaehaera pressed herself against Rhaena’s skirt.

A little laugh. “I will gladly grant it if you ask for it,” said Rhaena, amused. She had finished off Maelor’s orange and the little prince was now sleepily resting his head against her collarbone. “Oh, there he goes. Asleep, just like that. I should take him back to his cot—thank you for letting us bother you.”

He shook his head. “It was no bother.” Ormund echoed the sentiment.

“Say goodbye, Jaehaera.” Waving, his niece followed Rhaena back into the sunlight, vanishing into the war camp. Ormund’s pavilion felt oddly empty.

“That girl,” said his uncle thougtfully, “will be a good mother.”

There was a tightness in his throat. “Don’t be weird, Ormund,” he said, strained. Daeron’s fingers were sticky. “You’re married.”

Green eyes rolled skywards. “Daft boy. Forget it and drag over a chair, I want to run the plans by you again.”

And so they did. Over and over until it truly sunk in why Daeron had to wait with the middleguard, that he must stay grounded until Vermithor and Silverwing took wing or for the archers of Tumbleton exhausted their arrows.  

Tessarion came down in a rush of blue, her copper underbelly flashing in the sun, and landed in the stretch of grass between the rear-guard and the middleguard. Even though they had marched with her for nearly a year, some nearby soldiers barked in alarm. Daeron, dressed for war, fastened his spear to her saddle, adjusted the fastenings on his breastplate and vambraces, and laughed as the she-dragon licked his hair.

Even though he was a knight now, he had helped Ormund into his armor, and the Lord of Oldtown rode now like a hero from the songs. Silver steel armor shone in the sun and his long cloak of grey velvet draped over the hindquarters of his white horse.

“Listen for my war horn,” commanded his uncle. “When you hear it, that is the sign that it is safe for you.”

“If you need my aid, blow it twice. Tessa and I will come,” Daeron replied. The Blue Queen snorted in acknowledgement, yellow-green eyes watching Ormund’s nervous horse.

Green eyes crinkled in a smile. “I know you will.” His uncle clapped a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. “We must have new armor made for you, lad. To suit a proper knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” A frown, a hint of worry. “Be careful, Daeron.”

“You too, uncle.” And then Ormund urged his horse forwards, making for the vanguard.

Across the plain, Tumbleton sat shuttered and quiet, with thousands of soldiers lined up outside its walls. The flags of Houses Grey and Footly flew proudly; the survivors of Longtable and Bitterbridge wielded the battle-worn banners of Merryweather and Caswell. Above all, Rhaenyra’s quartered standard billowed in the breeze.

Daeron found it odd that his sister still styled the Velaryon sigil into her own, despite all that had happened. While he did not know Rhaenyra—nor did he have any desire to, not after losing Helaena—it spoke to a resolute determination. Or perhaps a hard-headed stubbornness.

Far behind the rear-guard, someone began to beat the war drum. It pulsed deeply and slowly, echoing over the battlefield; the men around him began to stomp in time. Daeron jumped into Tessarion’s saddle, securing himself tightly, and the Blue Queen let out a piercing roar.  

He could not see Ormund and the van, but he did see when the enemy charged over the plain. Arrows fell like rain, arching through the sky, and the first batch of men began to fall.

Minutes felt like hours. As they watched the battle unfold, men in the middle-guard began to grow restless. A twitching fevered energy that even agitated Tessa. For a moment, as the calvary collided with the enemy, Daeron thought he saw Ormund with Vigilance raised high, but his uncle vanished into the violence.

Screaming of both men and steel sang in a horrible chorus. And then there was a palpable disbelief and eagerness as Rhaenyra’s men began to pull back. A murmur rippled through the crowd. “Look, they’re retreating!”

“Are they truly? Tis hard to see,” whispered another voice; Tessarion shook out her wings.

On the horse the color of a raincloud, Tristan rode by, shouting. “They’re retreating! After them! After them!"

The middleguard charged forward, running down the slight hillside. Daeron yanked back on the reins as Tessa started forward—he had promised to wait. As restless as she was, he was fortunate that the Blue Queen had not snapped at the men streaming past her.

Then, finally, a war horn sounded once, rich and warm-toned.

“Tessarion,” Daeron ordered firmly. “Soves!”

She unfurled her wings and ran forward, bounding over the plain. The Blue Queen carried them both up into the air with a chirp and, sweeping low, glided over the dead and dying. Blood was soaking into the earth, great smears of red over the grass. Men and horses and weapons lay splintered and broken.

With a gust of wind, Tessarion passed over his uncle’s honor guard and fell upon the retreating knights of House Grey. Cobalt flame ignited their banners and baked men in their armor. Without his command, the she-dragon seized a man in her claw, ripping him off a horse, and flung him through the sky.

Unlike the battle at the Honeywine or the sieges of Longtable and Bitterbridge, Rhaenyra’s men did not seem afraid of Tessarion. They held rank even in retreat, and the bowman on the walls still attempted to knock him from the sky. Compared to Vermithor and Silverwing, the Blue Queen must not seem so frightening anymore.

A quarrel passed dangerously close, whistling past Daeron’s head. Tessarion grumbled in displeasure and took him higher, out of their reach. At this height, he could see behind the city, where Vermithor and Silverwing sat in the low hills.

The other two dragons were grounded still, nonchalantly idle, although there were two pale-haired men between the beasts. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed that the pair was locked in deep discussion, with the smaller of the two gesturing wildly.

Whatever they were deciding, it did Daeron no good to wait around for it. The men on the battlefield needed him and until the two dragons took flight, that would be his primary concern. Pressing himself flat against the saddle, they dove down, chasing the retreating enemy with a blast of flame.

The vanguard of Tumbleton was retreating, but a fresh group of soldiers was emerging from a postern gate. Their banners were torn and dirtied, emblazoned with two crossed axes marred with rust over a yellow field—a sigil that Daeron did not recognize. It was their appearance that gave it away, for the men who carried the banners looked almost as haggard. Old and grey-haired and stooped with age and hardship. Yet, they charged towards Ormund’s larger host with ferocity and bravery. These were the infamous Winter Wolves, the elderly men of the North, come to die.  

Outnumbered by the Reachermen, Daeron guided Tessarion away to more fraught areas of the battlefield, where the forces of House Redwyne—and somewhere down there, dear Martyn—fought the remaining forces of House Grey. Tessa greeted the enemy with more fire, taking great care to steer away from any of their own allies.

Then a shadow passed overhead. In unison, Daeron and Tessarion glanced up and found a sky full of silver scales. Silverwing shone like a diamond in the sunlight, and Vermithor chased after her, ugly compared to her splendor. Red, still-healing scars raked down his head and side, and a patch of blue sky could be seen through the membrane of his bronze wings, where another dragon had torn open a hole.

First, there was fear. Bravely, the Blue Queen angled up to meet them, roaring in warning. Daeron gripped the reins to tightly his knuckles went white, straining against the skin, and prepared to face death.

But death did not come. No flame or snapping teeth or raking claws. Silverwing’s rider raised his hand in a wave, hints of laughter carried by the wind, and dove upon Tumbleton. Like morning mist, white flames erupted from the maw of the Good Queen’s dragon, indiscriminately burning buildings and people.

Angling west, Vermithor passed over the town, an unbroken stream of fire consuming the market square. A great clamor rose up, screams from inside and cheers from the battlefield. The main gates of Tumbleton swung open; soldiers and civilians ran out to escape the fire, colliding with Jon Roxton.

They’ve turned their cloaks, thought Daeron, surprised. But rather than turn their dragons on the men remaining on the field, the dragonseeds were more concerned with burning the city. In muted horror, he watched the destruction, aware that Tessarion was too small to stop them. Children ran aflame through the streets. People were leaping out of the windows of burning buildings, while others collapsed into ash. At the gate, the Roxton battalion was slaughtering anyone who was trying to escape; instead, hordes of smallfolk were throwing themselves into the Mander, fleeing the flames, and disappeared beneath the dark, rushing water.

Bile rose, and he retched. Inside the city, the soldiers, his allies, many who were brave and noble knights, broke rank and turned wild. Men in all sorts of liveries—Redwyne, Roxton, Fossoway, Mullendore, even Hightower—were dragging innocent civilians from their homes. Blood ran down the cobblestone streets, men lay dead, slaughtered before their wives and children. And the women—oh Mother above.

Shutting his eyes, Daeron commanded Tessarion down and his dragon instinctively knew what he wanted, snatching up a man who had forced a young woman to the ground in the market squre—the only place open enough for the she-dragon to reach. She flung him through the air, snarling, and the man fell to the ground, his cock flopping uselessly.

When he looked back down, the woman was gone. But she was one of many, and Daeron could not save them all on his own. Where is Ormund? He thought manically. He’ll put a stop to this.

Vermithor landed atop the keep of House Footly, and Silverwing pirouetted in the air while Tumbleton burned; Tessarion turned away, gliding back over the battlefield. On the grass, Daeron spotted the Hightower war banners, planted in a devastated area of the battlefield. The Blue Queen landed with a squelch, regrettably crushing bodies underfoot. Daeron dismounted, nearly slipping over the blood and gore, and found Hobert and Tristan, along with Martyn, kneeling silently over his father’s body.

Ormund lay fallen from his horse. His armor was dented and dirtied, and his green eyes gazed skyward, blank and glassy. The lower half of his face was split open by a war axe, his beard stained a horrible red. Several steps away, Brynden lay mangled and still.

Breathing raggedly, Daeron stumbled forward. Tessarion crooned softly, sadly. He could not be dead, he should not be dead! Ormund was close in age to his mother; there was still so much life to live! A soft sound, as all the breath rushed out of him. How long had his uncle been lying here? Why did he not call for Daeron?

“I—” He started, but there were no words. Not for this. His eyes watered, and not because of the ash. Something almost like a laugh burst out of him, rattling and unbidden. “I don’t—”

Calm down, thought Daeron, in a voice that sounded simultaneously like Ormund, Otto, and Aemond. Firm, but not unkind. What would Ormund do? Inhaling, he straightened his shoulders, tried to stand tall and strong and brave. “Was there a command to sack the city?”

There was no answer. Tristan spared a mute glance to his nephew, but Hobert and Martyn were lost to their grief. “Tell me,” Daeron repeated, voice firmer, louder. “Was there an order to sack Tumbleton?”

“Tumbleton?” Hobert murmured, face white as he stared at the body of his son. Brynden’s sword arm was severed at the elbow and all the blood in his body seemed to pool beneath him.

“Who is in charge?” Daeron shouted sharply, desperate. “Who is in command? The men are running wild—”

“I am,” wheezed Hobert, tearing his eyes away from Bryden. He was in his sixties, having grown old and fat. He should have been spending his twilight years relaxing in the Hightower and taking pleasure cruises up the Mander. “If Ormund and Brynden are dead, I’m the most senior member of the family until Lyonel can be summoned from Oldtown.”

He pointed towards the burning walls of the city. “Then what are you doing? They’re burning the city. Our men are pillaging and murdering and raping the people of Tumbleton. You have to bring them back under control!”

Hobert’s watery green eyes glanced towards the destruction; he seemed to deflate even more, stooping beneath the weight of both his age and responsibility. “Aye,” he said wearily. “I will do my best to stop this, as Ormund would have wanted.”

“I’ll go with you.” As though he were worried for his elderly cousin, Tristan ripped himself away from Ormund’s corpse, brushing his hand over Martyn’s shoulder. “Will you be alright on your own?”

His cousin flinched at the touch. “Leave me alone.” A ragged cry. “I can bring my father back to camp on my own.”

Together, Tristan and Hobert rode off towards the burning gates of Tumbleton. Daeron approached hesitantly, almost afraid to get closer to Ormund’s body.

“Martyn,” he breathed. “I am so sorry.” But he did not know if he was apologizing to the corpse or his son. Sinking to his knees, he pulled his cousin into a hug.

A hand slapped at his head. “Don’t touch me!” His dearest friend shuddered and looked down in shame. “Don’t touch me,” he repeated, softer. “I need space, Daeron. I need to be alone. Please.”

In the face of such grief, he took a page out of Aegon’s book and fled.

Tessarion deposited him on the banks of the Mander, in a section of the river near the war camp where the shore was muddy and wet. When he dismounted, he nearly slipped in the sludge, sliding down numbly. It was eerily quiet; all the soldiers must still be in Tumbleton.

Fisting his hands in the nearby reeds, Daeron tried to ground himself. To calm himself, to process everything he had seen. Ormund was dead, Lyonel needed to be summoned from Oldtown, and what were they to do about the dragonseeds, who had so suddenly turned against his sister?

But before he could ponder any of it in detail, a charred body floated by on the Mander. At the sight of it, Daeron vanished from existence, floating far away from his body, and eons passed in a heartbeat.

He returned to himself when Tessarion growled lowly. With a gasp, Daeron blinked and found the sun lower in the sky, the shadows strange from the ash in the sky. He turned, glancing over his shoulder, and found Rhaena emerging from the bushes, her brow twisted in concern.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, frantic. “It’s not safe!” While the Velaryons were allies, Rhaena was still the Rogue Prince’s daughter. Daeron did not doubt that that there were several men who, driven mad by bloodlust, who would enjoy hurting her for that reason alone.

But she raised her chin, brave. “Then I can think of no safer place to be than in the company of you and Tessarion.” A pause, as he stared dumbly at her. “May I sit with you?”

“Of course.” He shifted, trying to leave a proper amount of space between them as Rhaena sat gingerly in the muck. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I saw Tessarion land. We were worried when you did not return right away.” Abruptly, Daeron felt stupid, and it momentarily chased away the grief. “There has been word about Lord Ormund,” continued Rhaena, voice soft. “I’m sorry.”

Wordlessly, he folded his legs against his chest, propping his chin atop his knee. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” His ears grew hot as his voice cracked in grief, and he looked away when he felt Rhaena’s pretty eyes on him. “I thought this war would be easy.”

It hurt to admit it. “I thought it would be over in a handful of months,” Daeron continued. “I wanted it. I wanted so badly to earn my knighthood in real combat. Now Ormund is dead.” Tears fell, dripping down his cheeks; embarrassed, he hid his face in his hands, palms pressing hard against his eyes. “Grandfather is dead. Jaehaerys is dead. And Helaena. Men I looked up to, who I thought were brave and honorable and noble knights, are out there breaking their vows.”

“They’re murdering and raping and the Seven know what else.” Even with his eyes closed, he saw the woman in the square. Blonde, teary-eyed, with her hair braided like Helaena’s. Daeron made an involuntary sob. “We are supposed to be the heroes.”

“When I was a child,” Rhaena’s voice began gently. “I idolized my father. He was so confident and charming and war hero. All I wanted was his attention.” A pause; Daeron lifted his head from his hands. There was something so very sad in her face, in the tilt of her mouth. “Things changed when Baela’s egg hatched. He loved me less, I think, and it caused Mother and him to fight. When she died and he married Rhaenyra, the illusion fell apart. He revealed himself as a villain. I lost two parents in one day.”

Wiping away a stream of snot, he shifted towards her, curious. “What then?”

“Eventually, I realized I was wrong,” she laughed wryly. “My father is not a villain. He’s just a man. Sometimes, I think that can be worse.”

There was truth there, and it even applied to his own father. He had accepted long ago that Viserys was just a man, not a monster. That, more than anything else, allowed him to let go of the anger that Aegon and Aemond and Mother still held in their hearts.

“I don’t know what do. It feels like I’m lost in the dark,” admitted Daeron.

A sudden touch startled him, as Rhaena’s hand took his. Her skin was soft and warm and she squeezed his fingers. “When I was afraid or sad, my mother always told me something that my Uncle Laenor used to say when she was upset or scared,” she began with a soft smile.

While Daeron had found her striking on that afternoon where she rode into their war camp with his niece and nephew, covered in grime and exhausted and so wonderfully brave, now, he thought she was very beautiful. “What was it, my lady?” His mouth felt dry.

“The darkest hour is just before dawn,” she answered. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

They sat together, hand in hand, even though it was inappropriate, unchaperoned as they were. Yet, Daeron could not find it in himself to let go. When Tessarion grumbled, letting him know she was hungry, he reluctantly stood and escorted Rhaena back to camp, where she would be safe. The lingering feeling of her touch burned. 

Chapter Text

For a long time, it was dark. Warm and still and silent. Rhaenys burrowed into the bedsheets, murmuring sleepily, and then the curtains were ripped open. Sunlight poured through, painfully bright, and she yelped in surprise.

Shimmering in the morning light, the scarlet curtains of her four-poster bed cascaded around her, obscuring the well-loved and familiar sight of her childhood bedroom in the Red Keep. Rhaenys sat up suddenly, pooling the silk sheets around her waist. Beneath her nightgown, there was the body of a young woman. Her hands soft and smooth, unwrinkled and delicate. The silver hair that fell loose around her shoulders was short, as it had been before Rhaenys became pregnant and seemingly grew a foot of hair overnight.

“You overslept,” said an unfamiliar voice, but it was gentle and kind, indulgent.

“I was up half the night,” she replied automatically, following an old, almost forgotten script. “It’s not every day that I get…”

Rhaenys trailed off. This was so familiar. Turning her head, she blinked through the light and found a man in a chair at her bedside. His hair was white-gold, falling nearly around his chin, and his eyes were kind, a remarkable lilac color. The shade was rare, even among members of House Targaryen. Dressed in red and black, the man wore a small circlet on his brow and a small, antler-shaped ring upon his finger.

He smiled at her, very kindly. “It is not every day that my daughter gets married,” finished Aemon Targaryen.

“Father?” Her vision swam with tears. Springing out of bed, Rhaenys stumbled out over the cold stone floor and threw herself into his lap, nearly knocking over the chair. A brief look of surprise crossed his face, but it quickly morphed into a broad smile, accompanied by an affectionate laugh. Her father held her close, even as she climbed up into his lap as though Rhaenys was a child of six instead of a woman of—how old was she?

It's not every day my daughter gets married, echoed through her thoughts. This was the morning of her wedding day, one of the last happy memories she had of her entire family, before King Jaehaerys called for the Great Council and her friendship with Viserys and Daemon fractured.

If it was her wedding day, then Rhaenys was six-and-ten. A woman grown by all accounts, even though now, as a woman of five-and-fifty, she knew that to be false. She had been so young, had not yet known the taste of grief. She buried her face into her father’s shoulder.

A hand ran gently over her hair. “I haven’t held you like this since you were small,” Aemon said wistfully. “Is everything alright?” A pause, but not long enough for Rhaenys to answer. “Are you nervous? If you say the word, I’ll call the wedding off.”

“What? No!” She cried, offended on Corlys’ behalf. “I want to marry him, father. You know this.”

“I do,” he sighed. They had this conversation countless times. “I just wish he was a bit closer in age to you, sweetling.”

Rhaenys had always liked that about Corlys when she was young, before she realized that it meant inevitably, she would long outlive him. But unlike the boys her age, Corlys could grow a full beard and had scars with a fascinating story to accompany each one. He had seen more of the world that most people alive and was an accomplished sailor and adventurer and always walked with a swagger.

“You are too hard on him.”

A grumbling sigh. “There was never going to be a man good enough for our future queen,” said Aemon, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “But I suppose Corlys will have to do.”

Raising her head from where it was pillowed on his shoulder, Rhaenys grabbed her father’s hand, face seriously sincere. “You don’t need to worry about me. He will be good to me, father.”

“Rhaenys, it is my job to—”

“No,” she interrupted, almost feverish. “Corlys loves me. I will be happy. I need you to understand. He’ll give me my children, Laena and Laenor, and he will be a good father to them. And an even better grandfather to your great-grandchildren.” Her father’s lilac eyes were wide, unsettled, and his brows furrowed together. “Even when we lose everything, when he goes off to war, Corlys will come back to me. And once we are old and wrinkled and worn down by the world, he will love me still.”

A moment of extended silence. “Great-grandchildren?” Aemon began, hesitantly amused. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

“We’ll have four,” she said softly. “They will be the light of my life.”

Laughing, he lifted their hands and pressed a wet kiss to her knuckles. “Is that so, sweetling?” Rhaenys had almost forgotten what his smile looked like.

“It is. I saw it in a dream.” Sometimes, it had felt like a nightmare.

“A dream?” It was clear he did not believe her, but Aemon humored his daughter all the same. Teasing, he continued. “Tell me. What kind of king do I turn out to be?”

In two years, he would be dead, and the shock of it would send Rhaenys into early labor, bringing Laena into the world in a rush of tears and blood. Her daughter would never know her grandfather.

“You were the very best,” she said, blinking back tears. “This isn’t real, is it?”

“Not quite, darling. It’s not time for you yet.” His lilac eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled sadly. “Your mother and I love you.” Then, he pressed a finger against her forehead, flicking the skin. “Now, wake up.”

Lurching up, Rhaenys gasped for breath, like a diver surfacing from beneath the sea. Her vision flashed white before it gradually returned in blurry smears of shape and color. The first thing she noticed was the bone-numbing fatigue, a sore exhaustion that made every movement slow and painful. Second was the distant sounds of waves beating against wood.

She was laying in a narrow bed built into the hull of a ship. Rough and worn linen sheets pooled around her waist, dyed a dark grey from shadow. Sitting at the foot of the bed, Alyn was asleep, head thrown back against the wall. His mouth was parted and he looked terribly young—which he was. Laenor had been older when he went off to war in the Stepstones, and even then Rhaenys had argued against it.

“Alyn,” rasped Rhaenys. Her throat was painfully dry and she tried again. “Alyn.”

He jerked up, nearly falling sideways atop her legs. “Grandmother?” His violet eyes widened. “You’re awake!” Obvious relief colored his voice, emphasizing his sailor’s accent. His calloused hands fluttered towards her, but hesitated, as though Alyn believed she would crumble to dust at the slightest touch.

“Where am I? How long have I been asleep?” Without answering her, Alyn slipped off the bunk and onto his feet. “Where do you think you’re going, young man?”

“Grandfather told me to fetch him as soon as you woke up,” her grandson said apologetically, turning back towards her. “I’ll only be gone a moment, I promise.”

With all of her strength, she reached forward and caught his wrist, wincing at the sight of her frail fingers. “He can wait—I’m the one who fell from the sky! Tell me,” commanded Rhaenys. “I will not be kept in the dark. What happened?”

“Too much has happened,” Alyn frowned, but sat back down on mattress. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“From the beginning.”

“You fell.” Recalling the memory unsettled him, as Rhaenys watched her grandson gnaw on the inside of his cheek. “You fell and I jumped in after you. Don’t say anything,” Alyn said sharply, right as she had opened her mouth to speak, horrified. “Grandfather already lectured me. I wasn’t going to watch you drown.”

Affection and dismay came in equal measure. No boy should risk his life for a woman her age, especially not her grandson. But Alyn fidgeted, clearly upset, and she softened, reaching for his hand. “You reckless boy,” said Rhaenys, without venom. She squeezed his fingers. “Thank you for saving my life.”

He hummed. “I swam with you back to the Sea Snake. With Greyjoy dead, the Iron Fleet fell away, but we had still had to fight our way out the bay. While Grandfather was fussing over you, I took command.” A hint of a grin played in the corner of his mouth.

“And what was your first command as acting captain?” Despite the pain, the confusion, the black void in her memory, she indulged her grandson’s obvious pride,

“I told the men to ram through three ships.” He smiled, a roguish thing that was all Laena and Corlys. “It cleared the way forward, but…you wouldn’t wake. I thought you had died. Grandfather commanded us to sail to Casterly Rock and—I should go get him. He knows this part better.”

Reluctantly, Rhaenys released him. “Go then, child. And if your grandfather is angry for not fetching him straightaway, tell him it was my fault.” She smiled, a weak but conspiratorial thing. “He can take the issue up with me.”

Her grandson laughed and left the room quickly, vanishing into the gloom of the hold. When the door shut behind him, Rhaenys was left alone. Completely and utterly so, she realized quietly. There was a hole in her chest where Meleys should be. A horrible absence so tangible that she slumped back down against the thin pillows with a gasp of pain.

The reign of the Red Queen was over. No longer would Meleys grace the skies over Driftmark or race over the waves of the ocean. No one would ever again hear her shrieking roar or see her crimson scales flash in the sun. Eyes burning, Rhaenys blinked, but tears did not come. There was nothing left in her, not even for her oldest and truest friend. Meleys had been a sister, a confidant, a companion. After the loss of Laena and Laenor, her parents, her crown, the Red Queen had been the only thing in her life that she knew would outlive her. Until now.

More than ever, Rhaenys felt weak and old.

But then there were pounding footsteps and the door opened with a bang. Corlys stood in the doorway, haggard and worn with new furrows in his brow. Still, he smiled when he saw her awake and bounded over like a young man to pull her into his arms.

He held her like she was made of fragile glass, like something precious. “Rhaenys,” he murmured into her hair, sitting beside her. “My queen.”

“Corlys, where are—” She coughed hoarsely and gestured for a cup with her free hand. Gods, her throat was killing her! Reluctantly, her husband released her and Alyn came into view, thrusting a carved wooden cup into her hands. Water ran down her throat, soothing the dry ache, and when Rhaenys spoke again her voice was stronger and steadier. “What is going on?”

“How much did he tell you?” Her husband gestured to their grandson, but his expression was grim, hesitant. As if he were afraid.

Alyn huffed. “Just the beginning.”

“Yes, not much at all,” confirmed Rhaenys. “Only that you brought me to Casterly Rock. Whatever it is you are afraid to tell me, just spit it out, husband. You’ve never been a coward and it would not do to have you start being one now.”

Violet eyes roved over her face and the Sea Snake set his jaw, nodding. “You are right as always, wife, but it would be best to tell the tale in the order that it happened.

“After you were fished out from the water, nothing could rouse you, and I began to fear that there was something wrong internally, which neither I nor the ship’s healer could fix. So the men were commanded to make double-time and bring us to Casterly Rock to see a master.”

“It was miserable work,” Alyn added, leaning against the hull. “But grandfather wanted the best care for you, nothing less.”

In theory, the Velaryon fleet tried to employ an experienced healer aboard each ship, but most men who could afford to make a living from medicine found it safer to practice their craft on land. Even then, they would not have the skill of a maester trained at the Citadel.

“I don’t remember returning to Casterly Rock. How long was I asleep?”

“You slept for nine days,” her husband said grimly, haunted. “Thank the gods, it was not consistent. There were moments where the maester could wake you—to make you eat and drink—but you were never lucid.”

Nine days? A quiet horror filled her. Rhaenys remembered hitting the water, the cool rush of the sea, and nothing else. At most, she expected a day or two to be missing, not over a week. To keep herself from panicking, she started speaking. “I’m exhausted, but otherwise feel fine. How badly was I injured to be unconscious for so long?”

“At first, the Lannister maester suspected a bleed in the brain, but you would not be here with us now if that were the case.” Corlys frowned, eyes distant for a moment. “So he developed an alternative theory. While he admitted he does not know much of dragonlore—”

“Few do,” she interrupted. “Even among my house, most Targaryens learn only the basics from the dragonkeepers.”

The relationship between those who could claim and ride dragons and those who cared for and stewarded them was strange, predominantly one-sided. Dragonkeepers preserved the ancient knowledge, but taught very little of it—although that may because few Targaryens were truly interested in it. Even Daemon, who was the most versed in dragonlore in the family, learned the more exciting things. Like mating cycles and egg hatching, old Valyrian songs to soothe the great beasts. But if Caraxes was sick, could he heal the beast? Rhaenys found it hard to imagine Daemon trying to extract a rotten tooth from the Blood Wyrm. Certainly, he did not deign to shovel his dragon’s shit, or the other logistical aspects of dragon care.

To be fair, neither did Rhaenys. It was simply something they did not do. Vividly, Rhaenys imagined the Old King, his wrinkled face twisted in rage at the idea that a member of his house would stoop to such menial tasks. It was the dragonkeeper’s responsibility, and it had been since the days of the Doom. The first keepers had come to Dragonstone with Daenys and her family. Like the Targaryens, they were also the remnants of Old Valyria, spoke the language fluently, shared the same traditions, but they were held apart. Lesser.

“Then we shall be sure to ask for a second opinion,” continued Corlys. Then, his voice turned soft. “He suspected that it was the shock from losing Meleys. When was the last time someone outlived their dragon?”

Wearily, she shook her head. “Viserys did.”

“Bah.” Her husband scoffed so disrespectfully that it almost made her smile. “He was bonded to Balerion for what? A year? Besides, the Black Dread died peacefully. Meleys was your dragon for forty-four years, Rhaenys, and she…she should not have died the way she did.” He trailed off, eyes full of emotion, and he fumbled for her hand—the bold, charming, and brash man he usually was falling away in grief.

“Meleys should have outlived me,” said Rhaenys, squeezing his fingers. “I suppose that it is only natural that the loss of the bond would affect me, especially with how violently it was severed.”

And it was only fair. The Red Queen died violently and before her time, only because she had endangered her. If Rhaenys was to live, then suffering nine days of unconsciousness was a fair price.

Disquieted, she wet her lips. “Did we leave—is she still there?” It was suddenly difficult to speak.

“I left three ships at Casterly Rock for the men too wounded to sail on,” began her husband, understanding her question. “Once they have recovered, they have orders to dredge the harbor of Fair Isle for her remains and to return Meleys home to High Tide.”

“That is good.” A shuddering breath, as relief flooded through her. She could not bear to think of Meleys stuck forever on the sea floor, surrounded by wrecked ships and the rotting bodies of the ironborn. “Thank you, Corlys.”

He nodded. “I could not stand the thought of her stuck with the men who killed her. And so far away from you.”

After a moment of peaceful quiet, Rhaenys sucked in a breath. Let them the leave the talk of loss for another time. “Clearly, we are no longer at Casterly Rock. How long has it been since we set sail?”

“We left Casterly Rock yesterday.” Alyn reappeared, filling her cup. “Once Maseter Gerold said you were stable.”

A day south of the seat of House Lannister would put them near Crakehall, still weeks away from Driftmark or King’s Landing. Plenty of time to strategize, but by the time they made landfall, who knew what the situation on the mainland would be?

“If the wind holds, we will pass by the Shield Islands tomorrow before turning up the Mander.”

“The Mander?” Rhaenys’ eyebrows shot up. “You mean to sail into the Reach?” While they would be fighting the current, it would still take half the time to sail up to Tumbleton and march the rest of the way to the city than going around the Arm of Dorne. “If we can meet up with the Hightower host, I might be able to reestablish contact with Aegon. More importantly, if all has gone well, Rhaena will have arrived there.”

With a sharp breath, Corlys snapped his head at her so quickly that his locs flew through the air. “Rhaena? What do you mean Rhaena is there?” His voice was insistent and his violet eyes alert and bright.

“A contingency plan I hatched with the queen dowager,” said Rhaenys, pleased to be the one revealing information this time. “She was to flee with the king’s children if the city fell and escorted by a pair of kingsguard to the Reach. When I left King’s Landing, the Hightower host was near Longtable.”

Corlys blinked, sharing a look with Alyn, and then he collapsed with laughter, joyous and bright. “What is it?” Rhaenys cried irritably, confused.

After a long minute, her husband collected himself, but there was a broad grin on his face, triumphant. “My wonderful wife, you have thwarted Daemon once again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They have Baela,” said Alyn simply, blunt. “And Addam.”

Ice filled her veins. “They took Driftmark?”

“No,” Corlys was suddenly serious again, frowning. “Our brave Baela flew to King’s Landing with Addam.” With a cry, Rhaenys fell back against the pillows, knocked back from the shock. “Damn it, Alyn. I wanted to break the news to your grandmother gently.”

“It’s better to do it quick,” her grandson said, very distantly. “Give her a moment.”

She should have foreseen this. Rhaenys knew Baela better than anyone else, save for Rhaena. Of course her brave granddaughter would have flown to battle, especially if Corlys was not there to stop her.

When she could breathe again, her husband and Alyn were hovering over her. “Have they hurt her?”

“She is safe, as far as we can tell. Not all is lost—I have established contact with two knights in the city, Ser Ravenguard and Ser Dekarios.”

Those names were familiar. “Ser Wyll and Ser Gale? They were Rhaena’s personal guards.”

“Then our granddaughter must have been safe with them,” said Corlys. “When the war is won, both deserve a commendation. They have gathered together the remnants of the household guard and the sailors who survived the burning of the fleet in the bay and have pledged to be our eyes and ears in the city.”

“Rhaenyra’s decree left out much. Princess Helaena and Dreamfyre are dead.” Rhaenys flinched. “Baela is alive and well, but Moondancer died bringing down Vermax.” Another stab of pain and anger and grief. “Jace is reportedly alive, but has not been seen since. Seasmoke was unharmed, but Addam was captured,” her husband finished.

Irrationally, she feared more for Addam than Baela. Daemon loved his daughter and would protect her from Rhaenyra, but her grandson was alone, a bastard with two absent grandparents and a shipwright mother with little power to do anything.

“The situation is still dire. Two of our grandchildren in their clutches,” she breathed.

“But only two.” Even though her husband was being sincere, Rhaenys still wanted to throttle him. Only two being captured was not a comfort! “It so easily could have been all four.”

Rhaenys tilted her head. “Four?”

“Do you think I would have let them both fly off without me?” Alyn chimed in, crossing his arms.

No, you wouldn’t let yourself be left behind, thought Rhaenys, and she loved Alyn for it all. Just as she loved Baela for accompanying her cousin to battle and Addam for being brave enough to face six dragons on his own. As she loved Rhaena for leaving behind the comforts of the Red Keep and taking on the long and dangerous road.

“There is unrest in the city, which they hope to take advantage of,” Corlys continued. “At Casterly Rock, I wrote back and gave them my permission to stir up the smallfolk. If the people revolt against Rhaenyra, there may be a chance for Baela and Addam to be recovered in the chaos.”

“We must take things one step at a time. If we are too brash, we risk something happening to them.” Marriage for Baela, death for Addam. “First, we must reach the Hightower camp.”

Her husband hummed. “First, you must rest,” he said. “And regain your strength.”

Falling from the sky does a number to the body, Rhaenys discovered. Even when one lands in water. Her skin was mottled with a canvas of bruises, tender and dark. And without Meleys, she found that she had less energy, that her five-and-fifty years had caught up to her. The Hand of the King, the famed Queen Who Never Was, could barely walk on her own.

Days passed, and a strength returned to her. Slowly, painfully, Rhaenys regained her balance, the ability and endurance to stand and walk for short stretches of time. Alyn often accompanied her in the early days, for she was less likely to snap at her grandson than her husband when the frustration became too much and the anger that her body had betrayed her took over.

And like most things, there was a silver lining. As Alyn helped her walk up and down the rowing aisle—each of the sailors politely averting their eyes from their ailing lady—she learned more about his life. Rhaenys asked about Hull and his childhood, why Alyn wanted to sail. Most importantly, her grandson spoke about his mother, the mysterious Marilda of Hull, a brave and bold woman who had raised her sons into admirable men.

Soon enough, she could move around unassisted and Rhaenys spent most of her time above deck, relishing the sunshine after so many days in a dark hold. She braced herself against the railing, the wind whipping the ends of her hair. Rhaenys had not quite regained the will to wear it as she once had, tall and ornate. Instead, she braided the top half into a bun, letting the rest hang loose down her back.

The Reach was as picturesque as she remembered from her first visit all those years ago, accompanying her grandfather on his last royal progress. It had been the height of spring then, and the tulips were blooming on Greenshield when she told the Old King of her intention to marry Corlys. Now, autumn left its mark on the land. Rolling green hills were yellow and brown, the orchards bare and withered. Even the water was a grey and moody, matching the sky. The Mander gurgled sleepily, trying to push their boats back out to sea. Northeast, close by still too far, the Hightower host was waiting.

There was so much to do, to think on. If they were lucky, Aegon may already be there, for where else would he go except to Harrenhal? Young Prince Daeron had a dragon—if Aegon and Aemond had not arrived, perhaps he could be dispatched to summon them south. And Rhaena would need to be informed of Baela and Addam, if she did not know already…and if she had arrived safely. But Rhaenys refused to consider the possibility. Rhaena was waiting. She was safe.

“Grandmother?”

Jolted from her reverie, she turned and found Alyn, fresh from the rowing benches. His face was glistening with sweat, dripping from his nose and plastering a few of his twists to his forehead.

“Alyn,” she said, smiling even though he reeked. The scent was nostalgic. When he had been the same age, Laenor had served his time rowing—as all Velaryon men did. Rhaenys had always embraced her son eagerly when he returned home to her, sweaty and irritable. “Are you well?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” replied her grandson, laughing. “I am. As well as you can be when you’re rowing upriver. Feels like my arms are about to fall off. And you?”

She gestured for him to come closer, linking their arms together. “I am fine. Feeling stronger each day. Between you and your grandfather, I’ve had enough of being worried over.”

He shrugged sheepishly. “Has he always been like that?”

“Your grandfather? Oh, no. When he was young, Corlys was quite reserved while in public. Age has loosened him some—most of these men have sailed with him for decades, there is no need to save face. He has their loyalty.”

“The men are quite fond of him. They like me far less.” Alyn said lightly. Rhaenys hummed—it mattered little that he was Corlys’ grandson, for ship hierarchy superseded lineage. He was fresh meat, a new member to the crew, and certainly he had not earned much love from being excused from rowing to escort his grandmother around.

“I do hope they are not treating you too harshly.”

Smiling, her grandson looked towards the upper deck, where Corlys was deep in conversation with his quartermaster. “If it was, grandfather would intervene. And I find it refreshing, to be honest. On the Mouse, no one messed with me because my mum would throw them overboard.”

Rhaenys laughed, picturing the image of Marilda she had constructed in her head. “That reminds me, child. I have been thinking. When this war is over and done, I would like very much to meet your mother.”

“Really?” Violet eyes blinked at her.

“Is that so hard to believe?” She wanted to take stock of the woman who had borne Laenor his children, who had raised her sons to be wonderful young men. Above all, Rhaenys wanted to thank Marilda for granting her the wonderful, miraculous gift of her grandsons.

Alyn wiped sweat from his brow. “No, of course not,” he said. “It’s just that she’ll be so excited. When Addam and I were little, she’d always take us out to see you fly over on Meleys. I remember her pointing up at you, telling us you were Driftmark’s lady.” A pause. “Or maybe she was trying to show us our grandmother.”

To think Rhaenys had been so close to her grandsons, and yet so far, completely unaware. She had missed so much of their early lives, as she had with Baela and Rhaena.

A voice shouted from the hold. “Alyn!?”

“Ah,” her grandson began sheepishly. “I meant to step away for just a moment when I saw you were above deck.” He started digging through the pockets of his trousers. “Here, this is for you.”

Something solid and small fell into her palm. Resting against the skin, a carved wooden dragon sat, wings unfurled proudly. Great care had been taken in carving the crests and ridges of her face, and even though some details were wrong, it was recognizably Meleys. Rhaenys hesitantly ran a finger down the curve of her snout.

Rocking on his heels, Alyn nodded towards it. “I said I’d carve you a figure of Meleys when we were in Kayce. I—I wanted to do it before I forgot what she looked like. There’s no paint on the ship, but I can add that later.”

“Oh, Alyn.” Rhaenys bundled it to her chest, touched. “Thank you. This is—”

Another shout. “What’s bloody keeping you, Oakenfist?”

“Oakenfist?” She echoed. “A nickname?”

“Some of the men have started calling me that,” her grandson shrugged. “I have to go, grandmother. I’ll see you later.” With a sweaty kiss to her cheek, Alyn was off, shirt billowing as he sprinted back down into the hold. She shook her head, amused, and looked back over the water, to the foggy horizon. The small, wooden Meleys pressed comfortingly against her heart.

On a bright, crisp day, weeks later, their flotilla of ships passed the remains of Bitterbridge, rounded a particularly long bend of the river, and eventually came upon the plains outside Tumbleton. The river grew shallower here, so close to the headwaters, but that would not be an issue, for a great sea of tents was pitched along the banks. They had made it at last.

A small crowd was assembling near the shore, as curious soldiers caught sight of their proud silver and teal banners. Slightly harsher than he typically was, Corlys barked orders out to his men, commanding them to swiftly bring the ship to shore; Rhaenys hovered near the gangplank, eager and anxious.

With a grunt, Alyn dropped the gangplank. She moved immediately, striding down to the grass with her head held high. In the sun, her Hand’s pin glinted in the light.

“You there.” Rhaenys singled out a particularly shy-looking crossbowman. “Tell me quickly, where can I find my—”

She did not finish, for a familiar voice rang out. “Grandmother? Grandmother!” Snapping her head, Rhaenys turned and there, running towards her, her skirt raised up past her knees, was Rhaena.

A surprised cry burst out of her and she spread her arms wide to catch her granddaughter. With a leap, they crashed together and spun around, shrieking with joy. Corlys reached out to steady them, a hand curling warmly over Rhaena’s shoulder, and beyond the curtain of her granddaughter’s long, silver locs, Rhaenys saw Alyn, bouncing on his heels in excitement.

“Oh, Rhaena,” she murmured, breathing in the sweet smell of her. Grass and roses and citrus blossoms. Spreading from her chest to her fingertips, relief melted away the stress and grief and anger. Only joy remained. “My wonderful Rhaena, you’re here.”

“I was so scared I would never see you again,” her granddaughter said into her shoulder, breathless. “It had been so long without any word that I feared the worst had happened. That you wouldn’t come.”

Rhaena sniffled. For a perilous moment, Rhaenys almost wept at the sound. “I will always come for you, child. For you and Baela and your cousins.” She took a deep breath to calm herself and whispered quietly. “It was not my intention to keep you waiting.”

“You must forgive us, child, for taking so long,” said Corlys warmly. As Rhaena pulled away, Rhaenys reluctantly released her granddaughter, who quickly pulled her grandfather into a hug. Her husband laughed softly and propped his chin upon Rhaena’s silver crown, expression softening.

“Grandfather,” smiled Rhaena, eyes bright. “It is so good to see you.” Lovely lilac eyes flickered to Alyn and her grin grew wider. “And you must be—”

Her grandson came forward. “Cousin Rhaena, you have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to—” He paused suddenly, mouth falling open, as Rhaena embraced him as well. With a riotous laugh, Alyn swung her into the air, and the sight momentarily reminded Rhaenys of Laenor and Laena. Her vision blurred as there was a pang of grief, but the ache was subdued. Tempered by love for her grandchildren, who were all wonderfully alive. More and more, she stopped seeing her children’s ghosts in them.

“Alyn, it is an honor to meet you at last,” said Rhaena, wearing a twin grin to the one on her cousin’s face. She turned eagerly back to Rhaenys and Corlys. “Are Baela and Addam here as well? Where are Meleys and Moondancer and Seasmoke?”

Abruptly, the joyous mood died, and clearly Rhaena noticed, for her smile faded hesitantly. “There is much to tell you,” Rhaenys began, voice gentle, “but this is not the place. Has there been no word from King’s Landing?”

With her locs shining prettily in the sun, Rhaena shook her head. “Not that I know of. Daeron says Rhaenyra wrote when the city fell, claiming that she had Jaehaera and Maelor, but clearly that was a lie.”

“Daeron?” Why are you surprised? Rhaenys thought, admonishing herself. Where else would he be? “I will need to speak to him later.”

An unfamiliar voice spoke. “And I will need to speak with you, princess.” Turning, she found a young man, perhaps ten paces away, who bowed his head apologetically. “It was not my intention to eavesdrop, but I was with Lady Rhaena when we received word that your ships had been spotted.”

The youngest child of Queen Alicent looked remarkably young compared to his siblings, even though the age difference was not significant. Idly, Rhaenys wondered if life in the Red Keep had aged Aegon and his siblings prematurely; certainly, the young king’s drinking had not helped matters. An innocence remained in Daeron’s eyes and demeanor, despite having marched with the army that had seen the most combat of the war.

Viserys had left little of himself in the boy’s features. His mother lived in his cheekbones and jaw and eyes, but he was not a match for Queen Alicent in the way Aegon was. Still, there was something familiar, and a memory came suddenly of that ill-fated tourney all those years ago, on the day Aemma had died. She saw a young boy with chestnut eyes and auburn hair and a smattering of freckles of his nose, putting on a helmet in the shape of a tower. The young knight who Daemon nearly killed in the joust.

Ah, Rhaenys thought. He resembles Ser Gwayne. “Prince Daeron,” she answered at last. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance after all these years.”

Neat and proper, he bowed respectfully, a gesture most unsuited for a royal prince—although not unappreciated. It was almost refreshing, recalling Aegon’s casual disregard of formal protocol. “The honor is mine, princess.” A weary smile. “On behalf of Ser Hobert, I welcome you to our camp.”

“I was under the impression that Lord Ormund was in command of the forces here.”

“You are correct, princess.” A dark shadow crossed over the prince’s face. “But my uncle was slain in the last battle, and much has changed since. I know you must be eager to rest, but your presence would be most welcome at the commander’s tent.” He swallowed. “We are need of guidance from our Hand of the King.”

Rhaenys bit the inside of cheek and glanced to Corlys, who was frowning in thought. Then, she looked to her grandchildren. Rhaena’s eyes were bright, watching Prince Daeron intently, while Alyn was clearly exhausted from the journey. Surely this could wait an hour? All Rhaenys wanted to do was fuss over her granddaughter, make sure she had been taken care of, and gently break the news of Baela and Addam, along with the death of Moondancer and Meleys.

But as she opened her mouth to answer, a roar echoed overhead. Prince Daeron rode a young thing known as the Blue Queen—a name that had irritated Rhaenys years ago, offended at the unimaginative reference to the superior Red Queen—but surely the she-dragon could not be large enough to bellow so loudly.

Singing out, a second roar answered. Rhaenys snapped her head up and found Vermithor streaking low over the sky. Silverwing danced above her mate, flashing like a white diamond, and both landed on the plains beyond the camp.

None of the soldiers shouted out in alarm, no rallying cry called the men to arms, as though this were a common occurrence. The young prince watched them fly over with a frown so severe and disdainful that it would have been worthy of Lord Otto.

“Much has changed,” said Rhaenys, voice level. Then, she turned to her granddaughter, apologetically resting a hand on her shoulder. “Rhaena, I will not be long, I promise.”

“Take your time. I will lead Grandfather and Alyn to the tent so that they can rest,” her granddaughter answered, flashing a small smile. Something was different about her sweet girl. She seemed stronger, older, with a determination in her eyes.

Reluctantly, she left her family behind and followed Prince Daeron deeper into the camp. “Rhaenyra’s dragonseeds have turned their cloaks?”

“Two have. Ulf and Hugh are their names. They ride Silverwing and Vermithor respectively. Ten days ago, they arrived and turned on Tumbleton.” His voice grew bitter. “And they have held our camp hostage ever since.”

“Did they kill Lord Ormund?” Rhaenys asked.

The young prince frowned. “No, but certainly they benefit from his loss more than anyone else. Hobert cannot control them and he does not heed my counsel.” He stopped abruptly before a great grey tent, looking to her. “I am hoping that you will be able to talk some sense into him. You are the Hand of the King and a dragonrider in her own right.”

“Meleys is dead,” she said bluntly, watching curiously as he flinched. “Is this the place?”

“Yes,” the prince said, sweeping the curtain open for her. Without another word, Rhaenys went inside.

The commander’s tent was shadowed and dim and clearly worse for wear. With their lord dead, Ormund Hightower’s things had been moved away haphazardly, with new clothing and armor and furniture brought in for Ser Hobert, who was standing near a strategy table.

Clearing his throat, Daeron spoke. “Cousin Hobert, I—”

“Not now, Daeron,” he replied wearily, slumping over the war tokens and maps. “I need to think.”

“I will warn you not to disrespect a prince of the blood in my presence again, Ser Hightower,” Rhaenys snapped coldly. “He is a Targaryen and you owe him your respect, even if you are the elder.”

Whirling around, the interim commander blanched, eyes noting her silver hair and the pin on her breast. Hobert Hightower was old, diminished and worn, with watery eyes and a tremulous mouth. “Princess Rhaenys? I did not know you were coming.”

“Few did,” she began, walking towards the battle map. “Has there been word from King Aegon?”

His mustache twitched. “I am afraid not, princess. We have heard nothing since the capitol fell.”

“Then why have you not followed your orders?” Glancing over the map, her eyes traced the Roseroad up to King’s Landing. “Lord Ormund made clear his intent to carry out King Aegon’s will and march to the city. From what I understand, you have been idling here for ten days.”

Light fell into the tent as the curtain was raised once more. Rhaenys slowly walked to the other side of the table, turning so she could discreetly look at the newcomers without having to glance over her shoulder.

Two men had arrived in poorly construct riding leathers. Both had the pale, washed-out Valyrian features typical of dragonseeds. One was shorter than the other, his hair a translucent white, and his cheeks were whipped red by the wind, making him look doll-like. The other was tall and hulking like Maegor come again, and he frowned deeply when he saw her.

“Oi, who’s this cunt?” The shorter one said, voice lilting.

Rhaenys raised a brow, nonplussed—Daemon had called her far worse when they were young, but never had someone of such low status said such a thing to her face. As Aegon did, Daeron flushed an angry red. “How dare you! This is the Princess Rhaenys, the Hand of the King!”

The taller one elbowed his companion. “It’s the Queen Who Never Was, Ulf.” When he spoke, Hugh’s voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “Get it together.”

“You’re younger than I thought you’d be,” said Silverwing’s rider, squinting. “Has the king finally come? We want to speak to him.”

“You may speak to me. But first, we must address the issue of your loyalties.”

A scoff. “We already told Hobert. We’re done with Rhaenyra.”

“Why?” Rhaenys frowned. Had her former gooddaughter done something to earn their ire?

Ulf rolled his pale eyes. “Does it matter? We’re here now, aren’t we?”

It very much does matter, she thought, annoyed. “Still, the issue stands that the army has not moved. Hobert, you will rally the men immediately to march towards King’s Landing.”

“Ah, not so fast,” said Ulf. “We’re not marching to King’s Landing.”

“Then you will be left behind.”

Hugh stepped forward, looming over the table. “No. No one leaves.”

“Is that so?” Tilting up her chin, Rhaenys looked him in the eyes. “What will you do if I give the order anyways?”

Quietly, Vermithor’s rider whispered, “We have dragons.” The implication was clear. 

“As do I,” snipped Daeron. His arms were crossed and his fingers were noticeably digging into the fabric of his elbow.

“Silverwing could eat your little beast in one bite,” Ulf snorted. “We aren’t going anywhere until we get a reward. We came all this way to help you out at Tumbleton and we still haven’t got anything in return.”

Alicent’s son glowered, nearly snarling. “Help? You killed innocent people!”

“You highborn kill innocent people all the time.” A sneer. “It’s only a problem when us smallfolk do it?”

“Quiet.” Rhaenys raised a hand, silencing both of them. While Ulf spoke more often, she sensed that it was Hugh who was the more intelligent of the two, content to quietly observe and plan. “What is it you want?”

Pale purple eyes flashed brightly. “What we deserve,” said Silverwing’s rider; Hugh ducked down, an impressive feat, and whispered quietly in his companion’s ear. “Rhaenyra was going to make us petty lords and marry us off to a pair of ugly wenches. Can you do better?

What would a pair of baseborn bastards want? Surely there could be no greater gift than a dragon. “All men have a price,” she began. Hobert cowered to her left; on the other side of the table, Daeron looked at her with confusion and horror. “Name it.”

“Hugh thinks it would be more fun for you to guess.” Ulf grinned, flashing his teeth. “Make us an offer we can’t refuse.”

Rhaenys took a breath and steeled herself. These two needed to die, and she was going to make sure it happened quickly. 

Chapter Text

On the sixty-second day of her imprisonment, Baela took breakfast at the desk by her window. A stoic guard kept watch from the doorway as Jeyne swept through the small room and placed the tray to her side. The servants were no longer allowed to speak with her, but the old woman winked one brown eye as she leaned over the chair.

“Thank you,” said Baela, glancing away to the window to hide the smile in the corner of her mouth. The guard escorted Jeyne away and the door shut with a dull thud.

Her meal was not the lavish fare she was accustomed to as the granddaughter of one of the wealthiest men in Westeros. This was simple fare, although still leagues above what the average person ate. A roll of bread sat on a plate beside a hunk of hard cheese. In a chipped bowl, plain oatmeal steamed in the cool autumn air. In the summertime, honey and blueberries might be drizzled on top, but Baela doubted there was any fruit left in the Red Keep. And if there were, it would not be given to a prisoner.

With a sigh, she pulled the tray over and took a sip of lukewarm water from a wooden cup. Then, Baela took the bread roll, broke it open with her fingers, cracking the hard crust, and pulled a rolled piece of parchment of the soft insides.

She shook off the crumbs and, after rearranging the tray to make space, unfurled the note, flattening it against the surface of the desk. A familiar, elegant script greeted her, slightly diminished by how each line of text was squished together to accommodate the small size of the parchment.

Lady Baela began Queen Alicent. There was a dramatic flourish on the ‘y’. It raises my sprits to hear from you once more and I hope you remain in good health. It is my hope that our correspondence shall suffer no further delays.

The notes came regularly each day at breakfast and she assumed that her replies reached the queen dowager at suppertime. Three days after Baela had been locked away the second time, she had bitten into her bread and nearly swallowed the first letter whole. Since then, they had arrived without fail—apart from last week, when the baker had been out sick and she spent three perilous days wondering if something had happened to Queen Alicent.

To answer your question, the letter continued. I have not heard any news concerning the whereabouts of your grandfather, nor of your sister. Baela frowned, worrying her lip. However, it seems that your father remains in the Riverlands, for my maid Melinda says refugees still pour into the city.  

There is also no word of either Aemond or Aegon. As a mother herself, it is my belief that your stepmother will have the decency to inform me of the death of my sons—if the Seven will such things to pass. Here, the ink was smudged and discolored, as if tears had fallen on the parchment and were quickly dabbed away. Or at least she will come to gloat.  

However, you may be interested to know gossip from the city. A man has begun preaching in Cobbler’s Square and amassed quite a following. My maids seem to be quite perturbed by it. Abigail’s youngest son marched off to join him yesterday and has yet to return, while Jenny had to force her husband back home. The preacher seems to be attacking Rhaenyra viciously in his sermons and—more importantly to you—Jenny’s husband saw several Velaryon survivors in the crowd.

A breath rushed out of her. It seemed impossible that any sailor could have survived the burning ruin of the Blackwater Bay, but Baela was relieved to be wrong. Perhaps many of them had been able to brave the smoke and fire to swim to safety.

The letter continued, each line increasingly drifting closer. If there is any goodwill left for the Realm’s Delight, then I pray it will be lost. But let us write of happier things. In your last note, you requested more information about your sister and her time here. While Lady Rhaena spent much of her time with my daughter, she often accompanied me for almsgiving in the city. She conducted herself with poise and grace, and treated each poor soul with kindness.

Afterwards, we would return to the keep and take tea together. I found your twin to be a charming companion, intelligent and witty—although I expect you know her better than I. Sometimes, I regret the rift between our families. You are both my nieces, even if it is by marriage than by blood. If things had been different…perhaps you and Rhaena would have grown up alongside my own children.

Many things would have to be different. Maybe if her father had not been exiled, if he had found a way to make peace with his brother and Lord Otto. Perhaps if Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent were not enemies, or if King Viserys had done anything to mend the rifts in his family.

Each scenario seemed impossible, although two years ago, Baela would have thought it impossible that she would be imprisoned by her stepmother, abandoned by her father, her family ripped apart by war, and that she had struck a friendship with the woman who had stolen her mother’s chance at being queen.

One of the few good things about this wretched war, continued Alicent, has been the opportunity to acquaint myself better with Rhaena and your grandmother. May we have the chance to do the same when we are finally able to meet face-to-face.

May the Seven be with you. -A.

Baela skimmed the note a final time before she stood and cast it into the hearth. The low flame consumed it immediately, turning it into ash. Then, she returned to her breakfast, spooning the oatmeal into her mouth and swallowing down the torn remnants of the bread.

There was parchment left over from the day she had been forced to write a letter to Driftmark and instruct the Velaryon fleet to stand down. Dipping her quill into ink, Baela pulled out a fresh sheet and began to write.

My lady, she began, but then quickly crossed it out. A vague memory of a letter from her grandmother came to mind, where she had recounted a habit of King Aegon’s that had absolutely annoyed her. With a small smirk, Baela started over. Auntie.

I remain well. Even if I am horrifically bored. Rhaenyra allows me nothing still and I am unsure if it is to punish me or because she genuinely fears I can cause trouble with a stack of books. I have even been forbidden a sewing needle—never did I think I’d ever long to embroider!

Thank you for keeping an ear out for word of my family, wrote Baela. It cheered me to learn that some Velaryon sailors survived the burning of the bay. They are good men, hardworking and loyal, and they deserve to return safely home to Driftmark.

Brushing the feather of the quill near her mouth, she paused, thinking. You are right on the mark with Rhaena. Between the two of us, my twin has always been the better lady. One time, when we were still in Pentos, she…

She wrote of her sister. Of Rhaena’s patience and grace. How skilled she was in conversation, song and dance, the arts. Her intelligence and wit and how she loved to read. Baela wrote until she ran out space and felt a keen sense of loss. She missed her twin. When they were together, everything was easier, and Baela knew instinctively that Rhaena could have managed to make this imprisonment bearable.

When the ink dried, Baela folded the parchment into a tiny square and hid it beneath the empty bowl on the tray. Then the day proceeded the same way all the previous days had—with absolutely nothing happening. She paced, napped in bed, looked out the window, hummed to herself, left completely alone apart from when meals were brought and taken away.

A bowl of broth was brought for supper and when the sun finally set, Baela stripped to her night shift and slid into bed, staring at the ceiling. Another day done at last, and seemingly an endless parade of uneventful days and nights stretched ahead of her. Would she be locked up here forever? Did Rhaenyra and her father hope that the isolation would wear Baela down and break her?

She was not sure how much of this she could take.

That night, the city glowed—so bright that it woke Baela. She stumbled out of bed, half-asleep and shivering in the chill air, and went to her window. While the Street of Silk was always lit, there was a blaze of light clustered at the square by the Gate of the Gods. Little fires burned in the dark shadows of Flea Bottom and pinpricks of torchlight raced through the streets, flowing to other districts of the city. What was going on? In the courtyard below, goldcloaks were streaming out of the barracks beside the Tower of the Hand and riding out of the castle gates.

Faint shouts and screams were carried up by the wind to the top of Aegon’s Hill. Baela stood there for what felt like hours, squinting at the distant torches of the city watch as they descended from the Red Keep and rose for the golden blaze of Cobbler’s Square. Eventually, she dragged her chair over to the window, sat down, and propped her chin up on the cold stone sill, waiting.

Eventually, she fell asleep. Baela awoke to a great clamor, freezing cold. A clear morning sky greeted her, marred by plumes of dark smoke rising up from the chaos of the city. Fires burned throughout King’s Landing, although many were clustered around Flea Bottom and the Street of Sisters. Cobbler’s Square, which had been so bright in the night, was completely deserted, an empty patch in the tapestry of the city.

Chaos had come to the Red Keep as well. A sea of men filled the narrow space of the lower courtyard. Horses neighed; hooves stamped against the stone, anxious, and steel sang as swords were sharpened and sheathed into their scabbards. At the head of the battalion, the young Master of Ships was riding into battle, clad in silver steel and a cape of aquamarine, identified by the ghostly-white merman stamped onto the flanchard of his horse’s barding. He galloped out of the open gates with a hundred men riding after him, each bearing the standard of House Manderly.

Spinning on her heel, she marched to the locked door and pounded her fist upon it. “What is going on?” Baela shouted through the wood.  “Tell me!”

No one answered, although she did hear the shuffle of the goldcloak as pieces of his armor bumped together. He said nothing, and Baela slumped to the floor with a shout of frustration, burying her head between her knees.

Damn it all, she thought. I am sick and tired of being left in the dark. Angrily, she thumped her head against the door and resolved herself to interrogate Jeyne when she came by with breakfast.

Jeyne did not come, nor did any other maid. The morning dragged onwards and at midday, when the door unlocked, Baela sprung to her feet. “Jeyne! What is happening—”

“Quiet,” snapped the guard. He held her lunch tray and dropped it to the floor. With a plop, thick broth spilled over the stone, but before Baela could launch herself at him, the door slammed shut again.

Even though she was hungry, she grabbed the bread first, frantically digging out the small, rolled piece of parchment. Only a single line was written in smeared ink, quick and to the point.

Riots in the city. Household staff unsure if watch will manage to regain control. Be careful. -A

 Baela burned the note and returned to the window. On a second look, the widespread destruction was even more noticeable, especially the number of dead bodies piled up in the streets. The stench that always accompanied King’s Landing had taken on a more putrid quality, and as fires were put out, another one would inevitably spring up in a different part of the city.

Returning to her chair, she settled in to watch the activity in the castle’s courtyards. The lower bailey was quiet, the outer courtyard was alive with activity. Men were carrying weapons out from the armor, sharpening swords and fletching arrows. Others were fortifying the main gate. A grey-robed maester—probably Gerardys—was on standby to help any injured man who managed to return, while others suited up and prepared to ride out. From the repurposed kennels in the middle bailey, Syrax watched curiously as people marched past her. Near twilight, Manderly came riding back. Only a quarter of his knights returned with him and the gates were barred with a tense finality.

When the moon rose, it was full and bright, illuminating the city below in a wash of silver light. Shadows were chased away; Baela could see the rooftops of King’s Landing and the narrow winding streets thrown in sharp relief. Cobbler’s Square flashed like a golden star in the distance, slightly dimmer than last night, but now something else caught her eye. Two flickering lines of light radiated out from the square. The smaller, shorter one was marching down the Street of Sisters towards the Dragonpit, while the other, much larger and burning brighter, was making its way up Aegon’s High Hill towards the Red Keep.

Baela frowned and forced her head out the narrow window. Goldcloaks crowded the space below, and the precious few knights that remained to Rhaenyra were being outfitted in haste by their squires. It seemed that any boy old enough to fight was being brought out and handed a sword, for there were unarmored serving boys and pages among the crowd. Even though the castle was quiet, there was an anxious energy; so distracted by it, she failed to notice the door swing open.

“Baela?”

She spun, alarmed, and found Joffrey silhouetted in the doorway. Her youngest stepbrother was wide-eyed, a candle casting strange, flickering orange light over his face. He was dressed in the padded leather armor of a knight’s squire, borrowed and too big for him. Upon his hip, a long dagger hung from his belt instead of the wooden training sword typical for a boy his age.

“Joff? What are you doing here?” For the first time in sixty-three long, lonely days, there was no goldcloak at her door. “Where’s the guard?”

Her stepbrother swallowed. “I saw him go to the yard like everyone else. Mother says the smallfolk are rioting.”

“And they are coming here to the Red Keep.” It was statement, not a question.

“Yes,” answered Joff, nodding shakily. He was oddly nervous, as if he were afraid of her. “But some are going to the Dragonpit. I-I’m worried about Tyraxes, Baela.”

Stepping forward, she came to the doorway and glanced down the dark hall. There was no one save for Joffrey, who looked up at her through his brown curls. His eyes glowed in the firelight. “There’s no need to be worried. Tyraxes can defend himself.”

He frowned deeply, displeased at her answer, and Baela idly ghosted her hand over the top of his head, searching again for any hidden guards. If all the guards were truly down in the outer yard, it would be so easy to escape, to run to Addam and free him. Together, they could navigate the secret passageways to the Dragonpit and flee on Seasmoke. There would be no better opportunity than now. But would her stepbrother let her leave? Cautiously, she eyed the dagger.

“Joffrey,” she began, leaning down so they were eye level. “You know that I’ve been locked up in here as a prisoner, right?”

“Jace said you were in trouble and that’s why you never come to dinner and can’t play with me.” A pause, punctuated by a frown. “I asked mother to let you out but she got angry at me.”

Placing her hand on his shoulder, Baela smiled grimly. “It has not been very fun. I’m grateful that you came for me.” Why was he here? Had he come to defend her? To play as a knight with his stolen clothes and dagger and protect his elder sister? “But I have to leave. My friend Addam needs help and—”

“You can’t go!” Joffrey blurted out. “You said to come to you if I needed help.”

She remembered. “I did, and I meant it.” Exhaling, her stepbrother slumped in relief. “What’s wrong?”

Outside, a distant shout cut through the night. “Hold! Hold! They’re coming!” Baela glanced over her shoulder to the window and saw only a sky full of stars.

“There’s no time,” he said. The candle flickered between them. “We have to go now! Please.”

Baela blew out the flame, taking the candleholder and setting it against the ground. “Alright. Lead the way, Joff.” A small hand grasped hers, and then he pulled her out the door.

Hand-in-hand, they ran through Maegor’s Holdfast like wolves on the hunt, racing past the dark and shuttered doorways. It felt good to move, to feel air rushing over her face. Baela nearly laughed, overjoyed at the taste of freedom.

The great gates of the Holdfast were still open. Here, Baela dropped her stepbrother’s hand and they both sprinted over the drawbridge, startling the two guards who shouted after them. Joffrey led the way down the perilous switchbacks of the Serpentine Stair; if the moon had not been so bright, she was confident they would have tripped and fallen the rest of the way down.

Syrax lay chained in the lower bailey, housed in the repurposed kennels, and watched intently as the stragglers ran through the portcullis down to the outer yard. In the moonlight, her yellow scales were a muted grey. At the sight of his mother’s dragon, Joffrey crossed the yard and fell to his knees next to the great anchors hastily hammered into the ground, through which Syrax’s chains were looped. Never had Baela seen Rhaenyra’s beloved dragon so restrained, but perhaps it was necessary when keeping a dragon in a busy, public yard rather than in the pit or the green, open hills of Dragonstone.

A chorus of voices cut through the night. “Death to the false queen!” The chant was so loud that it could be heard clearly even from the middle bailey. Thousands of people must be gathered before the castle, and there was a rhythmic beat that Baela realized was the sound of fists beating against the wood of the gates. “Maegor with Teats! Kinslayer!”

“We remember brave Queen Helaena and Poor Prince Jaehaerys!” Another group chorused, screaming so loudly that Baela turned her head, peering out the dark void of the portcullis. “Where is Queen Alicent?”

And then there was the sweet sound of a sailor’s accent, the familiar lilt of Spicetown and Hull. “And where is Lady Rhaena?” A roaring shout. “Bring us Lady Baela! For House Velaryon! House Velaryon!”

Abruptly, Baela’s eyes burned. She took a step forward, but then a chain clattered against the ground with a painful ring. Joffrey kicked it away, scurrying over to Syrax’s collar. “Baela! I need help! The collar!”

“You’re setting her free?” It was not a bad idea. If the gates were breached, better that Syrax was free to escape. The she-dragon seemed to agree, for she had lowered herself, bringing her neck into Joffrey’s reach. Yellow eyes flashing, she eyed Baela warily as she approached, perhaps remembering that the last time they met it had been in battle.

The rhythmic thumping in the outer courtyard exploded into a final bang and there came the sounds of distant death. Screams and shouts and battle cries, steel and splintering wood. Flesh hitting flesh. The smallfolk had breached the gate.

“Syrax will protect us,” said Joffrey confidently, even as he struggled with the clasp attaching the chain to the she-dragon’s collar; Baela reached up and guided his fingers, pulling together on the latch.

With a click and a clang, the chains came loose, falling to the ground. The she-dragon moaned in pleasure, shaking her head. “We should go, Joff,” she began, eyes searching the bailey. The chaos in the outer yard was growing louder. “They could be here any moment.”

He did not answer. When Baela turned, she found him halfway to Syrax’s saddle. The she-dragon was watching him skeptically, yellow eyes flickering around the bailey as though she were searching for Rhaenyra.

A bark of alarm burst out of her. Baela seized his ankle and dropped like dead weight, yanking Joffrey down with her. He fell onto her chest with a yelp, knocking the breath from her lungs.

“Are you mad!?” Baela wheezed angrily. She stumbled to her feet, hauling Joffrey up with her. “Did you learn nothing from my father?”

“Stop it!” He tried to pull himself out of her arms, reaching for the dangling saddle straps. “Let me go! I need to get to the Dragonpit!”

Joffrey tugged on her hair and she snarled; they tumbled to the stable straw like wrestling children. Syrax chuffed, watching curiously. “You think I’m going to let you get on her?”

“You were supposed to help me!” Her stepbrother shouted.  

Baela raised her voice in answer. “She would have killed you!”

“Stop shouting at me!” Tears of frustration shone in his big, brown eyes. “Syrax knows me and—and you were supposed to come with me and help me fly and—” His breath hitched. “We’d save Tyraxes together.” The brace façade fell away and there stood a boy of nine, worried and scared for his dragon.

Baela loosened her grip and swiped her thumb over his cheek. Bored, Syrax sauntered away into the courtyard. “I should not have yelled at you,” she said firmly, helping him up, “but you can never ever ride another person’s dragon, not even your mother’s. Syrax would not tolerate you without her.”

As though she agreed, Syrax growled lowly. “If she had thrown you off while you were in the air, you could have been killed,” Baela continued. She thought of his body broken on a rooftop and shuddered. “Has anyone been teaching you since you arrived? Maybe we can talk to your mother and see if I can—”

The growl turned into a warning roar. They turned in unison and saw the man in the gateway. He was thin and ghostly pale, flecked with dark blood and dirt. The tip of his nose was docked, marking him as a thief, and his clothing was ragged. In his hands, he brandished a gore-covered spear.

“Cursed beast,” he said. “May the Seven guide my hand.”

The man rushed forward and Syrax snapped him up in her jaws, staining her snout with fresh blood. With a quick and easy crunch, a bisected body fell to the ground. Joffrey inhaled sharply and started to shake.

“We need to go.” Baela grabbed Joff’s hand and ran back towards the stairs, right as part of the mob spilled through the gateway. Up atop the Holdfast, a silver-haired woman stood on the roof, lit by the moonlight.

Screams and sulfur followed. Syrax screeched again and the smallfolk roared back, recklessly brave. The Serpentine Stair was bathed in orange light and Baela smelled char and meat. Refusing to look back, she hauled Joffrey up, up, up the stairs, and when he stumbled and fell, she picked him up, breathless, and continued to run.

Eventually, her strength gave out and she stopped at one of the level landings where the stairs switched back, gasping for breath. Joffrey crouched beside her, helping her stand, and they both looked back down to the carnage.

Syrax had taken flight, making low, slow passes over the castle, scorching smallfolk and knights alike with bright flame. The smell of burned bodies wafted up with the wind and Joffrey clapped his hand over his nose, openly weeping.

But no matter how many people Syrax burned, more streamed through the gateway. Some were retreating knights, trying to dodge the dragon and escape up the stairs, but more were the common folk of King’s Landing, angry and desperate. They crawled over the burned bodies of the dead, determined to kill Syrax or die trying.

Those armed with swords and spears could do nothing but die and the same was true for the less fortunate few who wielded broken broomsticks and torches. However, just as many carried crossbows and showered the she-dragon in a flurry of arrows. Most clinked harmlessly against her scales, but some found their mark, burying themselves in the softer membranes of her wings and the flesh of her joints.

“She’s hurt,” whispered Joffrey, watching Syrax scream as another half dozen arrows buried themselves into her underbelly. One lucky quarrel found its mark in the soft flesh of Syrax’s eye and the yellow dragon spiraled downwards, crushing fourteen men flat beneath her feet. Idly, Baela noted that some of Rhaenyra’s knights had dropped the portcullis, the metal spikes stabbing through another group of smallfolk, separating the outer yard from the rest of the castle.

As if she somehow knew what was about to happen, Baela pulled her stepbrother close and buried his face into her shoulder. “Don’t watch,” she commanded softly.

Penned in with the dragon, the smallfolk in the middle bailey rallied a final time, surging forwards over the dead, which were piled knee-high. They prodded Syrax with their spears and swords and axes, pressing forward even as the she-dragon raged, knocking them across the yard with her tail and swiping with her claws.  

A young man with a glittering axe struck the first blow, hacking into Syrax’s neck. As the dragon wailed, another—a grey-haired woman—stabbed the jagged end of her broken broomstick into the membrane of Syrax’s wings, ripping a bloody hole. Like ants, they swarmed over her, tearing her apart, and even Baela turned away. The she-dragon’s death cry echoed painfully over the red brick of the castle and was quickly overshadowed by screams of triumph.

Baela pulled Joffrey gently, guiding him up the stairs. “Come on, Joff. We’re almost there,” she said quietly. If Syrax was dead, they would be next. But unexpectedly, the last vestiges of Rhaenyra’s knights and goldcloaks—at least those who had managed to retreat back to the middle bailey—burst out from the curtain wall and cut down those who had survived Syrax’s last stand.

When they came at last to the drawbridge to the Holdfast, the guards ran forward. “Hold!” Baela shouted, gesturing to her silver hair. “Prince Joffrey is with me!”

They drew to a stop, lowering their swords, and were forcibly escorted back into the keep. Behind them, the drawbridge was raised and shut, locking everyone inside. A chaos had seized the halls of the Holdfast—Baela assumed that many had not expected the smallfolk to make it so far, nor that they were capable of killing a dragon.

An attempt was made to escort her back to her room, but Joffrey refused to be parted from her. Reluctantly, they were both brought to the queen’s ballroom, where much of the court was taking refuge. Young Samantha Sunglass was crying through the prayers of the Seven-Pointed Star. Elinda Massey was leading an embroidery circle with Rhaenyra’s other ladies-in-waiting, grim-faced and quiet. Mushroom sang a ribald tale, but even his heart did not seem to be in it.

Left in a chair, Jace was sat before a window. “Joffrey!” He called out and his little brother ran to him. “Where have you been? The guards have been looking for you for nearly an hour.” He took note of Baela suddenly. “I—”

“Syrax is dead,” cried Joff, crawling up into his brother’s lap. He burst into tears and the sound of his crying clearly unsettled the other nobles taking refuge. “I just wanted to help—”

He dissolved into sobs and his older brother held him close. “Is it true?” Jace said softly, looking up at Baela. “I heard her roaring but—”

“It’s true,” she interrupted. “I saw it.” Before her stepbrother could reply, she continued, voice sharp. “What have you all been teaching him? Joffrey thought to fly Syrax to the Dragonpit—without his mother.”

“No. Joffrey, tell me you didn’t.” Jace frowned, trying to pry the boy’s face out of his neck. The nine-year-old sobbed incomprehensibly.

With a slam, the door to the ballroom swung open. A few startled screams echoed off the glittering mirrored walls, cut off by a wavering voice. “Where is he? Where is my son?”

Rhaenyra stormed forward, flanked by her two kingsguard, and when she saw Joffrey curled up in Jace’s lap, she ran forward, her black skirts swishing around her ankles. Her pale cheeks were wet with tears, violet eyes marked by fear and worry and a terrible, naked grief that Baela recognized. She knew how it felt to lose one’s dragon. For the first time in months, she felt a keen sympathy for her stepmother.

“Joffrey? Joffrey!” She fell to her knees, pulling her son out of Jace’s arms, murmuring frantically. “Oh, sweetling, what were you thinking—oh, my son. My son.” Violet eyes met Baela’s lavender and the anger and frustration usually there melted away to raw gratitude.

Ser Darke—one of Rhaenyra’s kingsguard—cleared his throat, hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. “The Queen has asked me to inform you that the Holdfast has been secured.” There were audible sighs of relief from the courtiers; Lady Sunglass sniffled and wiped her eyes. “The lower bailey has been cleared, and we will mount an attack to reclaim the lower courtyard in the morning. Please—return to your rooms. You are all safe.”

Half-hearted applause rang out and the ballroom emptied out, leaving Rhaenyra and her sons, with Baela standing nearby, awkwardly wondering if they would force her back into her lonely room. The Manderly boy spoke quietly with another young man who could only be his brother, their heads bowed together; Mysaria, her dress glowing lightning white, lingered near the window and looked out over the city.

A kingsguard who Baela did not recognize—where was Ser Marbrand?—stepped forward. “Your Grace,” he began hesitantly, “forgive the interruption, but as Lord Commander it is my job to ensure your safety.” Lord Commander? Marbrand must be dead then. “But the city is lost. You cannot stay here.”

“Stop, now is not the time,” commanded Jace. “Give my mother a moment.”

“I agree,” said Mysaria. “On both accounts. Summon Gerardys, please, and Lord Celtigar.”

Breaking away from his brother, the Master of Ships spoke. “Bartimos is dead. His manse in the city was burned to the ground.” The white face of the merman on Manderly’s chest was stained with blood. “We can proceed without him. Coin doesn’t matter anymore.”

Baela drifted towards the window, far enough that they might forget to send her back to her room, but close enough to listen. As the moon began to sink low towards the horizon, Gerardys came into the ballroom. His hands were stained red with blood and sweat beaded on his brow. “My apologies for delay, your grace.” He bowed to Rhaenyra, who kneeled on the floor; Joffrey was asleep with his head pillowed in his mother’s lap. “The infirmary is overwhelmed.”

“Some members of the Small Council think it best that we abandon the city,” said the false queen lowly, running her hand over her son’s curls. “Tell me your thoughts, Gerardys.”

“I think it would be wise,” the grandmaster replied bluntly. “While I do not know my co-counselors reasonings, I can share my own. Four of the city gates have been forced open by the smallfolk. If the Baratheon, Lannister, or Hightower armies arrive, we will be defenseless. I would recommend retreating to Dragonstone. To rebuild our strength.”

Jace frowned. “They will call us cowards if we retreat.”

“There is nothing cowardly about survival,” said Mysaria. “And the insult will matter little to you if you are dead. My advice is to abandon the Red Keep while you still can, your grace. The commonfolk in the lower castle are distracted by their victory. They will not notice if their queen slips away in the night.”

Tracing her violet eyes over the face of her sleeping son, Rhaenyra spoke quietly. “Maegor’s Holdfast is secure—can we truly not hold it?”

“Mounting a counterattack to retake the lower yard may be difficult,” began the young kingsguard. While his cloak was white, his armor was dark grey steel instead of the white enamel plate typical of the knight’s order. He must have been elevated quite recently. “Especially without the aid of your she-dragon—”

“Her name was Syrax,” her stepmother interrupted. “You are knight of the kingsguard. You should not need a dragon to reclaim my castle.”

“My apologies, your grace,” stepped in Ser Darke. “Ser Goode means to say that without your support on Syrax, it may be a challenge, but perhaps the smallfolk’s spirits are broken after the events of the night.”

“I doubt it,” said Manderly. “You did not see them yesterday. They were like beasts. Tonight, they will glut themselves on their victory.” With a sigh, he glanced to his brother, who was white with worry. “Staying is too risky. If we fail to retake the lower castle, we will be trapped in the Holdfast. They will starve us out.”

Rhaenyra was silent for a long time. Kneeling on the floor, she did not look much like a queen, pale and wan and grieving. More ghost than woman. “What of the court? How many can we bring with us?”

“We must be quick to avoid raising alarm, and prioritize your protection.” Ser Darke paused for a moment, caught in thought. “Perhaps your ladies-in-waiting can accompany us, but we must limit our party to those who are quick and can keep up.”

All those courtiers who had returned to their rooms would wake up and find themselves abandoned. Realizing this, Rhaenyra turned grey and the other members of her small council, apart from Mysaria and Ser Darke, slumped at the revelation.

Jace coughed. “I suppose that means I’ll have to stay.” He gestured to his legs and continued, voice deadpan. “I don’t meet those criteria.”

“Absolutely not!” Rhaenyra cried, suddenly coming back to life. “You are my son. I will not leave you behind.

“Mother, I can’t walk.” His voice was gentle. “I would only slow you down. Take Joff and go to Dragonstone.”

Gerardys spoke up. “Your grace, I will gladly stay behind with Prince Jacaerys if it eases your mind.”

“No! It does not ease my mind!” Silver hair flew around her face and she shook her head. “If Jace stays, I stay.”

“Please be reasonable, your grace,” said Manderly. “This is our only chance!”

“It is not over yet!”

“My Queen,” Mysaria said softly. “You must clear your head and be realistic. The smallfolk have control of the city. Syrax is dead. While the Dragonpit remains safe, the dragons within will be of little use. The dragonseeds have betrayed you.” Baela startled. That was news to her. “And Prince Daemon shares the fate of his dragon and your half-brother.”

A strange, tight feeling burned in Baela’s chest. In his mother’s lap, Joffrey stirred awake as Rhaenyra cried angrily. “That rumor is based only on the hearsay of fishermen! It’s not true!”

“Is my father dead?” Baela asked directly, her voice cutting through the room. Rhaenyra’s small councilmembers glanced to her and she found herself looking to Mysaria, hoping that someone here would be honest.

The Lyseni woman tilted her head and her dark hair slid over her shoulder like ink.n“A dragon is reportedly dead on the shore of the God’s Eye. A small party has been sent to Harrenhal to confirm the rumor and its identity.”

“Everyone get out. Except for you, Baela,” snapped Rhaenyra, then softer, she added, “Jace, take Joffrey to bed.” When no one moved, she snarled again. “Go!”

Reluctantly, the small council trickled out of the room. Ser Darke hoisted Jace up into his arms and Joffrey followed, rubbing at his eyes. Rhaenyra remained kneeling on the floor before she took an audible breath and climbed to her feet.

Her stepmother wiped at her face. “Baela.”

“Rhaenyra.” She clenched her hands into fists. “How long were you going to wait before telling me that my father is dead?”

“He is not dead!”

There was a desperation in her voice, a wavering quality to her denial, as though Rhaenyra herself was not quite convinced. “Has he abandoned us then?” Baela snapped angrily as she stalked forward, grabbing her stepmother by her arm. “If he is not dead, why isn’t he here?”

“Because of you!” Rhaenyra shouted. “He left because of you, Baela! You wretched, horrible girl.” Something hysterical seized her stepmother and she wept openly, her bejeweled fingers digging painfully into Baela’s skin. “It’s your fault my son is crippled. It’s your fault that Daemon left me.”

They swayed together, Baela struggling to hold up Rhaenyra’s weight. “I said nothing to him. You can’t possibly blame it on me.”

“It does not matter.” A hitching breath. “We both know you despise me. What did I ever do you, Baela? I loved your mother. I was going to make you a queen. To honor you and her memory. Oh gods—none of this would have happened if Laena was alive.”

“Stop it!” She spat, voice vibrating with anger and alarm. With disgust, Baela shoved Rhaenyra away. “Don’t talk about her! You don’t know anything about my mother!”

“She was my friend!” Rhaenyra cried.

A scoffing laugh. “You hadn’t seen her since I was born! You’ve never cared about her or Rhaena or me!” Years of resentment rushed out of her. Rhaenyra had married her father, replaced her mother, and again and again disrespected House Velaryon. What kind of friend would dishonor Laena Velaryon’s memory so?

“That’s not true! I loved you!”

“Love? You used us for your own benefit and father let you! That’s love?”

“What do you know about love?” Rhaenyra raised her head and her voice was cruel and cold. ““Your father is dead and you won’t even shed a tear for him!”

Baela slapped her. Her palm cracked against the skin of Rhaenyra’s cheek, leaving a red mark blooming over the queen’s face. Dumbfounded, her stepmother touched her fingertips against the skin and then something dark came over her face. The queen slapped her back, her ring slicing open Baela’s lip, and then they leapt upon each other like animals, screaming so wretchedly that Ser Darke ran back in and yanked them apart.

 “Bring her back to her room,” said Rhaenyra, deflating. Her hair was loose around her face, one braid untangling.

Her cheek would bruise, noted Baela with some cruel satisfaction. She laughed as Ser Darke lifted her up and carried her back to her cell in the Holdfast, tossing her onto the bed. His white cloak swished behind him as the door shut. The lock clicked with finality and the reality reappeared suddenly and crushed her.

She would rot here. Her grandmother was dead. If the rumors were true, and Baela felt as though they were, her father was dead too. Her grandfather could not rescue her. Baela slumped down against the mattress, curling her fingers in the sheets.

“Father,” she whispered softly, alone with the silence of the empty room. Then, Baela let herself cry.

Chapter Text

After sunset, Rhaenys peeked in on Rhaena and Alyn, kissed her husband goodbye, and snuck through the war camp under the cover of darkness.

The Hightower war camp shifted closer and closer to the ruins of Tumbleton each day, and now it seemed that a quarter of the host had taken up residence in the ruined market town, finding refuge in the few buildings that survived Vermithor and Silverwing’s flame.

Most of the men taking refuge were the poor farmers and tradesmen of the Reach, levied into war by their liege lords. They wore armor of linen and cracked leather, wielded blunt and broken steel, walked instead of ride, and slept without tents under the cover of stars—something that became increasingly intolerable the longer the army lingered here. The grass beneath their camp was dead; the exposed dirt turned to deep gashes of mud by the heavy autumn rains, and it was cold. Terribly so. 

Rhaenys did not fault them for trying to find a nice, dry place to sleep, but it did make sneaking around more difficult. The number of silver-haired women in the camp could be counted on one hand; one was a girl of six, another a beautiful young woman, and then there was the old crone—although Corlys would probably be quite wroth to hear Rhaenys describe herself so. Regardless, she pulled the hood of her cloak low, obscuring her face.

Tumbleton’s inn had been located just off the main market square. Fire had left it a blackened husk, the roof and upper floors having collapsed in a heap of charred wood. A smoke-stained sign, which had somehow managed to escape the fire, preserved the inn’s name, ‘The Bloody Caltrops.’

Rounding the ruins, Rhaenys walked down a deserted side alley and stamped her boot three times against the doors of the inn’s cellar. A moment passed before they swung open. George Graceford’s pale face emerged from the dark.

“Princess,” he greeted quietly. “Welcome. Please come in.” Raising his arm, the lord of Holyhall offered out his hand, and helped her down.

Whoever had owned the inn had kept it well-stocked before the sack. Barrels of ale lined the walls, and dried herbs and strings of cured sausage hung from the rafters. In the center of the cellar, space had been made for a table, large enough to seat eight comfortably, and Rhaenys could easily imagine the townsfolk of Tumbleton gathered for a private game of cards. Now, it served a darker purpose.

Upon her arrival, the men gathered at the table stood from their mismatched chairs. “Welcome, princess,” said Lord Fossoway. “Please, take my seat.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Rhaenys slid off her cloak and draped it over a barrel. To help her stay hidden, she had pulled her hair up into a bun, a style that reminded her only of funerals and loss, and the back of her neck felt exposed and cold.

When she sat down, the rest followed suit. Unwin Peake drummed his broad, thick fingers on the table, his dark eyes full of poorly-veiled disdain. “Will Lord Corlys be joining us tonight?”

“He will not. My husband is keeping an eye our on grandchildren tonight,” smiled Rhaenys, voice sickly sweet.

“I see,” he answered flatly, irked by her demeanor. Peake was cut from the same cloth as Jasper Wylde and all the men that had denied Rhaenys the Iron Throne all those decades ago. She was a woman and the second most powerful person in the realm next to the king, which already bothered the man, and he liked her even less when her husband wasn’t with her.

Sometimes, Rhaenys wondered if throwing her lot in with such men was worth securing Baela’s inheritance, but if she had made Jasper Wylde come to heel, Unwin Peake would learn his place.

Lord Ambrose hummed brightly. “Then we are only waiting for three.”

Nine of the thirteen conspirators were already present. There was Arthur Leygood, Lord of Leygood Castle, with a lightning bolt clasp holding his cloak closed; kind-tempered George Graceford, the Lord of Holyhall, fingering his Seven-Pointed Star pendant; and Lord Marq Ambrose, wearing a tunic lavishly and painstakingly embroidered with over fifty tiny ants in crimson thread. With hair as red as the apple on his sigil, Owen Fossoway, the Lord of Cider Hall, stood leaning against a barrel; Tyler Norcross from Crossguard Keep was sullen and ghostly in his white tabard, green eyes flickering to the cellar door; Ser Victor Risely of Risely Glade and Ser Richard Rodden had their heads ducked together in conversation, so similar in appearance that they could be mistaken for brothers.

Lastly, there were the two men who had proved themselves difficult thorns in Rhaenys’ side. Bold Jon Roxton kicked his feet up onto the table, rocking back in his chair and drank deeply from a flagon of ale. His hair was the color of greasy ink, and he always wore an irritating smirk. The Lord of the Ring kept his Valyrian steel sword unsheathed and propped to his side; Orphan-Maker’s unusual black blade glinted in the lamplight.

The Lord of Starpike sat at the opposite end, garishly dressed in orange and black. Peake’s back was ramrod straight, hands resting flatly on the table, and there was a grim set to his jaw. His hair was cropped short against the skull, greying at the temples.

“Then we shall wait,” said Rhaenys. The remaining members of their conspiracy would not take long.

And she was right. Once ten minutes had passed, there were three knocks on the cellar door. Lord Ryam Redwyne, who was named after the well-regarded knight who served as the Old King’s Lord Commander, came down the stairs first. He was followed quickly by Prince Daeron, silver-haired and smiling, and the prince’s distant cousin, Ser Hobert Hightower, wan and exhausted.

“I always forget how crowded it is in here,” Lord Ryam said. “Can someone give up their seat for Ser Hobert?”

Bold Jon spat onto the floor, as Lord Arthur stood to help the elderly knight. “Perhaps if Lord Peake had less of an ego we’d have more space in here!”

As a titter of nervous laughter rounded the table, Peake flushed red. “How dare—”

“If we are all here, then let us begin,” interrupted Rhaenys, voice clear and firm. The last time the Lord of Starpike lost his temper, a knife ended up stabbed through Owain Bourney’s eye. She was unwilling to tolerate such behavior in her presence ever again. The man in question scowled, turning his face ugly, but remained silent.

“How go the negotiations, princess?” Hobert coughed wetly. “Is there any chance for a peaceful resolution?”

He, out of all the members of their secret council, wished the most for peace, even though it was an unpopular opinion. Lord Ambrose scoffed. “What do those bastards know of peace? All they know is drinking, whoring, and killing.”

“Many of your own men are guilty of the same crimes, my lord,” said Daeron shortly. “And more. Unless my eyes deceived me during the sack of Tumbleton.”

Privately, Rhaenys thought half the men in this room could be sent away to the Night’s Watch for rape and murder, and she planned to tell Aegon as much when the war was over. It would not set a good precedent to award such brutal behavior, especially when it was done in his name.

“To answer your question, Ser Hobert,” she began. “Negotiations remain at an impasse.” And they had been since that very first day a fortnight ago. Yet, Rhaenys continued to meet with the dragonseeds each day, wasting hours with them. “I have offered them as much as is reasonable, and they still have not accepted the terms.”

Knighthoods, funds to build their own keeps, preexisting castles and titles to be stripped from Rhaenyra’s supporters, noble wives, new armor and swords, barrels of wine. All of it refused.

“What is they want?” Ser Rodden asked, rubbing the pommel of his sword. “Surely there is something, else they would not play this game of back-and-forth.”

They wanted what every bastard child wanted: power, and the ability to wield it against those who had used and abused them. In this, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey were anomalies. Not every bastard had a man as kind-hearted as Laenor to claim and love them like his own, nor did most have a mother of powerful station, who loved them fiercely and would protect them from the realm, even when it came at a detriment to her own cause.

“Save of granting them Dragonstone, or stripping Winterfell and the Eyrie from the Starks and Arryns, what they want is beyond what I can give in good conscience.” And she was not keen on watching two uneducated boys run the Vale and the North into the ground. “I believe that it is time to consider our second option.” Her preferred solution.

Hobert nodded, resigned. “At least we tried.”

“So, we’re killing them?” Jon Roxton grinned. “Finally.”

Having voiced it aloud, the other lords and knights began to mutter and whisper. “I must admit it will be nice to not suffer their disrespect any longer,” said Lord Leygood.

Peake nodded tightly, throwing the wrinkles on his forehead and around the corners of his mouth into sharp relief. “Indeed. A dragon does not compensate for their low standing, depravity, and ill-manners. Why, they almost make you seem well-behaved, Roxton.”

An elated, raucous laugh answered the insult. “I can be quite polite. When the situation calls for it, of course.” He made an obscene gesture, winked, and there was more laughter. 

Across the table, from where he stood behind his elderly cousin, Daeron shared a look with Rhaenys, his brow furrowed. They both doubted that poor Lady Sharis Footly would agree with his assessment.

“I have a question,” started Victor Risely. The black-armored knight and the midnight steed embroidered on his tunic seemed to dance over his chest in the low light. “What of the dragons?”

“If possible, they should be left unharmed,” Rhaenys answered. Despite her feelings about her grandparents, Vermithor and Silverwing were innocent. “If their riders are taken care of, they should be little danger. As long as the soldiers keep their distance, obviously.”

Ideally, both would return to their lair on Dragonstone, or…perhaps one could be claimed. Or even both. Sheepstealer had rejected Alyn, but that did not mean Vermithor or Silverwing would do the same; while Rhaena had attempted to claim both as a child, her granddaughter had matured into a bright young woman. There were no rules against trying again, and Rhaenys would be there this time. To advise and to provide support. 

To her surprise, Tyler Norcross spoke, his voice quiet and deliberate in a manner that invited close attention. “I agree. Kill the riders and leave the beasts be. With luck, they will leave the rest of us alone.” His deep green eyes turned to Daeron. “Our prince commands Tessarion. The Blue Queen will be enough to retake the Iron Throne.”

“Hold, Lord Norcross,” the Lord of Starpike began. “You must think ahead. Victory would be a great deal more certain with Vermithor and Silverwing.”

The violet edges of Daeron’s pupil seemed especially bright, flashing in annoyance. “Are you not confident in my Tessarion?”

“No, my prince. It is only that you are too precious to risk.”

Rhaenys resisted the urge to sigh. “Dragons are not hunting dogs trained to follow your command, Lord Peake. If they are riderless, they are beyond our control.”

“Does that mean they will stay in the Reach once this is over?” George Graceford said nervously, hands fidgeting. “I am not sure if that would be best.”

“No man wants a wild dragon terrorizing their fields.” Marq Ambrose leaned forward and ran a hand through his blonde hair. “Perhaps we should promise the bastards whatever they desire, have them help retake King’s Landing, and then dispose of them once victory has been secured.”

Chair screeching unpleasantly, Ser Richard Rodden stood, slapping his hand against the table. “We cannot ask these men—bastards or not!—to shed blood with us, then kill them! Such a course would be dishonorable—no, deplorable in the eyes of the gods!”

“They are turncloaks and criminals,” offered Ryam Redwyne. “Perhaps the gods will see it as us embodying their will.” All the more pious men in the room grimaced; Graceford audibly sucked his teeth and shook his head. “What? Is there a better solution?”

Roxton laughed harshly. “There is. We kill the bastards now, like we planned. Afterwards, let the bravest of us—” Abruptly, he seemed to have a moment of clarity, eyes startlingly sharp. He glanced to Daeron, to Rhaenys, and his mouth clicked shut.

Unwin Peake glared at the man on the opposite end of the table. “The issue remains on how to do it. We must maintain the element of surprise else we risk the dragons being turned against us.”

“Lord Peake is right,” Rhaenys said, incredibly reluctant. To her irritation, a ghost of a smirk twitched over his mouth. “This army will go up in flames if Ulf and Hugh are charged at with swords. We need to be discreet,” she paused, knowing her next words would be controversial. “They must be poisoned.”

“Poison? Poison is a coward’s weapon,” spat Roxton, as the others muttered lowly. Even Prince Daeron looked disturbed. “A woman’s weapon.”

“Then you should all be thankful that a woman is here to wield it for you,” she said sharply. “And I invite any one of you to call me a coward to my face.” Silence. “Now, negotiations with the dragonseeds have stalled, but they have not stopped. I can summon them to a meeting over supper and administer it under the guise of finally conceding to their demands.”

No one spoke. Slowly, Rhaenys watched the room, examining each face. It was strange how disturbed men became about death when it was a woman performing the deed. She had burned hundreds of men on dragonback, but poisoning was a step too far? Despite their reservations, not a single man spoke up.

“Well,” she began, “if there is nothing left to say, let us be done with this.”

Someone cleared their throat. “Princess, if I may—”

“What is it, Ser Hobert?”

“I only wished to say, my lady, that Lord Footly’s maester survived the sack,” said the aged knight. “If you are in need of strong poison, you may wish to start there.”

Without any further interruptions, the warrants for the execution of Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White were produced and signed by all parties. Wax was melted over a candleflame and poured over the parchment, leaving behind three simple and undyed circles. Rhaenys pressed her silver signet ring against the paper, followed by Ser Hobert, and Daeron, who eagerly affixed his seal and left behind the image of a dragon atop the Hightower impressed in wax.

The next day Rhaenys broke her fast with her grandchildren and made off with Corlys as the sun shimmered faintly behind a curtain of heavy grey clouds. It was only as they crossed the desolate plain, far from any prying ears, that she informed them of their plan.

“I cannot say that I like it,” said her husband. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Rhaenys. You know I care little for chivalry—there is no place for it at sea—and besides, poisoncraft is considered quite a skilled, valuable art in Essos.” His violet eyes looked faraway. “Did I ever tell you about the time in Yi Ti when I—”

Rhaenys huffed a laugh, shaking her head in bemusement. “Yes, I know. You were at feast with the azure emperor—”

“The eleventh azure emperor.”

“Yes, yes,” she said brightly, and Corlys smiled broadly, eyes crinkling in the corners. “You saw a man turn a rainbow of colors as he died. Like that strange lizard you saw in the Summer Isles. I will truly never understand why you find that tale so amusing.”

They crossed beneath the ruined gates of Tumbleton and started towards Footly Castle, which lay relatively untouched at the top of the hill. “It was a chameleon, not a lizard. If you had been there, you would understand why it was so memorable. Never have I seen a man change colors like that, but back to my point, I dislike it that you will be alone.”

Pausing, he frowned, glancing around the ruined streets of the market town. The destruction seemed even worse in the daytime, sun shining harshly on the black ash and dried blood. Streets that should have been full of people were empty and, while the bodies had been cleared away, their ghosts remained, a palpable presence of loss.

“Even once the symptoms start, they may try to fight back, Corlys continued. “Let me join you.”

“Would it not be suspicious if my husband suddenly appears at the negotiation table after all this time? It is crucial that nothing seems out of the ordinary.” And while Corlys had cut his teeth on the pirates and monsters of his great voyages, survived the bloody mires of the Stepstones, he had grown old.

Seven and seventy now, Rhaenys realized sadly. Older now than the Old King had lived to be, and much healthier. Corlys was strong, his mind still intact, but such things could change quickly. Even if he put up a fight, Hugh Hammer could snap him in two; with Ulf, her husband stood no chance.

Clearing her throat, she continued. “I plan for them to be dead long before there is time to notice anything amiss, which is why we have come to see the maester.”

The gates to Footly Castle were barred, but the face that peered down from the gatehouse was a friendly one. “Captain!” A man called out, wearing a smile and a teal cloak. “Princess! Welcome!”

In the aftermath of the sack of Tumbleton, the entire garrison of House Footly had been put to the sword, and in the weeks before Rhaenys had arrived, Lady Sharis Footly had been alone, unguarded and unprotected. The young widow was a Florent by birth, one of the Reacher houses that was following the Tyrell’s neutrality, and Brightwater Keep was far away, too far to rescue their daughter. If Daeron was to be believed, no one had tried to help the poor girl until Rhaenys had sailed up the Mander.

“Are you well, Sam?” Corlys shouted in response. “How fare the rest of men?”

The sailor laughed. “We miss the sea, m’lord! And Driftmark! But we will continue to guard Lady Footly as you commanded, and do it well.”

“Has she treated you fairly?” Rhaenys asked, suddenly curious.

“She’s been nothing but kind, m’lady. Do you have business with her?”

To her side, her husband smiled, amused at seeing one of his sailors shift effortlessly into the role of a guard. “I have business with her maester,” she answered. “Will you let us pass?”

“Straightaway, m’lady!” And his head vanished from view. A moment later, chains rattled loudly and the portcullis began to rise, granting them access to the courtyard.

House Footly was a minor house in the grand scheme of things, but they had been exceptionally wealthy. Before it had been razed and ruined, Tumbleton had been a successful market town. Rhaenys remembered from her youth in the Red Keep that it had been quite a popular destination in the summertime, when the heat and stink in the capitol grew unbearable. Nearly a third of the courtiers would adjourn to Tumbleton to shop, to drink and eat the bounties of the Reach, and take pleasure barges down the river.

That wealth showed. For even if the castle was short and squat, the courtyard boasted a beautiful, intricate mosaic and a marble fountain. Painted tiles, scrubbed clean of blood, lined the walls inside the surrounding colonnade, and the dead and dying foliage suggested that this space was luscious in the summertime.

It was a shame then that it was quiet and still. The fountain had been drained and left dry, and the mosaic was half-covered in unswept leaves and dirt. A serving maid with a haunted face stood in the distant doorway and was visibly shaking in fear as Rhaenys and Corlys approached.

“Peace,” she said soothingly, in the same tone of voice once used to calm sheep before they were brought to Meleys. “Do not be afraid. We have come to see your maester.”

“Maester Myles?” The servant said softly, lacing her hands together. “He is with Lady Sharis.”

Corlys spoke and the woman startled, her eyes flickering to the sword on his hip; Rhaenys wondered what she had seen during the sack and, not for the first time, felt a twinge of anger. She had flown to war, lost her Meleys, and nearly died to stop the ironborn, only to arrive in the Reach and learn that the army here had committed the same atrocities. “Can you bring us to him?” Her husband asked.

With a nod, the woman guided them through the mostly empty halls of the castle, depositing them before a large oak door before scurrying off out of view. Faint voices carried through the wood and both paused as Corlys rapped his knuckles on the door.

A quiet voice, a woman’s voice, called out. “Enter.”

So they did. On Driftmark, Maester Aeron kept residence in a squat building without windows near the gates, so that he, or his apprentices, could easily head down to the shore and harvest seaweed and shells to grind into paste and poultices. All his herbs and supplies were kept in expensive glass-windowed cabinets custom-built in Myr, to protect the delicate potions and tinctures from the abrasive humidity.

House Footly’s maester clearly preferred brighter and larger spaces. His workshop was airy and open, with several large windows overlooking the courtyard. Shelves full of books lined the wall and he kept his potions arranged by color. From the rafters, strings of dried herbs were hung, scenting the room with a pleasant, if slightly medicinal, scent. A large table was placed in the center of the room, laden with half-filled bottles, bundles of dried flowers and roots, mortars and pestles of various sizes—the tools of the maester’s trade.

Both the maester and his liege lady blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting them. Lady Sharis Footly was a beautiful young woman, although she bore the large, prominent ears of her paternal house. She was full-figured and curvaceous, with long, shining chestnut hair and striking blue eyes that were watery and red from crying. Matching her banners, her gown was midnight black and a miniature caltrop was suspended from a silver chain around her neck. Rhaenys always thought it was convenient when one’s house colors were black—there was no need to dye clothing for mourning garb.

As they entered, Lady Sharis stood from her chair and wiped at her cheeks, bowing at the waist. “Lord and Lady Velaryon,” she began; the maester also ducked into a bow. “Please forgive me, I was not expecting you.”

“There is nothing to forgive. We did not send word ahead of time, which I apologize for. We are hoping to consult with your maester on an urgent matter of some importance,” said Rhaenys.

Lady Footly exchanged a glance with her maester—Myles, was it?—and swallowed. “Of course, princess. You are more than welcome to use his services. I shall grant you some privacy.”

Smoothing her skirts, she tried to flee. Rhaenys pointed with her chin to the maester and Corlys understood her unspoken request, quickly engaging with the man and speaking in low, hushed tones. She reached out and gently caught Sharis by the arm. “Is everything alright?”

A surprised blink. “Of course, princess,” she said, very unconvincingly.

“You’ve been crying,” Rhaenys replied, voice level, but suspicion curled through her. “Has Lord Roxton come back?”

“No, he has not tried to return since you commanded him to leave. It is just—I am,” Lady Footly’s chest heaved, suddenly overcome by a horrible emotion. “I am with child.”

Even though Rhaenys knew little of Sharis Footly apart from the numerous tragedies that had been inflicted upon her, she felt a keen sense of anger and sadness on the young woman’s behalf. “You have my condolences.” A pause. “Does your maester have the herbs to make moon tea?”

A large stock was kept on High Tide, for, after Laenor and the perilous labor that brought him into the world, both Rhaenys and Corlys agreed that two children were enough.

Sharis Footly’s hand fluttered down to hover over her stomach. “Yes, but I—” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “We were trying for an heir, Jaime and I.” Shaking her head, she glanced down, swallowing. “I can’t risk it. A babe would be all I’d have left of him.”

That it was just as likely that the babe was not the late Lord Footly’s went unspoken. Rhaenys was confident that the poor thing did not need to be reminded—clearly, she was suffering enough over it already.

“Lady Sharis, I promise that once this war is over, there will be justice for what happened here,” she began, utterly sincere.

“I believe you, princess,” the young woman replied. “Apart from Prince Daeron, you and Lord Corlys have been the only ones to advocate for me. I know you will see it done.”

At that, Rhaenys let her depart and joined her husband. Maester Myles had laid out a series of tiny vials on the table, each filled with a variety of powders, potions, extracts, or dried herbs. A rainbow of deadly color.

“Princess Rhaenys,” he greeted softly, setting down a final vial of rich purple liquid. “Lord Corlys has informed me that you are in need of some…rather delicate materials.”

“That I am.” She studied the array on the table, leaning down to get a closer look.

Picking up a vial, the maester held it up against the window, showering it with light. Dried leaves and shriveled, black berries rattled against the glass, the sun emphasizing the deep purple hue. “I believe nightshade would be the most effective, especially if you are hoping to incapacitate someone quick.” A pause. “It is violent. And painful, but easy to slip into wine and hard to detect.”

“There is greycap as well,” said Corlys, pointing a bottle of dried mushrooms. “Everything else would take too long. It would be dangerous for you.”

The maester hummed in agreement. “I lack the supplies to make anything that would work faster. My apologies, my lord, my lady, it is only that there has never been a need for such unpleasant things here.”

Ah, there. A jar full of a familiar powder so fine and pale it resembled chalk. Reaching out, Rhaenys took it into her hand, turning it over. “That is fine, maester. But I think this will do quite well instead. Now, tell me. Did any patisserie survive the sack?”

An hour later, they returned to the camp with a very timid-looking woman with calloused hands from years of cooking. And the very next day, once the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, Ulf and Hugh were summoned for a final meeting.

Seated, Rhaenys waited at the table, which was laden with a wide array of sweetmeats. Little fruit tarts dusted with the last remnants of Tumbleton’s sugar. Rolls of bread dusted with cinnamon butter, and a very small lemon cake. On a raised serving platter, in order to catch attention, was a fresh pie with elaborate latticework on the crust.

Perhaps ten minutes after she arrived, the tent flap opened and a head of unnaturally pale hair—even by Valyrian standards—came into view.

“Ser Ulf,” Rhaenys said with the cool familiarity that came from weeks bickering at the negotiation table.

“Princess,” he smirked, reminding her suddenly and so vividly of Daemon as a young man that she felt dizzy. His pale eyes flickered to the table, to the extra carafes of wine, sweet pastries, and the pie. “What’s the occasion?”

With a wave of her hand, she gestured for him to sit. “To celebrate a successful negotiation, or at least that is my hope.” The dragonseed sat in his usual chair, highlighting the empty one to its side. “Where is Ser Hugh?”

“Said he had to take care of somethin'.”

She frowned. The plan hinged on both of them being here at the same time. “When will he arrive?”

“I don’t know,” sneered Ulf. “I’m not his keeper.”

No, Rhaenys thought in agreement. But he is yours. The shadow watching over his shoulder. Observing, judging. While Silverwing’s rider was loud and abrasive and did most of the talking, Hugh Hammer was clearly the one in charge and the more intelligent of the two. Ulf always deferred to his companion, his pale purple eyes flickering to the side and searching for gestures of approval. The subtle nods, frowns, and sighs of Vermithor’s rider. Hugh had clearly mastered the art of keeping his intellect hidden, speaking slowly and rarely, and letting his hulking blacksmith’s physique mislead.

“I see,” she said levelly, pouring herself a cup of dry Arbor Red. “Then we shall wait.”

“Wait? At least tell me somethin' so I don’t die of boredom.” He followed her example and filled a cup with Arbor Gold, the wine shining like honey.

Pursing her lips, she frowned down at the table. What was the harm? Rhaenys needed to delay until Hugh arrived, whenever that might be, and so she straightened her shoulders, lifting up her chin. “With the power vested in me as Hand of the King, I will grant Dragonstone and the Eyrie to you and Ser Hugh,” she lied. “You both can decide which holding you would prefer.”

An awed whistle, perhaps one the first and only times the pale dragonseed seemed pleased with her. “And in exchange?”

“Your aid in retaking King’s Landing. We will discuss the terms and logistics in depth when Hugh arrives.” Rhaenys paused, struck by the eager gleam in his eyes. “You know how I dislike repeating myself.”

To emphasize this point, she plucked a piece of bread from a basket, cut it neatly, and spread a bit of fruit preserve on the spongy surface. Ulf huffed, rolling his eyes, but immediately snatched up a piece of bread for himself, loading up his plate.

“We have to wait to talk, but not wait to eat?”

Rhaenys took a drink, watching as he eagerly grasped at the fruit tarts and the other sweetmeats. “It will get cold.” Then, she added sharply, stupidly. “Leave the pie for when Hugh arrives.”

A displeased look. With a wide smirk, Ulf cut himself a slice. The crust cracked open, releasing a fresh bout of steam, and sugared apples oozed out, slathered in cinnamon and honey. He pushed the various other pastries around his plate and made room for the piece of pie; Rhaenys restrained herself from taking a deep breath, from giving anything away, and busied herself again with her own bread.

Unlike Hugh, Silverwing’s rider could not handle silence. “I’ll take the Eyrie, I think. Hugh will want Dragonstone,” he offered suddenly.

“Is that so?” Rhaenys had assumed the Hammer would prefer the grander title. To be Lord Paramount of the Vale and rule from its castle in the clouds.

“His mum and half-siblings are there.” A forkful of tart was shoved into his mouth.

No wonder Hugh had to always keep an eye on him! Unsupervised, this one would give everything away. What Rhaenys would have done to have known that information two weeks ago, for promises to find good marriages and pay dowries for daughters and sisters, or a knighthood for a son or brother, often swayed even the hardest of men.

It would have saved her two weeks of negotiations, at least. In the best-case scenario, the army could have been closing in on the city, and Ulf and Hugh could have been assassinated in a more direct way once Silverwing and Vermithor were brought to the Dragonpit.

Alas, it would not do to dwell on such things. Rhaenys watched as Ulf’s fork hovered over the apple pie, and she spoke casually. “Do you have any family on Dragonstone?”

“Not anymore. Ma died not long after I was born. When I came out like this,” he gestured to his silver hair with his fork, and she exhaled quietly in relief, “her husband beat her bloody and left for Driftmark. Never managed to recover, or that’s what my grandmother said.”

“Was he ever caught? Your mother’s husband?” She asked, oddly curious.

Ulf shook his head. “No. It was the year the queen died and Daemon came back to Dragonstone.” A shrug, as if this was something casual. “It wasn’t important enough.”

She frowned. “That is unfortunate. I am sorry your family was denied justice.”

“Don’t pretend you care. It happens all the time – you highborn folk don’t mind until its one of your own that gets hurt.” A shrug. “How many times do you think Rhaenyra held court on Dragonstone? Do you think any lord in Westeros knows the problems of their people?”

Few did. With some shame, Rhaenys recognized her own neglect. How many times did she meet with the people of Spicetown and Hull, treated with the poor, or arbitrated a dispute? Rarely, to be sure. Even Daemon, the Prince of the City, went down from the Red Keep to spend his coin drinking and fucking, not to listen to the plight of the smallfolk.

Before Ulf continued, he took a bite of the pie, and a muted sense of resignation began to spread from her chest. It was too late now. “Us smallfolk are on our own. But I survived.” Another bite, then a third. “This is good. Very sweet.”

“And you think the lives of the smallfolk will improve under your rule?”

“Not at all,” he answered, blinking hard. “Hugh’s got all these big plans, but me? When I’m in charge, I—” A pause, and a shuddering breath. Confusion appeared in his pale purple eyes. “I—”

Slowly, Ulf slumped backwards, eyelids fluttering like a babe trying to fight off sleep. His head lolled forward, and the fork fell from his fingers, landing on the table with a clatter. Unconsciousness smoothed away the scowls and smirks, leaving his face oddly peaceful, and very, very young.

Sweetsleep worked quickly. This, Rhaenys knew from experience; back in the horrible, grief-filled days after her children died, she took a single pinch each night, dissolved in warm cider to chase the nightmares away. To keep herself from seeing Laena’s charred corpse and the bones of her son still stuck in her pelvis. Of coming downstairs and smelling Laenor’s cooked flesh. Her grandfather had taken it too. A single grain in his morning milk was enough to keep the Old King’s hands steady in the years before he finally grew too frail and weak to rule.

Five pinches had been baked into the pie – an obscene amount, for three pinches were enough to kill a grown man, but Rhaenys wanted to be sure. Ulf’s chest stuttered, each inhalation of breath taking just a bit longer, until it stopped altogether, sudden and still. Slowly, she stood and came to his side, pressing her fingers to his neck. A weak pulse fluttered beneath his skin, but it would stop soon as well. Ulf was still warm.

As Rhaenys leaned over the corpse of Ulf the White, second rider of Silverwing, there was a rustle of cloth and the tent flaps opened up into the night. Hugh Hammer stepped through and stopped, thick silver brows twitching up in confusion. His eyes flickered from her to the body of his companion, and for a moment, they shone bright with grief.

He will kill me, thought Rhaenys numbly. Even if I call for help, it will take but a moment to snap my neck. She prayed that Rhaena and Alyn would not have to see her body, that Corlys would protect them. That her husband would find some way to rescue Baela and Addam, and that he live well after she was gone.

But Hugh did not step into the tent. His hand did not go for his sword. Instead, the man turned and ran without a word.

“No,” she breathed, and Rhaenys chased after him, bursting out into the cold night. “Guards! Guards!” The Velaryon men on standby streamed from their tents, abandoning their drinks and card games. Gesturing with her arm, she pointed at Hugh, who was rapidly escaping. “After him! After Hugh Hammer – kill him!”

Obedient, they sprinted after the dragonseed and the entire Velaryon section of the war camp sprang to life. Rhaenys grabbed some knight’s squire, a pock-marked young thing with big blue eyes. “You! Go into the tent and throw the pie on the ground.” The last thing she wanted was for someone to die on accident, trying to harmlessly sneak a snack. “Bury it if you have to, and do not eat it. You will die if you do.”

Familiar, firm arms grabbed her, spinning her gently to be face-to-face with her husband. Corlys’ eyes were bright in the moonlight and his hair glowed. “What is happening?”

“Ulf is dead,” Rhaenys answered. There was little time to explain in detail. “Hugh has escaped. We must prepare for the worst—where are our grandchildren? It will be safest for them by the river.”

“They are not here.” His voice was strained, eyes roving over her face. “They went to dine with Prince Daeron.”

A sharp inhale. The cold bite of an autumn night wormed through her nose and down to her chest. “We must find them.” For what else could she do? Meleys was dead, Rhaenys could not fight, but she could try to protect her grandchildren, for they were the most precious thing that remained in her life.

“We will.” Corlys linked their hands together and they started off through the war camp, as fast as two elderly grandparents could go. There was distant shouting, a sense of alarm that was rapidly spreading through the sea of tents, and all looked up as a burst of fire lit up the sky.

In the darkness, Vermithor roared.

Chapter Text

Alyn glanced down at his hand of cards and liked what he saw.

With a grin, he set the playing cards face down on the Daeron’s rickety table. The young prince was frowning at his hand, the candlelight making his freckles shift strangely over the skin. Slow and deliberate, he thumbed through each card and his violet eyes flickered up, catching Alyn’s gaze before darting back down.

Rhaena sighed. At the sound, he knocked their shoulders together, peering over at his cousin’s cards. Alyn whistled, low, and said simply, “Ouch.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It’s pretty bad.” His cousin pouted, shoulders slumping like a windless sail.  “But we can salvage it. Here.” Alyn plucked a card out and swapped its position with another one further in her hand. “Play those three and hold onto the last two.”

Daeron glanced up from his cards again. “I’d like to remind everyone again,” he said with an unreadable tone, undercut by the playful glint in his eyes, “that I also have no idea how to play this game.”

Fanning her cards before her face, Rhaena mock-gasped. “Are you implying, my prince, that I have an unfair advantage?”

“I am certainly at a disadvantage,” he said lightly.

“It is not unfair,” Alyn began. “Because I’ll help you during the next game. C’mon, let’s play our hands.”

He flipped all his cards over, spreading them out with his finger; Rhaena set three down with a crisp slap, while Daeron, exasperated, dropped his onto the table. It truly was a bad draw, horrific even, and Alyn thought the prince was lucky they weren’t playing for anything.

“You’ve won again, Alyn,” said Rhaena, with only the slightest hint of disappointment in her voice.

“I was lucky,” he said placatingly. While she was less competitive than Baela, she hated to lose, and this was the tenth game in a row he had won. That was beyond the boundaries of sheer luck. “Are we up for another round?”

Sighing, the Targaryen prince shook his head. “Not for me. Ten games without a single win is too much, even for me.”

Alyn collected the cards, shuffling them deftly in his hands. “You did well, especially for your first time playing.”

“Where did you learn this game?” Rhaena asked, her bright lilac eyes watching the cards dance between his fingers. “No one on Dragonstone plays anything like it.”

Humming, Daeron stretched, shaking out his shoulders. “Nor in Oldtown.”

A faint memory came, warm and familiar. Calloused wrinkled hands counting cards, a smiling and age-spotted face. “My grandfather taught it to us. My mum’s dad, I mean, not Lord Corlys,” he added for Daeron’s sake. “He learned it from his wife, my grandmum. She was from the Summer Isles. It’s one of their games.” Or at least it had been fifty years ago.

“The Summer Isles?” Daeron repeated. “Small wonder I’ve never heard of it. Very rarely do their traders come to King’s Landing—let alone all the way to Oldtown.”

They had in the past, and hopefully would do so again. In the years when the first Aegon was king, Walano had been raided by pirates, their wealth stolen, uncounted people carried off into slavery. The priestesses of Tall Trees Town had been murdered, the Talking Trees, carved with the history of the islands, burned, kicking off a period of defensive isolationism—or at least that was how Marilda had told the tale. Alyn’s grandmother was of that first generation willing to venture out into the world again. He wished he had been able to meet her.

“I’ve read about their swan ships,” said Rhaena wistfully. “Only merchants from Pentos and Braavos regularly dock at Dragonstone.”

Grinning with pride, Alyn leaned back in his chair. “That’s because everyone else goes to Driftmark! Why sail to Dragonstone when you can make port in Hull or Spicetown?”

Driftmark was the gateway to the rest of the world, and the Sea Snake had made it so through the connections forged through his Nine Voyages. On any given day in Hull, one could fine ships from all corners of the known world. Tar-blackened whaling ships from the Port of Ibben. Treasure ships from Yi Ti with their strange, junk-rigged sails. Swan ships and the shadow ships from Asshai, terrible and red.

Alyn could hear it, the echoes of home. The harsh chorus of different accents and languages in sweet harmony. Spices in the wind, the taste of brine on the back of his tongue.

“One day, I’ll show you both around the docks,” he continued. “And we’ll bring Addam and Baela and make a whole day of it.

Thinking of his brother made his chest feel tight and angry. Each passing day without news from King’s Landing, Alyn felt that absence more and more, just as Rhaena did for her own twin. Her jaw twitched, gnawing on the inside of her cheek, but very sweetly, his cousin took his hand with an easy familiarity, squeezing his fingers.

“And after the docks, we’ll go to the markets and buy gifts for grandmother and grandfather and your mother.” Lilac eyes flickered to Daeron, and a sad, sweet little smile played over her mouth. “And for Queen Alicent, too.”

“Then it is only fair we all go to Oldtown.” While the prince addressed them both, his eyes were fixed on Rhaena, and he looked a bit like a puppy, awestruck—or so Alyn thought, incredibly amused. “I’ll take you to the top of the Hightower and to the market of the Wynd of Flowers. And there is the Starry Sept at sunset and we can tour the Citadel—did you know they have an insectarium?” Daeron’s face suddenly fell, and he paused painfully. “I always wanted to bring Helaena there. Before.”

Alyn said nothing. He had not known this poor, dead queen, but Rhaena had been her friend and risked her life to protect her children, so she must have been quite a special lady. “Forgive me,” the prince continued, after a moment. “I invited you here so that we could spend a night speaking of happier things, not to dredge up our grief.”

“I’ve had a lovely time,” said his cousin, brushing a stray loc out of her face.

“Same here,” Alyn flashed a reassuring grin. “Can’t say I’ve ever beat anyone so badly at cards before.”

A bright laugh. “I’m glad to have boosted your confidence.”

“More like overinflated his ego,” teased Rhaena.

If she had been Baela, he would have swatted at her; instead, Alyn stuck out his tongue at Rhaena, who mirrored the expression.  “Why don’t we play another game? One you both know this time.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Consider it an opportunity for you two to redeem yourselves.”

“I don’t think I could handle another loss,” Daeron said, huffing out a quiet laugh. “Besides, it’s getting late.”

It’s not late at all, Alyn thought. It’s just dark. The days were becoming shorter and shorter as autumn marched on.

“You can’t already be tired?” Rhaena asked, surprised.

Alyn was not. While he had not known Daeron long, he seemed the kind of child who went to bed obediently when his mother told him to. Those boys grew up to be the type of sailor that woke right at dawn and fought to stay awake when the sun went down.

Eyes crinkling in a close-mouthed smile, the prince shrugged. “If I hadn’t invited you to dinner, I’d probably be asleep by now.”

“Then we won’t keep you,” said Rhaena, voice sweet. She stood, smoothing out the skirt of her very pretty red dress, and Daeron leapt from his chair. “Thank you for the invitation, my prince.”

His ears and cheeks flushed. “It was my pleasure, Lady Rhaena. Do you need an escort?”

“Oi,” Alyn crowed. “That’s my job!” Escort and, most importantly for his grandparents, a chaperone. To protect and guard Rhaena’s honor. In all honesty, Alyn felt confident Rhaena could handle herself, and if she were ever in any danger, it would not be because of Daeron.

“Of course,” nodded the prince, mock-serious. “A very important job, Alyn. Then I bet you both goodnight.”

Rhaena tucked her arm into the crook of Alyn’s elbow. Even though they were in a war camp, she always smelled of roses. He had no idea how she managed that. “Goodnight, Prince Daeron. I hope that—” A pause. Tilting her head, his cousin frowned. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Daeron and Alyn said in unison. Straining his ears, Alyn shut his eyes to focus.

There. Distant shouting, a crackling noise that was faint, but familiar. He was so concentrated on picking out the sound that when Vermithor roared, his ears felt like they exploded. The earth seemed to shake; Rhaena screamed in surprise and they fell as a great gust of wind and heat passed overhead.

And then, as sudden as a sunrise, the tent was on fire.

Flame devoured the expensive blue silk of the pavilion, vomiting torrents of black smoke. With a shout, Alyn climbed to his feet, choking of ash. “Rhaena!?”

“I’m here!” A hand grabbed his ankle and he hauled his cousin up. In the angry light, her eyes glowed orange, wide and dazed. “Where is—?”

With a sickening crunch, one of the tentpoles behind them snapped, the sound reminding Alyn of the battle at Fair Isle. Ironborn ships bucking under Meleys’ flames, hull crushing hull. The entire back half of the tent collapsed in a rush of heat and smoke.

“Daeron!” He bellowed, pulling Rhaena close, as though he could shield her. If they were going to burn, Alyn would go out first. “Where are you?”

A hacking cough. “Rhaena? Alyn?” Swirling, the smoke parted and the prince appeared. “Are you alright?”

At the sight of him, Alyn pushed Rhaena forward, and as they stumbled past Daeron, he seized the prince and dragged him along. “C’mon, we have to get out of here.”

The wall where the tent flaps were was entirely aflame; he stopped dead in his tracks and Rhaena bumped into his side. “We have to get out,” she coughed. “The roof is on fire.”

“But there’s nowhere to go,” Daeron murmured, voice pained. “We’re trapped.”

Not yet, Alyn thought. He knew fire. All sailors did, for it was the greatest danger on a sailing ship, even worse than a doldrum or a horrible, mast-breaking storm.

He passed Rhaena into the prince’s arms, and she looked up at Alyn in confusion. For the first time since he met his cousin, she was afraid. “Take care of her,” he instructed firmly. “I won’t be long.”

Thinking of Addam, of Baela, of their bravery, Alyn mustered his courage and ran deeper into the tent. The smoke was denser here, flame eagerly consuming the bedding and furniture in the collapsed half. He stumbled, almost blind, and ran right into what he was searching for her, his shin smacking hard against Daeron’s chair, abandoned on the ground.

Alyn cursed through the pain, bent down to lift the chair—it was mahogany, a dense, good hardwood—and he ran back. Distantly, a dragon roared, drowning out whatever Daeron was saying to Rhaena, who was crying freely now.

While it felt cruel to ignore her, Alyn instead slid onto his knees. He handled the chair by its legs, the back flat on the ground, and he shoved it forward. When it vanished beneath the flame, he flipped it up like a fulcrum. Miraculously, wondrously, a thin strip of darkness appeared.

A wracked, painful laugh burst out, triumphant. He jumped up and lifted his arms up over his head; the seat of the chair raised up the flaming silk, opening up a portal into the cool night.

“Go!” Alyn screamed over his shoulder. Shuddering in relief, he watched as Daeron ran out hand-in-hand with Rhaena, and together they wrenched him out after. Heat seared his hands and arms as ash rained down, burning the skin.

He collapsed, spreadeagled on the cold, dead grass, and laughed and laughed and laughed. Silver and red filled his vision. Rhaena’s hands were shaking as she sat him up, voice distant. “What is happening?”

“Hugh Hammer has mounted Vermithor,” called Daeron in answer. “He has turned his dragon on the camp.”

Appearing from the dark, another set of hands hauled Alyn up to his feet. A brown set of eyes, rimmed with violet, bored into him. “Are you alright?” Then, the prince repeated the question, louder and firmer. “Answer me, Alyn! Are you alright!?”

“Apart from the singe marks, yes. I’m fine,” he answered. It was just a bit of shock, very similar how he felt after hauling his grandmother out of the Sunset Sea. Alyn took a deep breath. Then, another, wincing at the taste of smoke. But before he could continue speaking, something caught his eye. Something big and bronze that was shooting towards them. “Get down!”

Vermithor passed overhead, buffeting the camp with another stream of flame. With a whoosh, the remains of Daeron’s tent pavilion collapsed entirely.

“We cannot stay here!” Rhaena cried, her hand gripping Alyn’s shoulder like a lifeline.

“Get to the river,” Daeron commanded. “It will be safest near the water.”

There was something reckless and foolhardy in the set of his jaw and shoulders, a determined glint in his eye that was painfully reminiscent of Baela. Alyn frowned, gnawing on his cheek. “What about you? You’re not coming with us?”

“I have to get to Tessa.”

“You mean to fight?” Rhaena hissed, aghast. “That’s a death sentence!”

“Yeah, mate. Are you mad?” Alyn agreed, dropping any pretense of formality. “He’ll rip you two apart.”

Slowly, Daeron nodded. His face was slick with sweat, silver hair plastered against his forehead. Soot marred his fine clothing and was streaked over his cheeks. “I know,” he said simply. “But I’m the only dragonrider here. I have to try.”

He spoke with such conviction that Alyn bowed his head. He spoke like a true captain would, the kind that went down with their ships, that protected their crew above all else. Like the kind of captain that the Merling King would gladly welcome into his halls. “I understand.” He clapped a burned hand against the prince’s shoulder. “Give him hell.”

“If I don’t survive, you must tell my mother that I love her. And tell Jaehaera and Maelor that I am sorry for leaving them, but that I’ve gone to keep their mother and Uncle Aemond company.” In the warm firelight, his eyes were glassy.

“What? No!” Rhaena cried, stalking forward, but Alyn caught her by the waist and, as kindly as he could, started to steer her away. “I’ll tell them no such thing. You can’t just—Daeron! Wait!”

From what he could tell, that was the first time his cousin had called him by name, completely dropping the royal title. The prince turned, struck, and his cousin snatched Alyn’s dagger from his belt, wrenching herself free.

“Woah! Rhaena, what are you—”

Both baseborn bastard and Targaryen prince watched as Rhaena sawed off the front hem of her dress, producing an uneven strip of silk. Daeron was shell-shocked, silver brows drawn together in confusion, but all Alyn could muster was a muted, oh good, that’ll be better for running.

Proud as a dragon, she marched forward, grabbed the prince by the arm, and tied the strip of fabric around his bicep. “You go with my favor,” said Rhaena. Daeron looked at her with such reverence that Alyn considered retching—if the world was not on fire.

“I owe you a crown, my lady,” the prince replied. With a short bow, he ran into the night, leaving Alyn to haul Rhaena away.

Hand-in-hand, they raced through the chaos of the war camp. Great swaths of it were on fire, billowing smoke into the sky. Those who were not fleeing for the river were trying to extinguish the flame with buckets of water. Others lay dead and dying on the ground, burned and smoking. Certainly, many more were hidden from view, trapped beneath the smoldering ashes of their tents. At one point, Rhaena was so horrified that Alyn scooped her up and carried her over his shoulder, running to safety.

“Get down!” Someone screamed, voice hoarse and terrified. “Get down! He’s coming back for another pass!”

Dragonstink permeated the air, punctuated by a rising growl and a rush of wings. Shouting an apology, Alyn threw Rhaena onto the ground and shielded her with his body as a screech rattled his bones. Sulfur clawed into his nose, sharp and acidic, and men wailed in fear, calling out to the gods, for their mothers, for anything to save them.

But then, another screech sounded, higher-pitched and brighter, and Vermithor’s flame did not come. Rolling off Rhaena, Alyn looked to the sky and saw Tessarion, black-blue in the night, baiting the larger dragon away. Daeron’s mount was so small, heartbreakingly so when compared to the sheer might of Vermithor, but she was valiant, lighting up the sky with her bright blue flame.

Compared to the older dragon, her only advantage was her speed. The Blue Queen arched over the Bronze King, twisting through the air. She tried to swipe at Hugh Hammer, a tiny silver spot in the saddle, and was slapped away roughly by Vermithor’s wing.

“Don’t watch.” Alyn stumbled back to his feet, helping Rhaena up. His cousin’s wide eyes were stuck to the sky. “Stop it,” he said again. “Focus!”

“Vermithor is still injured from the battle in King’s Landing,” she said quietly in an intense whisper. “Can’t you see it? Look, he’s favoring his right wing. Daeron might have a chance!”

He pulled at her arm. “Rhaena! Come on!”

After a moment, she moved again and they resumed their journey towards the banks of the Mander. Bright flares of blue and yellow light illuminated the world in harsh shadow, the noise of battle grew louder and louder, until Alyn realized they were the only ones still running. All the other soldiers stood transfixed and horrified. Some were even crying. 

He stopped suddenly and exhaled, sharp and slow. If Daeron was going to die, Alyn might as well give him the courtesy of watching. Of witnessing a brave and brutal end.

In the sky, Tessarion was flagging. She produced a pathetically small puff of blue fire before diving away from Vermithor’s snapping jaws. A shadow against the sky, the Blue Queen screeched as she was caught in the larger dragon’s talons, flailing helplessly. Rhaena let out a sob and Alyn pulled her into a hug, burying her face into his shoulder.

“It’ll be alright,” he said uselessly, powerless to do anything. Vermithor twisted his ugly head downwards, mouth glowing with the promise of fire.

There was a roar. Both Alyn and Vermithor turned in confusion as the sound echoed from the northern hills. Like a falling star, a silver dragon burst into view, each scale shining like a newly-minted coin. It was only when Vermithor turned his fire against the newcomer that Alyn realized the beast was actually gold, molten like fresh slag. Equally golden flames poured from his maw, upsetting the Bronze King so much that he released Tessarion, who shrieked with joy.

Alyn knew little of dragons. Yes, he knew the tales that all smallfolk did, but he could not recite their histories and their riders like Baela and Rhaena and Daeron could. From afar, he could recognize Meleys’ fierceness, Moondancer’s jade-green grace, Seasmoke’s quiet wisdom, and Tessarion’s regal nature, but never have he seen a dragon as stunningly beautiful as the one dancing through the sky.

Dumbly, he asked. “Who is that?”

“That’s Sunfyre,” answered Rhaena slowly. Then, some realization came upon her. “It’s Sunfyre!” Her voice rose into a shout. “It’s the king!”

The cry was echoed by the nearby men, and there was a renewed sense of hope as the chant carried. “King Aegon is here to save us!”

In the sky, Vermithor and the king’s dragon were dancing, talons locked together like two warring falcons. It was Tessarion, too small to be of notice, that spiraled back into the air, positioning herself above the saddle of the Bronze King. Elegantly, she ripped something bloody and stringy from the saddle.

The eldest dragon wailed, a horrible, mourning cry that made Alyn’s teeth ache. Taking advantage of this sudden grief, the king’s dragon buried its sharp teeth into the neck of Vermithor; Tessarion, gore-covered and angry, crawled up and gnawed at the shoulder of his wing.

Without the aid of dragonfire, it was hard to see. Alyn could not guess what killed the great Bronze King, but he did know when he hit the ground, for the earth shook. The camp cried out in disbelief and triumph, despite the death and ruin. Alyn turned away from the river and walked with Rhaena back towards the heart of the war camp; Sunfyre and Tessarion circled above.

A great crowd had amassed around Vermithor’s body, but space was made for the other two dragons to land. There were murmurs of awe as the golden dragon landed, but Alyn only had eyes for Tessarion, who unsteadily hit the ground with a groan. The scales on her breast and flank were scored open by Vermithor’s claws. Fortunately, the blood only oozed out slowly, rather than pour out in torrents. She would be fine; Daeron seemed to believe the same, for he pressed a kiss to Tessarion’s cheek, running his hands lightly over the steaming blood, and then half-ran to Sunfyre’s side, craning his head up to look up at the saddle.

“Aegon?”

The man that landed in the mud did not look much like a king. He was short, of a similar stature to his younger brother, and he was lean like a malnourished sailor. To Alyn’s surprise, the king’s hair was not even silver. It was brown and greasy, making him look ghostly pale.

As soon as his brother was on the ground, Daeron threw himself at the king, who caught him easily, in that knowing, expectant way of older brothers. Murmuring, he buried a hand in Daeron’s silver hair, embracing him tightly.

A muffled cry. “Aegon, they killed Helaena.”

“I know,” answered the king softly. Even if his hair was the wrong color, his eyes were a rich, glassy violet, staring blankly ahead.

“They killed Aemond,” Daeron’s voice cracked, audible even though his face was buried into his brother’s shoulder.

Above, Sunfyre bent his great head down and crooned. “I know,” repeated the king. “I know. I’m here, Daeron.”

Alyn felt abruptly sick with jealousy, and then a sense of horrible shame. I miss Addam, he thought bitterly. He should be here with me. Don’t I need my brother, too? He looked away to grant the prince and the king some privacy, to try and collect himself.

Pillowing her head against his shoulder, Rhaena took his hand. “I wish Baela were here.”

“Me too,” he managed, and for his cousin’s sake, Alyn tried to find the bright side. “We’ll be reunited soon, now that the king’s here. It won’t be long now.” They both had to believe it.

The crowd was growing restless, which agitated both the king and his dragon. With a rumbling groan, Sunfyre shook out his wings, causing dozens of people to fall back with a panic. “Can’t you see you’re agitating him?” King Aegon shouted, and Alyn belatedly realized that he had the voice of a king, strong and firm and loud. “Get back! Go help the injured, or put out a fire! Anything!”

With muddied cries of acknowledgement, the spectators streamed away, but the king singled out a lingering knight, wearing a sigil that Alyn did not recognize—not that he knew any of these Reacher houses anyways. “You!” The king commanded. “Bring me my children.” A pause. “And bring me my aunt.”

Chapter Text

Princess Jaehaera cried as her father tried to put her to bed.

“It’s late, sweetling. You have to sleep,” Aegon said, gently prying her little fist from the grubby fabric of his surcoat.

“I want to stay awake,” the girl demanded, even as she yawned. “What if I wake up and you’re gone again, papa?”

Flinching, a wounded expression settled on his face. “I’ll be here in the morning, Hae. I promise.”

Aegon’s daughter mumbled tearfully, but she did permit him to tuck her down into a cot beside her brother. Curled beneath a blanket, Prince Maelor was sleeping peacefully despite the chaos of the night. He had worn himself out playing with his father and was simply pleased to see him again, unconcerned like his sister. Rhaenys was envious of that simple peace.

Jaehaera whimpered quietly. As Aegon crouched down to comfort his daughter, she turned away to grant him some privacy. Part of her longed to do the same for her own grandchildren. To tuck Rhaena into bed, to hold her hand, and soothe her to sleep. Rhaenys wanted to feel the warmth of Alyn’s smile, to run her hand over his hair, and see him safe and asleep.

Alas, her grandchildren were growing into young men and women. Too old for their grandmother to baby them – although she had never been able to dote on any of them in truth. Rhaena had been raised far away; Addam and Alyn she had never known as small children. Even Baela, who had been for a time the only one of her grandchildren available to Rhaenys, had hated to be coddled.

After a few moments, Aegon brushed Jaehaera’s silver hair out of her face. Her cheeks were ruddy, tear-streaked, and her mouth was twisted into a pout even in sleep. “She’s never been so attached to me before,” he said, soft and unsure.

“It is only natural. The princess has been through much.”

Some children were that way, even under the most ordinary of circumstances. When Laenor had been five, the mere mention of Corlys departing on a voyage would work the boy up into hysterics, and he had spent every waking moment shadowing his father. Rhaenys saw him so vividly, sleeping on a bench in the Hall of Nine with Seasmoke curled up like a cat on his chest. Gods, how she missed him.

Aegon stood. “Too much.” His jaw twitched as he looked over his sleeping children. “If I had endured even half as much as they have as a boy, I would have laid down and died. I owe your Rhaena a debt beyond measure—whatever she wants, I will grant it.”

“King Jaehaerys would have cautioned against offering a girl of six-and-ten whatever she desires,” Rhaenys said, trying to downplay her sudden swell of pride.

“He sounds like an old twat,” replied the king. “Besides, it’s Rhaena. Your granddaughter wouldn’t ask for anything unreasonable.”

A smile, unbidden. She bowed her head and accepted the compliment on Rhaena’s behalf. “Your Grace.”

Silence settled in the tent, punctuated by the soft breathing of Jaehaera and Maelor. Much had been burned in the fires, and so Ryam Redwyne vacated his pavilion for the king—which meant that it was kept well-stocked with Arbor vintage. Aegon crossed the room to a side table and poured himself a cup with a generous hand. With a frankly impressive stoicism, the king downed it all in one gulp.

There had been no time to speak, not between his arrival and now. She had only just managed to crush a soot-stained Rhaena and Alyn into an embrace, to briefly taste the joy that they were alive and well, before Rhaenys had been summoned. And then, Ser Hobert had arrived with the young prince and princess, derailing everything further.

She cleared her throat. “Your Grace—”

“Auntie, use my name. Please.” His voice was quiet, exhausted. “I don’t want to be the king right now.”

“Aegon.” Rhaenys let the sound of his name linger. “It is good to see you.” And she found that she meant it.

His lips twitched. “I think you might be the first person to ever say that to me sincerely.” Holding up a carafe of wine, he collapsed onto a settee of rich purple velvet. “Sit with me.”

“I will be the first of many to say as much,” replied Rhaenys, sitting down beside the king. “You have saved the lives of the entire camp.”

With a sheepish shrug and a wry smile, Aegon poured another round of wine and offered her an overfilled cup. She diplomatically decided to not comment on it, and instead asked, “You are alone? Has something happened to the Westermen?”

“Everyone is fine. Tarbeck is camped out three hours north, and Criston is about an hour behind them with the army from Harrenhal.” A pause. “It’s too risky to march through the night, so they made camp. I expect we’ll all be reunited by midday tomorrow.”

“That is good news.” Warm relief flooded through her. At last, everything was coming together, and the arrival of fresh men and supplies would boost morale after tonight’s loss. But a question remained. “How did you know to come when you did?”

A deep frown. “I didn’t. Knowing we were so close, I couldn’t just wait. I wanted to see Jaehaera and Maelor, so I flew ahead on Sunfyre.”

“Thank the gods you did, or else…” Rhaenys would be dead. Rhaena and Alyn and Corlys burned. Jaehaera, Maelor, and Daeron lost. An entire branch of the family tree pruned away in an instant. She shuddered to think of it, of how close it had been to becoming reality.

“Or else I would not have had children to come back to,” Aegon said wearily, and he deflated into the settee. His exhaustion was palpable, obvious in his appearance.

Since they had last seen one another, he had become thin, his worn clothing hanging loosely from his frame. Dark shadows marred the skin beneath his eyes and made the violet color hauntingly bright, sunken into his face. The hair did not help matters. Aegon’s limp curls were dyed a rich mud brown, although hints of pale silver were coming in at the roots. It made him look like a young man prematurely going grey. It also made Aegon look remarkably like his mother.

He was silent, the slumped posture and distant gaze suggesting that the king was wrestling with the revelation that he could have arrived to find his children dead. It never did any good to rush Aegon, and so Rhaenys took a sip of her wine. Too sweet for her tastes, but many things were.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “How did it come to this, Rhaenys?”

“It was my fault,” she answered honestly. “My plan to assassinate the dragonseeds should have accounted for all contingencies. If I had, Hugh would not have—”

“What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?” Aegon interrupted sharply. “You’ve done everything right, or to the best of your ability. I couldn’t ask for a better Hand.” Irritated, he gestured at the air. “I mean this. This war. Jaehaerys is dead. Helaena is dead. Aemond is dead, and grandfather too. Who knows what’s being done to my own mother. Three times now, Jaehaera and Maelor have almost died.” His voice cracked and his hand was shaking, sloshing wine onto his lap. “How did it come to this?”

A thousand reasons sprang to mind, but each felt as unsatisfying as the last. Was it Aegon’s fault? Rhaenyra’s? Was it because of Aemond and his kinslaying? Daemon or Otto or Alicent? Could the blame be laid at Viserys’ feet for his inaction? For remarrying? Did it go all the way back to Jaehaerys for passing Rhaenys over? Or even earlier, when he declared Aemon heir instead of his older daughter, poor, short-lived Daenaerys?

“There is no war so hateful to the gods as one between kin,” she said instead. And no war no bloody as one between dragons. “The line between love and hate is thin, especially in a family such as ours.”

“Rhaenyra has never loved us.” Even though they were at war, Aegon seemed pained to say it. “Neither did our father. I don’t understand—what did we ever do to them?”

Tears shone in his eyes and Rhaenys pitied him deeply. “You and your siblings were dealt an unfair hand.”

Something broke. With a strangled groan, he buckled over, dropping the wine and bringing his hands to his face. “Me? I understand. But Helaena? She was kind and good and a mother and they killed her.” A sob. “Rhaenys, they killed her.”

“I know, child,” she murmured. Very gently, she placed a hand on his back, feeling his chest shake. “I know.”

For a long time, Aegon wept bitterly. He muffled the sound by biting his fist, trying to keep from disturbing the children, snot running down his fingers. Rhaenys ran a hand down his back in slow strokes, as though he were one of her own. In some ways, he supposed he was now. Aegon was family. Her nephew.

When he could speak again, the king wiped his cheeks roughly with the cuff of his sleeves. “I never wanted to marry her. Helaena was my weird little sister.” Oh, what the Old King would have said about that! “But that didn’t mean I never cared for her.” A sniffle. “I can’t remember the last thing I said to her. Or Aemond, or grandfather, or Jaehaerys. I—”

He paused, choking up again, and Rhaenys spoke. “The last time I spoke to Laenor, I shouted at him.”

“What?” Violet eyes looked to her in confusion.

“On Driftmark. After Lucerys cut out Aemond’s eye.” Recalling the memory hurt. “I was unkind, and I accused his wife and the boys of ruining his sister’s funeral. And then I did not see him again before he died. Perhaps it is better that you do not remember.”

Aegon sat up. Blinking away the last of his tears, he took a deep breath. “I am sorry. For that and for my behavior tonight. I-I think it finally caught up with me. What I lost and how close I came to losing the rest.”

“There is no need to apologize. We all experience grief in different ways,” she said. “And we all carry it with us for the rest of our lives.”

“Will it get any easier?”

Rhaenys smiled wryly and shook her head. “Never. You just find other reasons to keep living.”

“Living is hard,” said Aegon.

“As are all things worth doing,” Rhaenys replied.

Across the tent, Jaehaera shifted in her cot, throwing an arm out towards her baby brother. Maelor’s hair was peeking out from beneath his blanket, bright against the dull sheets. “They should be at home, not on some battlefield.”

“That can be easily done. With Sunfyre and the combined forces of the West, the Crownlands, and the Hightower, retaking the city will be all but assured.” She paused. “You could see your children in their nursery within the moon.”

“At dawn, give the order to pack camp,” Aegon nodded. “By the time Tarbeck and Cole arrive, the host here will be ready to march on.”

At last! Rhaenys smiled thinly. “Many will be pleased. We have lingered at Tumbleton for far too long.” Pausing, she tried to conjure the image of the war map in her mind. “At a brisk pace, it will take a fortnight to reach King’s Landing.”

Humming lowly, Aegon frowned at his spilled wine; Rhaenys wordlessly handed him her own cup. He took a small sip, more restrained than he usually was. “Sunfyre could do it in a day.”

“You plan to go ahead? Alone?” Her eyebrows flew up, so much so that her king almost laughed.

“Not alone,” he said, amused. “You’ll be with me. My boy can easily take us both.” Then, his voice softened, and Aegon added, “I was sorry to hear about Meleys.”

A beat of silence. “Thank you,” Rhaenys replied automatically, stiffly. As if it were another empty platitude offered by someone who could not possibly fathom the depth of the loss. But Aegon, of all people, could understand. “Losing her has been…devastating,” she added, honestly. Vulnerable.

“You were bonded for over forty years, right?”

“Three-and-forty,” she corrected. “Meleys was as part of me as my arms and legs. Sometimes, I think I can almost feel her still, and then the phantom passes.”

Frowning, Aegon handed the wine back to Rhaenys and she took a deep drink. “I would be devastated to lose my Sunfyre. To never be able to fly again.” His brows knit together, eyes studying her intently. “What of Silverwing?”

“Silverwing?” She echoed in disbelief. “You cannot be suggesting—”

“There are no rules against claiming another dragon. It’s only that no one has done it before.” That was true. “You could claim her, auntie. Only if you wish it.”

After the death of Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Vermithor, Silverwing was the oldest dragon in the world—save perhaps for the Cannibal. But she was also Queen Alysanne’s dragon. Rhaenys’ grandmother had been a flawed woman, simultaneously her greatest supporter as queen and yet at the same time refused to advocate for her own daughters. Perhaps by claiming her dragon, Rhaenys could understand her better and wash away Ulf’s stain on Silverwing’s legacy.

But she would never be Meleys, thought Rhaenys. To trade red scales for silver, ferocity for gentleness, and speed for agility would not fill the hole in her heart. It would not lessen the grief.

“Even if the idea appealed to me, it is too soon. I would not disrespect Meleys’ memory so.” She swallowed. “Let Rhaena and Alyn try to claim her. Or…perhaps Baela could, if she wishes to.”

That thought appealed the most to her. Rhaenys was old, had enjoyed decades with the Red Queen. If anyone deserved the chance to fly again, it should be Baela—even though she felt a sudden guilt at the thought. Didn’t Rhaena deserve a dragon too?

“I understand,” said Aegon. “In the morning, my cousins can try, and if one is successful, perhaps they can come with us.”

“Why do you want to go ahead so badly?” Rhaenys asked, slightly confused. While she longed for nothing more to rush to King’s Landing and free Baela and Addam, it would do little good if she killed herself in the process. “Why not wait and travel with the support of the ground forces?”

Gesturing with his chin, Aegon pointed to his children. “I don’t want to bring them into danger. I want them to come home and have it feel safe and familiar, not covered in blood and bodies with assassins lurking in the walls. They are all I have now.” A sigh. “They will be safer here. As will Alyn and Rhaena, whichever one has to stay behind. I’ll ask Daeron to stay and protect them.”

“I do not think the prince will be happy about that.”

“No. But I’m his brother—he has to listen to me.” A little smile appeared, brightening up his face.

But his smile died as Rhaenys voiced her next question. “What of Rhaenyra?”

“She has to die,” answered Aegon bluntly, and the cool detachment was oddly terrifying, more than his explosive rage in the small council chamber all those moons ago. “Do you intend to counsel me otherwise?”

Did she? Rhaenyra had been her favorite cousin’s spoiled daughter, annoying and entitled as all young Targaryen princesses were—Rhaenys included in that number—but she was Aemma’s girl. And that girl had grown up to become a woman whom she deeply resented, who shamed the Velaryons, and vexed both Rhaenys and Corlys beyond measure. Yet, Laena and Laenor had loved her, and on occasion even Rhaenys had been charmed by Rhaenyra’s sociable nature, the easy way she laughed, how she could tell a story.

“I have never liked your sister,” Rhaenys admitted at last. “I would go as far to say that for many years I hated her. But I never wanted her dead. That being said, I will not tell you to do anything. This is your decision, Aegon.”

He frowned, exhaling through his nose. “Thank you.” A long silence settled between them and the candles were burning low. “Do you think I will be a good king?”

That was a loaded question. “House Velaryon supported your claim for Baela’s sake,” she began, and Aegon flinched. “If you had asked me that at the beginning of the war, I would have said no.  But you have proven yourself again and again. At Duskendale, Rook’s Rest, and when you went out to protect the Westermen. Aegon, I do not know what kind of king you will be in peacetime, but I see potential in you.”

Turning away, he hid his face from view. “Thank you, auntie,” he said wetly.

“Regardless,” Rhaenys hummed. “You will never be a proper king as long as you have that muck in your hair. Who did that to you?”

“A witch did.” A genuine laugh. “You don’t like it?”

She stood, pushing through the pain of her aching joints. “It’s horrible. Send for a bath and a barber as soon as you can.”

At that, she bid him goodnight and walked through the shadowed, sleepy camp to her own pavilion, miraculously untouched by dragonflame. Rhaenys peeked in on her sleeping grandchildren, pulling an extra blanket over Rhaena and eyeing Alyn’s freshly bandaged hands. Then, she crawled into a cot with her husband and slept like the dead.

At dawn, while Corlys oversaw the deconstruction of their tent, Rhaenys rode out with her grandchildren. Those who remained on watch in the night claimed that Silverwing had spent it curled up beside Vermithor’s corpse like a bereaved lover. Regardless, at first light the she-dragon had flown further north to put distance between herself and the Hightower host—no need to linger now that Ulf was dead.

They found the mount of the Good Queen lying listlessly on a low-lying hill, resembling a pile of silver coins in a treasury. One colorless eye opened as they approached, but she remained still, curious as she always was.

“She’s huge,” said Alyn bluntly. “Even bigger up close.”

“Don’t say it like that. She’s a lady,” Rhaena teased, but there was a nervous undertone in her voice, a faint tremor.

Dismounting, Rhaenys landed on dew-wet grass which shone pink and yellow in the morning light. Her grandchildren followed suit, flanking her on either side.

Her grandson crossed his arms. “What’s the right way to go about this? I messed it up pretty badly the first time.”

“Sheepstealer was a wild dragon,” she began. “And he might have already been claimed by the dragonseed at the time. Silverwing is tame, relatively at least. She knows Targaryen blood. If she rejects you, it will not be so violent.”

“My father—” Rhaena paused, frowning, suddenly troubled. Ever since the news had come from Harrenhal, she had not been able to mention Daemon without difficulty. “He said it’s best to use Valyrian commands. Lykiri for calm, dohaeris for obey.”

A hum of agreement. “He was right. A fresh hatchling can be trained in both common speech and Valyrian, but the beasts of old prefer the language of the conquerors.” And Silverwing was the last of them now, Rhaenys realized sadly.

“I think you should go first, Rhaena,” said Alyn nonchalantly, as if it were not a great and courteous gesture. Behind his cousin’s back, he winked at Rhaenys.

Her granddaughter did not seem so confident. “Are you sure? Silverwing has rejected me before.”

Gently tapping her shoulder, Rhaenys nudged Rhaena forwards. “You were but a child then, sweet one. Go one, we’ll be right here.”

And up she went. Slipping a bit on wet, dying grass, she approached Silverwing from an angle, making sure to avoid the blind spot in front of the dragon’s snout—Daemon had taught her well it seemed, even if all her prior attempts had been unsuccessful. When Rhaena reached the crest of the hill, Silverwing made a rumbling noise of displeasure or distress.

A placating hand was raised. “Lykiri, Silverwing. Lykiri.” Her voice was gentle, not nearly firm enough.

The dragon did not calm. Instead, a growl burst forth, eyes narrowing to slits as Rhaena stepped forward. “Lykiri! Dohaeris, Silverwing! Lykiri!”

To her side, Alyn shifted anxiously and Rhaenys caught him by the arm, holding him back. “Wait,” she whispered. “You’ll only aggravate her.”

“Dohaeris!” She shouted, and teeth snapped in answer. With a restrained sweep of her tail, Silverwing knocked Rhaena’s legs out from underneath her, turning away in annoyance.

Rolling down the hill, her granddaughter came to a stop, lying flat on her back, blinking up at the sky. Rhaenys tasted disappointment, muted and bitter, before she swallowed it down with instant shame. Foolish, old woman, she thought sharply. You are not Daemon. It matters little if Rhaena has no dragon.

But it did seem to matter to Rhaena, for the girl sat up with tears in her eyes. She glanced mutely to Alyn, to her grandmother, and then, quick as a cat, she rolled to her feet and ran away.

“Rhaena!” Rhaenys took a handful of steps forward, but then paused. Alyn could not be left alone if he attempted to claim Silverwing, not after how badly Sheepstealer had burned him.

“C’mon, go after her,” her grandson said, turning away to gather the horses. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Surprised, Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “But Silverwing—”

Alyn shook his head. “I’m not doing that to Rhaena. Besides, any dragon that refuses her doesn’t deserve me.”

“You are a good lad,” she smiled, voice soft, and then she turned to pursue her granddaughter.

Rhaena had not gone far, but she had run towards the rising sun. Blinded by golden light, she nearly tripped over her, crouched in the grassland crying.

“Oh, sweetling,” breathed Rhaenys, kneeling down to pull her granddaughter into her arms. “I am sorry.”

There was a strangled cry. “I didn’t think it would hurt this much. She’s rejected me before, but this time I really thought it would be different.”

“I should have given you more time to prepare. Asked the king to delay.”

“It wouldn’t have done anything,” said Rhaena with a sob. “There’s something wrong with me, grandmother. The dragons know it. Father knew it, and now he’s dead—” A rattling breath. “And now I can’t even ask him what it is.”

With all her strength, Rhaenys embraced her, cradling a hand over the back of her granddaughter’s head. “There is nothing wrong with you,” she said sharply. “You are perfect. Absolutely perfect.” In every way, she had known it ever since she had flown to Pentos all those years ago and Laena had placed the twins in her arms.

“There has to be something. Why else—”

“Do you think there is something wrong with me?” Rhaenys asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Or your father?”

A beat of silence. “I think many things were wrong with father.”

It took a moment to realize it was a joke. Rhaenys laughed, bright and sudden, and Rhaena giggled wetly. “I was three-and-ten when I claimed Meleys. And your father was five-and-ten when he bonded with Caraxes. Both of us tried and failed to claim Dreamfyre, and that was not any indication of our character. You are newly sixteen, barely older than your father was. Than I was. There are still many eggs.”

Sniffling, Rhaena quieted, letting herself simply be held. “Do you really have to leave again?” Her granddaughter murmured.

“I do,” she answered. “Someone must go with the king, and I must know if Baela and Addam are alright.”

Silence. Rhaena squeezed her hand, and both startled as Alyn suddenly slid beside them in the grass, coming down to sit next to Rhaenys. “Horses are secure,” he said, splaying out his legs. “Nice view. Very pretty.”

“So it is,” agreed Rhaenys, and she wrapped an arm around her grandson, tugging him close. “Let us linger for a while longer.”

They sat together on the damp grass and watched the sky turn from pink and gold to bright, cold winter blue. The warm light brought out the warm tones in her grandchildren’s skin and turned their hair from silver to white gold. In the early morning, as a thin fog rose over the plain, Tumbleton regained some of its beauty. A little cobblestone town on the rolling banks of the mighty Mander, surrounded by fields of golden grass and hills. Beyond Castle Footly, the slopes of the distant mountains began to rise.

Once their trousers were soaked through from the dew and dawn had long passed, Rhaenys collected her grandchildren in silence, unwilling to break the peaceful serenity, and they rode back towards the Hightower camp.

When the tents reappeared on the horizon, greatly reduced in number as the camp was packed up, Alyn challenged Rhaena to a race, and they rode off ahead of her. Rhaenys watched them go, Rhaena’s locks streaming out behind her, Alyn’s whooping laugh swept off in the wind, and she felt something akin to peace.

Sunfyre was saddled and waiting in the center of the camp, and the king was in the process of saying goodbye to his children. Overnight, Aegon had transformed, freshly washed and regal. The mud brown curls had been cut away, leaving behind a short, fresh growth of silver hair banded by the heavy weight of his black crown. For the first time, Rhaenys did not think he looked like his mother, or his father, or any other distant Targaryen relative. Holding Maelor in his arms, with Jaehaera tugging at his cloak, Aegon simply looked like himself.

“Auntie!” He called in greeting, setting down Maelor. Hand-in-hand with his sister, both ran to Rhaena with glee, laughing. “Are you ready to fly?”

“Wait a moment, Your Grace,” called Corlys, striding into view. “I would have a minute with my wife before you whisk her away.”

There was a good-natured laugh that went up among the crowd of spectators. Aegon smiled broadly, eyes crinkling, and nodded his head; Daeron took advantage of the delay and pulled his older brother aside.

“Husband,” Rhaenys greeted.

“Wife,” he echoed “Silverwing?”

His violet eyes flickered towards Rhaena and Alyn. “No,” Rhaenys shook her head. “She remains unclaimed on the field.”

“So you will go alone with the king?”

A nod. “I shall.” She saw the unspoken question in his eyes, the concern. “I do not know what will await us there, but I shall be careful.”

Corlys shifted his weight and boldly ghosted his hand over hers, as affectionate as they could be surrounded by unfamiliar faces. “I know, but I will worry regardless. For you and Addam and Baela.” A thoughtful pause. “What of Rhaenyra?”

“Aegon will likely execute her,” Rhaenys said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I have decided to stay out of it. It must be his decision.”

“And the boys?” At her blank look, he continued. “Jace and Joffrey, Rhaenys. Are they not with her? You must advocate for mercy, at least for them. Jace may be in his majority, but he is barely out of childhood.”

So caught up Baela and Addam, she had not considered Rhaenyra’s sons. “We must prioritize our own, Corlys.”

“They are children. And even if they are not our blood, I consider them family. Rhaena still calls Joffrey her brother,” her husband took a deep breath, eyebrows drawn together. “I cannot go with you, so I must ask you to advocate on my behalf. Please. I do not want to see them dead.”

Steeling her jaw, Rhaenys nodded. “I will try,” she conceded. “I will try, Corlys. I swear.” She had seen enough children dead in her lifetime. And her husband was right, those boys were innocent, and Rhaenys had spent seventeen years taking out her ire at them.

“Thank you.” His gaze softened, eyes warm and bright. “Know that my heart goes with you.”

“Auntie!” Aegon called again. “Let us be off!”

Rhaenys delayed again to say farewell to her grandchildren, pressing both back into an embrace. “You must tell Addam and Baela that we miss them,” said Alyn, his twists falling into his face. “And that I’ve grown an inch since they’ve last seen me.”

“I love you, grandmother,” Rhaena whispered, pulling away.

“I love you both. More than you can imagine. I’ll be waiting for you at the gates of the city,” she promised. “With your sister, and your brother. I promise.”

Turning away, she walked up to Sunfyre. The great beast was shimmering in the cool light, his pink wings stretched out and waiting. Aegon was already in the saddle and he leaned down to help her up the last rungs of the rope ladder.

It was the first time she had ridden a dragon that was not Meleys since the days of her girlhood, back when her father or grandmother would take her out on Caraxes and Silverwing. A foreign and strange feeling seized her, a sudden sense of loss, and Rhaenys sat stiffly, unable to strap herself in.

“Oh, come now,” Aegon said lightly, deceptively so. There was a concerned look in his eyes, but he secured her behind him. “Don’t worry, I know how to fly. I’ll even minimize the acrobatics, just for you.”

“It’s not—” She started, and then Rhaenys recognized the out he was giving to her. To disguise her grief in front of all these people. “Yes, of course. Take it easy on these old bones.”

With a laugh, Aegon snapped his reins and Sunfyre took to the skies, leaving the camp behind them, and they angled east to King’s Landing. To her grandchildren.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s surviving knights failed to retake the outer yard, but where they failed, Borros Baratheon succeeded.

The storm lord swept through King’s Landing on an otherwise unremarkable day, emerging from the cover of the kingswood and marching through the River Gate. Baela had slept through most of it, for sleep was the only respite—albeit brief—from the ever-present hunger, and she awoke to the Baratheon black stag waving from the battlements. It made for a striking sight. Black and gold against red stone.

They had even gone above and beyond and captured the rest of the castle, retaking all save for Maegor’s Holdfast, and freed everyone that Baela’s stepmother had imprisoned. Now and again, when awake, she could see a distant spot of bright green that must be Queen Alicent in the outer yard. Addam too had been released from his cell. He came each morning and stood on the opposite edge of the dry moat, waiting for her to wave out the window. Before the food ran low, they would shout at each other, trying their hardest to hold a conversation at such distance. She lacked the energy now.

Besides that, little changed. Baela slept and starved and slept again. Her head ached and her throat was dry and if she tried to stand too quickly, black spots blotted out her vision. Her body was betraying her. Baela resented that more than the loneliness, the anger, the pain, the grief.

The last meal she had eaten was a bowl of broth and that had been a day and a half ago. Frankly, it was surprising that Baela had been fed at all, so she would not complain. Over the past two weeks, supplies in the Holdfast had gradually dwindled, marked by the declining quality of her meals. Before the broth, she had been served slices of stale bread, but even that had run out. It was likely that all that was left now was water and bones, and yet the drawbridge remained closed. She expected that Rhaenyra would not give the command to lower it until Jace and Joffrey were in danger of starving, but what about the rest of the people trapped inside? How much longer could they hold out?

As Baela laid on her bed, listless and staring at the red stones in her ceiling, there was a sound that she had not heard for some time. A roar, sudden and loud and fierce, echoed over King’s Landing. A dragon’s roar. It was not one of distress or pain or anger, but only a warning shout announcing its presence. Dizzy and weak, she stumbled from the bed, pushed herself towards the window, and she laughed.

Sunfyre skimmed beneath the clouds, pink and gold and glittering. High and distant, he was circling the city, but with each completed loop, the dragon descended slightly, cautiously keeping watch for an enemy dragon to leap up from the ground.

“It’s safe,” Baela rasped painfully, wincing at the wretched sound of her own voice. “There’s no one left.” Only Tyraxes remained to Rhaenyra, and somewhere across the Narrow Sea, little Aegon had his Stormcloud, not even large enough to bear a rider.

Eventually, Aegon the Elder realized the same, for Sunfyre dove towards the castle and landed in the outer yard before the throne room, startling the Baratheon guards. Not one, but two riders descended from the saddle, both silver-haired, and they were received by a black-and-gold blur that could only be Lord Borros. The identity of this second rider was a mystery at such a distance, but Aegon had a younger brother, did he not? Baela’s suspicions seemed confirmed as a speck of green ran out of the throne room with an audible, joyous cry.

What would I give to see Rhaena, she thought, bittersweet. Addam and Alyn and Grandfather, too. For the first time in weeks, even though she was orphaned and starving, Baela felt a quiet hope that she would reunite with them again. Everything was coming to an end now. Aegon had come to retake the city; she would go home.

The group in the yard disappeared inside the castle, beyond her view. Despite her best efforts to stay awake, she drifted off, hunger unfocusing her mind, and she could not tell how much time had passed before fifty stormlander knights marched up into the bailey. Baela’s cousin and king stood at the head of the column; beside him was Lord Baratheon, but Baela only had eyes for the tall, regal, silver-haired woman standing proudly by Aegon’s side, and her equally silver-haired grandson.

Rhaenys Targaryen, lady of Driftmark, Hand of the King, her grandmother was alive! Gasping, Baela stood and nearly fainted, but managed to shove her arm out the window and wave wildly, as though she could reach out and pluck her grandmother up from up the ground.

“Grandmother!” She croaked quietly, barely more than a whisper. “I’m here! I’m here!”

Stepping forward towards the edge of the dry moat, which fell perilously to a field of rusted spikes, the king shouted at the top of his lungs. “I bring a message for the brave guards manning the drawbridge. It is my understanding that you’ve been holed up in the Holdfast for some time. Here!” A hand waved, summoning a page boy holding a platter of food so fresh it was still steaming in the chill air. “If that drawbridge is lowered, I swear that each man will receive a hot meal and a royal pardon.”

It did not take very long for the guards to decide. Clanging, the chains began to shake as the drawbridge slowly lowered. The king stepped away and the party of knights marched forward, armor creaking rhythmically. In a velvet black ensemble with an ostentatious yellow feather in his cap, a herald began to bellow at an inhuman volume, voice clarion clear.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen!” The title was over-enunciated. “You and your conspirators are being taken into the custody of the king and will be brought posthaste to the throne room to face his justice! Surrender peacefully and you will not be harmed!”

As the he repeated the message, her grandmother and Addam, following the knights, raced over the bridge while the king departed with Lord Borros. Baela stood and nearly fell to her knees, catching herself on the bedpost and crawling blindly over the mattress. Soon, she reassured herself. Only minutes now. Faintly, a commotion went up in other parts of the castle. Cries and shouts and steel. Boots pounding through the ceiling and down the hall.

And then came a familiar voice. “Is this the room?” It said sharply, loud enough to be heard through the door.

“Yes, princess,” said another.

A man’s voice, accented with the sounds of home. “Then bloody open it already!”

Sweet as a song, the key turned in the lock, and the door swung open so urgently that it slammed against the red brick wall. Her grandmother stood frozen, purple eyes raking over Baela’s face eagerly, and cried out as she ran towards her.

Silver hair and strong arms engulfed her, along with dragonstink and laughter, teary and bright.  Baela felt the warmth of her skin, the sound of her breath, and pound of her grandmother’s heartbeat. “You came for me,” she rasped against her grandmother’s shoulder.

“Of course I did, darling.” A hand came up and cradled the back of her head. “I came for you both.”

An overwhelming wave of emotion crested over her. Relief and pain, grief and joy, and above all, a bitter exhaustion that left her limp, leaving her grandmother to support her weight.

“I thought you were dead.” Baela squeezed her arm. To make sure this was real, not some wonderful dream. “They told me the ironborn killed you.”

“They shot me down.” A pained pause, and suddenly her grandmother was holding her even tighter. “Meleys is dead, sweetling.”

Even though she already knew, it hurt to hear it from her grandmother, who said it softly, woundedly. “I am so sorry. I know your pain, grandmother.”

“How I wish that you did not,” she said, cupping Baela’s cheek. “If only Moondancer was…Meleys is watching over her now, as I watch over you.”

That thought pleased her. To imagine Moondancer racing with Meleys through an endless sky. And perhaps, if there was some sort of life after this one, her mother was there too, soaring above them on Vhagar. Baela smiled, even as hot tears burned in her eyes. Gods, how she hated to cry.

Fingers trailed over her hair, down to the burn scars that webbed over her jaw and ear. “Oh, Baela, what have they done to you?”

“No one has laid a hand on me,” she answered. All of her wounds were emotional, mental, rather than physical. “The burns are from dragonfire. They don’t hurt anymore.” Having earned them in battle, the only thing to do was wear them with pride.

“You promise?” The mattress sank as another person settled beside her. “Nothing has happened since we last spoke?”

Pulling free of her grandmother’s embrace, Baela tugged Addam down into one of her own, hooking her arms around his neck and drawing him close. “I promise,” she said, digging her chin into his shoulder. “If not for you, I think I would have lost my mind.”

Silver locs tickled the back of her hand. “Don’t exaggerate.” But she could hear the smile in her cousin’s voice. “You’re Baela the Brave—you would have been fine without me.”

“Not true.” He could have easily flown off on Seasmoke the moment he was freed and gone southwest to find Rhaena and Alyn, but he had chosen to stay here. To watch over her as best he could. “Not true at all.”

Her grandmother’s hand gripped her wrist, feeling the prominent jut of bone beneath the skin. “You are thin.” Dismay colored her voice, with an undertone of anger.

“It is not so bad,” Baela lied, but from her grandmother’s frown and Addam’s grimace, they clearly did not believe her. “A guard brought me broth two days ago.”

With a soft sigh, her grandmother’s face crumpled and she had to turn away to compose herself. Stunned to silence, Baela watched in quiet horror until Addam pulled at her hand, distracting her.

“Here,” he said brightly, voice drawling. “I brought something for you.”

Compared to the last time she had seen him, all those moons ago when her father was still alive, Addam looked well. Healthy and bright and at ease. There was a plain, burlap bag in his lap, and with a flourish that reminded her of Alyn, he produced a roll of bread from inside, placing it in her hands.

In disbelief, Baela held it reverently, feeling the weight of it. The soft give of the bread’s spongy interior beneath a thin shell of crust. “Where did you get this?” It felt as precious as a dragon’s egg in the moment, worth more than all the treasures of the Red Keep and High Tide.

“Borros Baratheon came well-stocked to King’s Landing,” her grandmother said, having recovered herself. Idly, she brushed a stray curl behind Baela’s ear. “Eat, child. Slowly, to be safe.”

She did not need to be told twice, devouring it ravenously, as well as the thin strips of salt beef and a gloriously green apple that Addam kindly sliced for her. If she had not been so dehydrated, Baela might have wept; her grandmother certainly seemed misty-eyed at the sight of the heir to Driftmark acting like a starved resident of Flea Bottom.

When she had finished, a clarity returned to her, even though the exhaustion still lingered.

“What will happen to them? To everyone in the Holdfast?” Baela asked. The chaos in the keep had quieted some; most of the noise came from out the window rather than down the hall.

“They will face the king’s justice, whatever that may be,” answered her grandmother, voice serious. “Truth be told, I am not sure what to expect, but I will be there to counsel the king all the same.” Reluctantly, she stood, smoothing out her tunic. “It is about time that I head to the throne room. You two should rest, perhaps go down to the kitchens to find something more to—”

“No,” Baela interrupted, trying to climb to her feet. With a groan of frustration, she lost her balance and plopped right back down against the bed. “I want to be there.”

Addam frowned. “Are you sure? Can you even stand?”

“If I can’t, you’ll have to hold me up.”

Lips pursed, her grandmother’s eyes flickered over her face, and she nodded. “It may be unpleasant,” she warned.

So many things about the past year had been unpleasant, what was one more? Besides, there was an unshakable need to witness the end of a reign, to see this war resolved. “I know. Addam, help me up, please.”

With great care, they both guided her down the hall, over the drawbridge, all the way down the Serpentine Stair, and down even more steps to the throne room. Sunfyre lay coiled in the outer yard, intently watching them, and Baela realized with some amusement that his eyes were vivid green. While the courtiers were surely terrified to have been marched past the dragon, she only felt a quiet joy, excited to see one hale and safe.

The final group of Rhaenyra’s courtiers was being ushered through the doors of the throne room. Hair limp, eyes dark, faces hollow, they seemed frail and diminished like Baela was, but above all else, they looked afraid. Lady Sunglass was noticeably trembling, and Elinda Massey was holding the other woman upright as they were forced through. Others were quietly weeping, terrified, and some were stone-faced and still, struck numb by the realization that Rhaenyra had failed them.

When there was a gap in the crowd, her grandmother steered them through the doors and down the aisle. The throne room was emptier than the last time Baela had been forced to attend court, and she assumed it was because many had died in the riots. Mostly women and young children stood in the hall, accompanied by those too old for fighting and the occasional young man with a haunted look in their eyes.

Baela and Addam were marched up to the dais before the throne, where they were promptly deposited before a man that could only be Borros Baratheon. He was tall, taller than grandmother, with hair the color of fresh ink and bright, sky-blue eyes. He frowned at all three of them, obviously confused by their presence before him.

“Cousin,” her grandmother said with a thin smile, voice clipped. “Meet my grandchildren.”

He was perhaps the nicest-looking person in the room, with a healthy pallor to his skin, hair shining and parted neatly down the scalp. His beard was oiled and combed—clearly, he had not been starving for weeks like most of the people here. And compared to her grandmother, who was travel-worn and weary, his clothing was freshly laundered. His rich, golden brocade was trimmed with ermine furs, and an embroidered stag leapt over his chest.

“Baela Targaryen,” she offered, as Addam bowed low and said, “Addam of Hull, m’lord.”

Blue eyes glanced over them, before he replied gruffly. “Cousins.”

“I ask that you keep an eye on them while I attend to the king. They are your kin, after all.” Her tone was sharp, and Borros had the decency to look sheepish and uncomfortable, recognizing the implication behind her grandmother’s words. Lucerys had not been kin by blood, but still he had been a child of ten-and-four. Perhaps if the stormlord had done more to protect him, this war would have never happened.

Fingers squeezed her shoulder and the Hand of the King climbed up to stand before the Iron Throne. In another world, a different world, perhaps she would have been the one to sit in it.

“You do not have the Baratheon look,” Lord Borros groused, as if it was some great shame.

Another voice cut in, far gentler than the last time Baela had heard it all those years ago on Driftmark. “Valyrian blood runs strong, Lord Baratheon. All my children took after their father after all.”

In a dress of jade, Alicent Hightower glided over the stone. Her auburn curls were piled up atop her head and her pink lips were drawn up into a smile. Gently, she took Baela’s hands in hers, squeezing the skin, in a forward gesture that would have left her father furious. “Lady Baela, how it pleases me to see you reunited with your kin.”

This was the first time in her life that she had ever spoken directly to her uncle’s wife, and it was the third time Baela had seen her since that final dinner with King Viserys. Despite that, she felt a connection, forged through months of secret correspondence. “Queen Alicent, I am so glad to speak with you face-to-face,” she said earnestly. “Thank you for…” A pause, as Baela found herself suddenly unable to voice the depth of her gratitude for the letters, the care, the concern. “Thank you for everything.”

Before the queen dowager could reply, a booming voice echoed through the hall. “King Aegon Targaryen, second of his name! King of the Andals, and the First Men!”

The man in question marched down the aisle of the throne room. While he still wore his riding leathers, he clearly had quickly washed his face and ran a comb through his hair. The conqueror’s black iron crown sat heavily on his brow and Aegon’s face was equally as dark, bearing a stormy expression as he stalked towards his seat. Blackfyre swung on his hip and Rhaenyra’s supporters paled further, silent like the dead.

With a twirl, Aegon threw out his cape and sat down, nodding at her grandmother. “Bring them in!” He shouted down the aisle.

A group of guards brought out the surviving members of Rhaenyra’s small council, followed by Jace and Joffrey. Her stepbrothers looked healthy, strong even, for lack of a better word. While Joffrey was not quite old enough to grasp the severity of the situation, his brown eyes were wide, alarmed, aware of the anxious energy that had seized the rest of the courtiers. Jace was white with fear. He was seated in a wheeled chair, obviously fashioned by Gerardys, and gripped his little brother’s hand protectively as he was rolled down the aisle. Up on his throne, Aegon frowned deeply at the sight, seemingly not angry, but confused, concerned.

They were set off to the side, leaving space for their mother. Without any fanfare, Rhaenyra was dragged before the Iron Throne, eyes hot with hatred. Her silver braids were coming undone, strands haphazardly falling down her back, and dark shadows bloomed beneath her eyes like bruises. She was dressed richly as she always was, garbed in black velvet trimmed with red satin. King Viserys’ crown still sat on her head, and the rainbow gemstones glinted weakly in the light. As the guards escorting her roughly forced Rhaenyra to her knees, it tilted at an odd angle. Joffrey in particular looked troubled to see his mother handled so unkindly, but remained clinging quietly to Jace.

Sister glared at brother, but neither spoke first. The king kept his head raised high, chin tilted up, mimicking the posture and demeanor often worn by her grandmother.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” began the Hand of the King, voice ringing through the hall. “Do you understand why you are here?”

“I understand you mean to subject me to some farce of a trial,” she retorted, proud even while on her knees. “Where are your witnesses? Your judges?”

Baela’s grandmother gestured to the hall with a sweep of her arm. “The realm is our witness, as well as each soul in this room, princess. We would be standing here for the rest of the year if each and every one was called to the stand. As for justice, the king will judge you.”

“I recognize no king. I am my father’s chosen heir,” Rhaenyra spat, another braid beginning to unravel.

“Yet half the realm recognizes no queen,” countered the king.

“Aegon,” his sister said cooly. “I had hoped you were dead.”

He said nothing in reply, simply gesturing for his Hand to continue, which made Rhaenyra flush red with irritation. Like Baela’s father, she hated to be ignored. “You stand accused of treason, among other crimes of kinslaying, inciting rebellion, and unlawful occupation of royal property.”

“Do the same crimes not apply to you? My son Lucerys slain, even though he was a messenger! My throne usurped as my father’s body grew cold! It was you who tore the realm in two!” Rhaenyra sneered. “That is my throne by right! Who are you to pass judgement on me?”

A cruel look shone in his violet eyes. “Who am I? I’m the one seated on the throne, while you kneel on the ground,” answered Aegon. “It is my army that holds the city, while yours have yet to arrive. I have Sunfyre, Seasmoke, and Tessarion at my disposal! What can Tyraxes and that little hatchling across the Narrow Sea do?” He smiled, but the expression felt more like a shadowcat baring his teeth. “This is not a matter of claims and rights and inheritance. Not anymore. What you should be more concerned about is what I’m going to do to you.”

“And what will you do when Cregan Stark surrounds the city? When Jeyne Arryn’s men march down from the Mountains of the Moon?” Rhaenyra’s voice was bright, feverish, almost manic. “Dragons have been shot down before.” Baela watched her grandmother stiffen, face turn stony and hard.

“Does it matter what I do? You won’t be here to see it,” smirked Aegon. “Rhaenys, remind the court what the punishment for treason is.”

No one needed the reminder, but the Hand of the King announced it anyways. “Death, your grace.”

With a gasp, Joffrey processed what fate awaited his mother. “No!” The boy cried, wrenching free of Jace’s grip. He ran to his mother, eluding the guards, and stood in front of Rhaenyra protectively like a hatchling that had just learned to spit fire. “I won’t let you touch her! If you do, I’ll have Tyraxes eat you!”

Aegon blinked and began to laugh, genuinely amused as a wave of whispers rolled through the hall. For the first time, Rhaenyra looked afraid, draining of color, and Baela shared the sentiment. She did not want to see Joffrey cut down. He was perhaps the only truly innocent person in the room.  

“Your Grace,” her grandmother began hurriedly, “perhaps Joffrey should be taken to his room—”

“Aegon!” Jace shouted, rolling forward. His voice rang with poorly disguised alarm, brown eyes wide.

“Jace,” echoed the king, frowning again. He did not seem bothered by the informal address, although Queen Alicent bristled to Baela’s side. “What’s wrong with your legs?”

The shift in tone was abrupt. Baela’s stepbrother blinked in muted shock. “The bones were shattered in battle. I can no longer walk.” While it had been common knowledge, admitting it aloud to the court was clearly painful, for he flushed red, but he recovered quickly and redirected the conversation. “Please excuse my brother, he doesn’t understand—”

“I understand just fine!” Joff stomped his foot. Brave boy, admired Baela. His older brother clapped a hand over his mouth, muffling his next sentence.

“He’s just a boy. I beg of you,” continued Jace, wincing as Joffrey bit down on his fingers.

Aegon nodded, to Baela’s surprise. “I know how it is to have younger brothers.” A pause. “And I am sorry to hear about your legs.”

In those early days as new stepsiblings living on Dragonstone, Jace had mentioned that he had been very close to his uncle. Baela had not truly believed it until now, as the king’s demeanor became almost pleasant, treating his nephew generously. Like old friends instead of enemies.

“Thank you,” her stepbrother said slowly. “And you have my gratitude for showing leniency to Joffrey. Since I have your attention, I—I would like to plead my mother’s case as well.”

“What?”

“I ask mercy for her,” Jace began earnestly. “She is your kin, as you are mine. I will not lie—all of us have done horrible things in this war, but she is my mother. I must defend her until my last breath. Please, uncle. If you have any affection left for me from our youth, let her live. My baby brothers need their mother. Joffrey needs her. As do I.”

That was the wrong thing to say, for Aegon’s eyes turned dark, jaw twitching. “Is that so?” He said brightly, before he exploded into a shout. “Do my children not deserve a mother? Do you think Jaehaera and Maelor didn’t need Helaena?” He stood abruptly, walking angrily towards the stairs. “Your mother,” the king pointed an accusatory finger at his older sister, “is directly responsible for her death, and you want me to grant her mercy?”

“Aegon—”

“Quiet! I am your king!” Jace’s mouth clicked shut audibly; among Rhaenyra’s courtiers, there was a palpable aura of fear. If this was the wrath the king reserved for his kin, what awaited them? “You are not blameless in this. It was your dragonseeds that did the deed! You are complicit! You brought the Vale and the North into the fold.”

Somewhere, Baela’s stepbrother found his fire. “You never wanted to be king! If you are looking to blame someone for this, blame your mother or your grandfather. Blame Aemond for murdering Lucerys, for escalating this! I have only every done what was expected of me.” Queen Alicent shifted uncomfortably, fingers lacing together. “I am a dutiful son, a dutiful brother. Unlike you, uncle. Helaena was—”

A hand cracked against Jace’s face with a horrible snap. From the dais, Aegon blinked, mouth parting in surprise, as one of Baratheon’s knights seized the prince by his dark brown curls. “You will speak to the king with respect, bastard!” The metal edge of his gauntlet had cut through the skin of his lip, and blood ran down Jace’s chin.

All at once, the Hand of the King, Aegon, and half the court started speaking, a riotous chorus. Lord Borros’ voice boomed in Baela’s ear, making it exceptionally difficult to hear. “Ser Estermont! Control yourself!”

“—bastard! He called the prince a bastard!”

“King Viserys is dead. Will the truth finally come out—?”

“Someone call a maester! My wife, she’s fainted!”

Aegon was livid, shouting over the din. “How dare you? Did I command you to strike my nephew?”

“Quiet!” Her grandmother ordered. “Ser Estermont, remove yourself immediately from the throne room!”

One voice, shrill and loud, echoed through the room. “Stop it!” Rhaenyra held Joffrey in her arms, and Baela’s youngest stepbrother was crying into his mother’s neck. “Stop it!”

“Who are you to give commands?” Turning his head quickly, Aegon’s crown shifted slightly over his hair, and the knight escaped quickly while the king was distracted.

Violet eyes flashed. “This is between you and me, Aegon. Leave my sons out of it.”

“Mother.” Blood and a split lip garbled Jace’s voice. “You can’t. Please.”

“Jacaerys,” she said softly, placatingly. “Take care of Joffrey and do not worry for me.” Reluctantly, her son was parted from his mother with a sob, and helped his older brother wheel himself back a handful of paces. Elinda Massey bravely offered Jace a handkerchief for his lip to try and staunch the blood flow.

Rhaenyra steeled her shoulders, voice growing stronger. “I am not afraid to die,” she goaded proudly, trying to comfort her children. “I will be with Luke and Visenya. I will die a queen. It is a gift.”

Aegon tilted his head like a dog on the hunt. “A gift? Is that so?” He said, voice whisper soft. “You want to die? You want this to be over? For you to rest, while the rest of us have to live with our grief?” His voice rose angrily. “Death is easy!”

Shaking his head, he broke into a mad cackle, seized by some mania. “No. Death is too good for you. I want you to live, Rhaenyra. I want you to live a long, long life.” A pause, and then he announced, as if the idea suddenly occurred to Aegon. “You will be confined to Dragonstone. You will be forbidden to marry, forbidden to claim another dragon. Day and you will be kept under guard. You want to die? To be remembered as a martyr? Poor dead princess, usurped by her brother? No, history will remember you for what you are! A traitor and villain, willing to kill an innocent boy of six to further her claim!”

Rhaenyra’s mouth fell open, gaping. “You can’t—”

“I can’t? Try to tell me what to do one more time!” Aegon shouted, face flushing an ugly red. “You wanted to rule Westeros? Why don’t you try running Dragonstone without the crown’s support? I want to see you struggle. And if I even hear a whisper of conspiracy, if even one toe is set out of line, I will make you pay with fire and blood! Your children will be decried as—”

“Brother, please!” Baela’s stepmother cried, suddenly alarmed, and she tried to climb to her feet, only to be shoved back down onto her knees.

“So I am your brother when you want something, is that it? Otherwise, I am Alicent’s son? The usurper?”

Rhaenyra snarled angrily. “You are a usurper! I will not—”

“Mother,” interrupted Jace, voice harsh and pained. “Please, stop.” He held Joffrey’s hand tightly, and they looked so small, so alone in the vast cavern of the throne room. “This isn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth Vermax and Syrax. Or losing my legs. It wasn’t worth Luke’s life. We need you.”

For a long moment, Rhaenyra was silent, jaw clenched and blinking furiously. Aegon stood swaying, and Baela watched her grandmother step forward to whisper in the king’s ear. She was pale, disturbed, but whatever she said left the king nodding, chest rising noticeably as he breathed deeply.

Her stepmother swallowed. “What of my sons?”

“They will be removed from the succession, as well as any children after them. From this day forward, the only Targaryens that shall sit the Iron Throne will come from my line, my brother’s, or from Princess Rhaenys.” Just like that, Baela was now fourth in line for the throne.

“As for Jace—Jacaerys,” Aegon corrected, speaking slower, softer now. “And Joffrey. They are—” His eyes flickered to his nephews, inhaling. “They are not Velaryons.”

Their mother flinched as if struck. “They are Laenor’s sons,” Rhaenyra insisted, but her voice was shaky and weak.

“By choice,” said the Hand of the King, coming forward. Baela’s grandmother stood tall and firm, eyes full of both pity and old anger. “But not by blood. If my son was alive, perhaps things would have been different.”

There was nothing the princess could say, not when she, if the rumors were true, had been responsible for Uncle Laenor’s death. Aegon pursed his lips. “Unlike you, sweet sister, I am not without mercy. If you bend the knee, renounce your claim, and tell Stark and Arryn to withdraw, I’ll let them be known as Targaryens. Perhaps one of them can rule that wretched pile of rocks after you.”

He surely did not just say that, Baela thought. Nervously, Queen Alicent picked at her nails, and her grandmother blinked in shock. “Your Grace,” she began quickly, but the damage was already done. The entire court had heard. It was too late to take it back. “You mean Dragonstone?”

“I never liked that stupid island,” the king said blithely. “It stinks. There’s nothing there but rocks and salt. My Maelor deserves a better seat.” A sharp smile aimed at Rhaenyra. “And it should be quite fun to watch you struggle to keep it afloat. Bend the knee, and you can spend your sentence with your children. Refuse, and while you languish on Dragonstone, all four of your sons will freeze on the wall.”

“Fine,” breathed Rhaenyra.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear.”

Hate burned in her eyes. “Fine! I’ll bend the knee,” she said angrily, but her tone softened as Rhaenyra glanced to her sons, to Jace and Joff, who both slumped in relief. “I’ll do whatever you want, as long as you keep your word.”

“Wonderful. We’ll hold a proper ceremony once Stark and Arryn are here,” Aegon waved at his sister disdainfully. “Take her away.” Casually, he sauntered back towards the throne and sat down. The swords surrounding him stabbed up into the air, harsh and unyielding. “Who’s next?”

Baela’s grandmother watched as Rhaenyra was carried out of the hall. “Perhaps starting with the princess’s small council would be best.”

Rubies glittered in Aegon’s crown, which sat straight on his brow. “Alright,” he agreed. “Bring them forth.”

Chapter Text

At midmorning, King’s Landing appeared on the horizon.

They had camped overnight in the dense forest of the kingswood, lulled to sleep by the peaceful rustling of the trees, fallen leaves whispering in the wind, and the soft sound of rain. Rhaena rode her horse out from the canopy, watching as the Rose Road ran out into an open plain.

Because of last night’s rain, it was a foggy morning, pale and grey, but hints of the blue sky were gradually appearing as the day grew warmer. The cloud hung over the city like a gauzy shroud; through it, one could still see flashes of King’s Landing’s grandeur. The dome of the Dragonpit rose up like the shell of a great sea turtle. Atop Visenya’s Hill, the seven towers of the Grand Sept cut through the fog, and the Red Keep balanced over the bay, red bricks smudged grey. Even at this distance, the roar of the Blackwater Rush could be heard as it collided with the waters of the ocean.

“It’s beautiful,” breathed Alyn as he brought his horse alongside Rhaena’s.

She had to agree. And her heart was glad to put the fear that the city had been ruined and razed to rest. “Have you never seen it before?” Rhaena asked, a bit surprised. Surely every sailor on Driftmark had made the journey to King’s Landing at least once.

“Of course I have,” he laughed, and his violet eyes swept over it again. “Just never from this angle.”

“It will look even better from the top of the Red Keep.” Her grandfather trotted around them, tall and regal. Even after two weeks on the road, Rhaena was still not accustomed to seeing the Sea Snake ride—she had always pictured him on a ship, even when she had been a little girl in Pentos. “Keep moving!”

Alyn leaned over, waggling his brows, and mock-whispered, “He is anxious to see grandmother.”

“I simply do not wish to hold up those waiting behind us,” replied Grandfather, urging his horse forward. As he rode past, Corlys Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark, the infamous Sea Snake, winked at his granddaughter before slapping his hand on the flank of his grandson’s horse.

Her cousin shouted in alarm as his gelding galloped ahead, but it quickly morphed into a riotous laugh. Giggling, Rhaena guided her horse into a brisk trot, a warm feeling blooming in her chest as her grandfather chased after him. Another set of hooves came riding up and settled to match her pace. She did not need to look to know who it was.

“My prince.”

“My lady,” said Daeron.

Even though it was a common platitude, Rhaena’s face felt very hot. “How fare Jaehaera and Maelor?”

The prince rode a speckled mare the color of tea from Yin, the capitol city of the Golden Empire. A patch of white fur radiated out from her forehead like a dollop of sweet cream. Bright and smiling, Daeron was dressed in a tunic of deep blue, one of the only things that survived the fires of Tumbleton, and the color brought out the thin rim of violet in his eyes and the spray of freckles over his nose.

“My niece is impatient to be home, and Maelor is upset he has to ride in a wagon instead of on a horse,” he answered. “It is good for them to have ordinary problems for once.”

“Especially after everything they have been through,” agreed Rhaena, glancing back over her shoulder. “Jaehaera seems equally anxious and eager. She’s been giving Ser Cole a hard time.”

Emerging from the edge of the forest, a wagon started down the hill, accompanied by a knight in white armor. Jaehaera was leaning over the side—just this morning, Rhaena had braided her hair up into a crown—and the princess gestured seriously at Ser Criston Cole, who nodded sagely at his little charge’s words.

Daeron hummed. “I am not surprised. She remembers the fear from when you escaped with her. Those things linger, especially for a child so young.” A pause. He glanced back, angling his neck and exposing a strip of skin as freckled as his face. Popping up from the bed of the wagon, Maelor laughed and attempted to reach for the kingsguard’s horse. “My nephew has larger concerns, no doubt.”

Tasting cool mist, Rhaena laughed. “Perhaps you should tell Ser Cole to let Maelor ride with him.”

“Hah.” With a soft snort, the prince turned back towards the looming city. “We have at least another hour ahead of us. That would be unfair to Criston.”

They rode together in amicable silence. Up ahead, her grandfather had slowed his horse, falling back to linger within earshot. One ear, pierced with a silver hoop, was angled towards her, while the other faced Alyn, listening to him chatter away. Rhaena ran her thumb over the smooth leather of the reins and gazed at King’s Landing, which was slowly becoming uncovered by the dissipating fog.

“How do you feel about returning home?”

The prince startled in the saddle. “Much the same as Jaehaera. Eager and anxious. It has been some time.”

“When were you last in the city?” She asked, curiously. Throughout the six years of her fostering on Driftmark, Baela always came back regularly for short visits, but the distance between Oldtown and King’s Landing was much greater.

“Six years. I came to visit when the twins were born.” Distantly, there was bright, childish laughter as the wagon rolled roughly over a dip in the road. “This will be the first time I’ve been back since then.”

That was indeed a long time. “And you were eight when you were sent to Oldtown?”

“That's right,” answered Daeron. “Half my life I’ve lived away.” Frowning, he gnawed on his lower lip. “I may be more anxious than eager, to be honest.”

Above them, there was a sudden gust of air as Tessarion ascended out of the forest and swooped over the plain. Cobalt scales flashed in the sun like sapphires, and her copper crests and wings shone like polished coins. The Blue Queen let out a roar, announcing herself to the city, and flew ahead towards the pit, followed by two streaks of black and white. It seemed Shrykos and Morghul were also excited to be home.

A laugh, sweet and rich. “Tessa does not share my sentiment. If they didn’t know we had arrived, they surely know it now.” He exhaled through his nose, laughter falling away to a more reflective expression. “Perhaps I am overthinking it.”

“I think it is only natural to feel nervous,” said Rhaena, recalling her own childhood. Standing on the stern of the ship and watching Essos vanish from sight. “When we left Pentos, I was terrified. It was all I had known. Westeros was strange and foreign to me.” And it had not helped that her mother had just died.

“Do you think it would still feel like home if you went back?”

She paused, considering. “I do not think so.” Home was where Baela was. “I have changed too much, and surely the city has changed as well.”

“That is what I dislike. There’s always something new in King’s Landing, or the places I do remember are no longer there. It’s unfamiliar to me, and I am unfamiliar to the city. Everyone remembers me as a boy of ten.” Daeron glanced down to his hands, flexing his fingers. “I must confess I worry that my own mother will not recognize me.”

There were not many people in Westeros with the Valyrian look, but Rhaena assumed this was not simply a matter of appearance. “Queen Alicent would know you even if you dyed your hair dark and came to her disguised as a poor beggar. A mother knows her children not by sight alone, but by the sound of their laugh and smile, the way you walk, the sound of your breath.” Laena Velaryon would have recognized her daughters anywhere, under any circumstances, or so Rhaena believed. But perhaps she was being a bit too poetic. “Or, at least, that’s the kind of mother I’d like to be.”

“Do you want many children?” The Sea Snake whipped his head around, violet eyes squinting at Daeron, who flushed red. “I only mean to say—well, you seem good with them. Jaehaera and Maelor are fond of you.”

Like all women, she knew she would always be married, but children were a more nebulous concept. “I can’t say I have ever given thought on how many, but I have had a lot of experience. Joff was so little when I became his sister, and then Rhaenyra had the babes.” Strange to think that Aegon and Viserys were off in Pentos as she had been. Would they remember her when they finally returned? After a moment, she continued. “Twins would be nice, I think. A set of sisters.”

Daeron’s eyes were very warm, shining as he smiled at her. “You must be excited to see Lady Baela.”

“I am,” said Rhaena softly. “More than I could ever put into words.”

Within the next half hour, the fog had been entirely swept away, bathing King’s Landing in swathes of sunlight. The walls grew taller as they drew closer, the Red Keep cast in dramatic shadow, and the sudden clear weather revealed the score of knights riding out to meet them on the plain.

“They’ve sent an escort to meet us,” said her grandfather, preening only slightly. “Your grandmother’s doing, no doubt.”

But Rhaena suspected it was more than a mere escort, for a lone rider suddenly charged ahead. Astride a brown horse, a skirt the color of spring billowing out behind her, the rider screamed at the top of her lungs in a complete breach of royal protocol. “Daeron! Daeron!”

“Mother?” The prince said softly, and then his voice rose into a shout. “Mother! I’m here!”

With a whistle, Daeron urged his horse into a gallop, racing towards Queen Alicent. They met somewhere in the middle; the prince leapt to the ground, helping his mother out of the saddle. Collapsing in a pile of green and blue, they sank down onto the grass, and the queen dowager wept as she was reunited with her son for the first time in six years.

Mother and son inspired others to move forward, and the escort and army collided together like a battle line. For a moment, Rhaena was lost in the chaos as knights dismounted, squires swarming to secure the horses. “Baela?” She called out, scanning the crowd.

Her twin eluded her, but she did spot the king. Aegon rode on a impressive black destrier, plated in silver barding with gold trimming, and he wore a most unkingly grin on his face as he shouted at his lord commander.

“Criston! Where are my children?”

“Papa?” A girl’s voice cried, and there was a chorus of concern as Jaehaera threw herself down from the wagon and fell right on her face. Yet, she quickly scampered to her feet, hoisted up the hem of her gown, and sprinted to her father, who had dismounted and threw his daughter up into the air with a joyous cackle.

Where was her sister? Where was her grandmother and grandfather? Alyn? Was Addam somewhere in the crowd? Recklessly, Rhaena swung out of the saddle, nearly catching the skirt of her dress on the horn, and landed roughly. She thrust the reins into the hands of a confused squire and spun through the crowd of horses and people.

“Baela!? Grandmother!?” Rhaena cried. “Where are you?”

There! A flash of silver. Running forward, she darted around a knight and found Alyn. Her cousin’s forehead was pressed against his brother's, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Addam drew him into an embrace, murmuring quietly. Their grandfather hovered nearby, a hand placed on Addam’s shoulder, eyes bright with emotion.

Hesitantly, Rhaena took a step, but stopped herself, unwilling to interrupt the moment but loathe to not be part of it. She stood there frozen until a voice rang out.

“Sister?”

She turned, and there she was. Baela stood perhaps several dozen paces away, a spot of calm amongst the chaos. Her hair was shorn short, curling wildly around her jaw, although the top half was braided back. Disturbingly, there was something frail about her twin, a gauntness to her cheeks, but Baela held her shoulders square and strong, her lavender eyes glittering with the innate strength she always associated with her older sister.

At the sight of her, Rhaena involuntarily sobbed. “Baela?”

She could not say who moved first, but they slammed together and tumbled down onto the ground in a flurry of limbs and tears. Warmth enveloped her and Rhaena grasped blindly at her twin’s shoulder, unwilling to let go of her ever again.

“Oh, Rhaena,” her sister said. “Rhaena. Rhaena. It’s really you.”

A wet laugh. “It’s me, Baela. I—” Another sob, and she wiped her face on the fabric of Baela’s tunic.

They lay there, simply holding each other, and the rest of the world faded away. “I missed you,” they said in unison, and they giggled together. Baela smelled of horse and salt and bergamot, her sister’s preferred scent—whenever she deigned to wear it.

“You’re wearing perfume,” said Rhaena, surprised.

Gently, Baela sat them both up, pulling out of the embrace, but kept their hands linked. “I did not want the first thing my sister said to me to be, ‘Gods, you stink!’”

“I wouldn’t have!” And then she noticed the webbing of scarred flesh that spread from her sister’s jaw to her ear. “What happened to you?”

“I could ask you the same! They say you escaped a mob at Bitterbridge and made it down the Rose Road on your own.” A pause, her sister tilted her head. “But these? Battle scars,” she deflected. “I think they make me look like a rogue.” Baela winked.

If she grew her hair out, the scars would be easy to hide, but Baela was not that kind of woman. “Yes,” Rhaena agreed. “Quite roguish indeed.”

“There you are!” said the warm voice of their grandmother. They glanced up together, finding her lined face crinkled in a broad smile. “My girls, the boys are looking for you.” Calling over her shoulder, her grandmother’s hair tumbled down her back and shoulders, nearly obscuring the gleaming pin of the Hand of the King that was affixed to her chest. “Addam! Alyn! I’ve found them.”

Through the crowd, Rhaena caught a glimpse of Queen Alicent with Maelor in her arms, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek, but that was quickly obscured by the arrival of her cousins and grandfather.

It was Alyn who moved first, hauling her twin up to her feet with a bright grin. “Baela!” Laughing, they spun, forearms clasped together.

Always more sensitive of propriety, his standing as a bastard, Addam quietly offered out his hand. “It is good to see you again, Rhaena.”

He, like Baela, had a weary look to him, but it was far less pronounced, as though he had more time to recover. His locs were longer than she remembered, pulled half up into a bun, and he wore a gentle smile. Even though they barely knew each other, he was family, and so Rhaena took his hand and embraced him tightly. “Oh, Addam. I was so worried for you.”

“And I, you. I was so relieved when Baela told me you had escaped the city.”

“How bad was it?” She asked quietly as they separated, watching from the corner of her eye as her grandfather reunited with his heir, the next Lady of the Tides. Addam would surely be more forthcoming than Baela would be about what they had endured in captivity, of that Rhaena was sure.

Frowning, his violet eyes turned distant. “It was difficult, but I would not speak of it here. Not now. I’ve already promised to tell the tale to Alyn, and as for Baela, that is her story to share. Not mine. She had it worse than I.”

“You were both very brave,” said Rhaena, squeezing his hands.

Addam laughed, flashing the endearing gap between his front teeth. “As are you, Rhaena. Queen Alicent has been telling everyone in the castle of your bravery. Few could have done what you did, going all that way on your own.”

Abruptly flustered, Rhaena burned with embarrassment. “Sers Thorne and Fell took us most of the way.” And she had gotten them killed.

“Do not downplay your accomplishment, child,” admonished her grandmother. “I will not stand for it, nor will the queen dowager. Addam does not exaggerate—she truly tells anyone who will listen.” A mischievous smile played over her mouth. “I would be tired of it, if it was not about my granddaughter.”

But there was no time to speak with Queen Alicent, for Maelor began to throw a tantrum, signaling that it was time to resume their progress to the city. Aegon rode at the head of their party, Jaehaera and Maelor bracketed between his arms. He was flanked by his mother and Daeron. Her grandparents led the Velaryon branch of the family forth after the king, Baela and Rhaena riding side-by-side, Addam and Alyn bringing up the rear. Behind them followed thousands of soldiers and knights, lords great and small of the Reach, Westerlands, and the Crownlands.

When they entered through the River Gate, they were greeted by a horde of people. Smallfolk lined the cobblestone streets, stood watching from balconies and windows. Waving wildly, applauding, they greeted the royal party with cheers.

They called out to their king, cried with excitement as Jaehaera and Maelor returned home. Prayers and sympathies for Queen Helaena. There were cheers for Queen Alicent and Prince Daeron, her brave and noble son, as well as for Lord Corlys and the fleet that had burned in the bay. For the sailors that had died protecting them. They cheered for their Princess Rhaenys, the Hand who had thwarted the ironborn, and for Addam, rider of Seasmoke, the Bastard of Hull.

And most surprisingly, Rhaena heard her name and her sister’s. Cheers for Lady Rhaena, who had fed and tended to the smallfolk of the city, and for Lady Baela, who had flown to war to defend them. That made her oddly emotional, and she took extra care to search out each person in the crowd who cried her name, to wave and smile and let them know she saw them. That their gratitude held meaning.

“The people seem well,” whispered Rhaena to her sister as they turned from the Muddy Way onto the Hook, beginning the ascent to the Red Keep. She had expected to find them starving and suffering, grieving and angry. “Happy, even.”

“Lord Baratheon came with wagons upon wagons of food and supplies, and Aegon commanded it be dispersed among the smallfolk. And as soon as she could, Grandmother wrote to Daeron and resumed trade between Driftmark,” said Baela. “It would take the king burning the city down to squander that much goodwill.”

Yet, there were still scars to be seen. Shopfronts were boarded up, some buildings still had their doors broken open, left unrepaired. Soot and smoke blackened the bricks. Spread through the crowd, there were a few people who still bore injuries. Arms in slings, makeshift crutches, still-fading bruises.

Rhaena thought back to the little girl who had given her dandelions in Flea Bottom. Lia, her name was, and her mother. Had they survived the riots and the fighting? The famine? “That is good,” she said, scanning the crowd. The people were thin and haunted, but there was an aura of hope. That things would get better. “I am glad it’s being put to good use.”

When they reached the top of Aegon’s High Hill, the gates of the Red Keep shuddered open, and passing through the walls felt like the end of a short, terrifying chapter of her life. Rhaena was no longer the frightened girl that had fled through the dark, twisting passageways all those moons ago. But who she was now, she could not say.

There would be no time to rest, at least not for her grandparents. The Hand of the King immediately carried off the Sea Snake to a small council meeting, which would also be attended by Jaehaera and Maelor, for Aegon refused to be parted from his children. Prince Daeron was quickly swept away by his mother before Rhaena could speak to him, leaving her with Baela and their cousins in the busy courtyard. Knights and horses and carts continued to stream through the gates, crowding the space.

“Come on, let’s go before we get crushed!” Baela laughed, pulling Rhaena by the hand.

Up they went into the quieter middle bailey. Head tilted up, Alyn marveled at the architecture of the castle. The red brick and the stained glass. The carved archways and niches and spires. He whistled. “It’s huge.”

Her twin scoffed playfully. “It’s not as nice as High Tide.”

“Grandfather has rubbed off on you,” said Rhaena, amused; Baela knocked their shoulders together with a smirk.

“‘Course High Tide is nicer, but that doesn’t mean this castle isn’t grand as well.” He turned to his brother with an eager grin. “Give me a tour?”

Sheepish, Addam nodded, but glanced over to catch her gaze. “I could, but surely Rhaena knows it better than I.”

All three watched her expectantly—Alyn especially eager, almost puppy-like. “Perhaps that could wait until later?” She said with some difficulty, guilty. “To be honest, there’s nothing I’d like more than a bath.” A proper one, steaming hot and scented with sweet oils, with a real bar of soap and flower petals strewn over the surface of the water.

“That can be arranged,” said Baela. “Bath first. Tour later. We’ll catch up with you, lads.”

Addam led his brother off towards the godswood, and, to Rhaena’s surprise, her sister led her towards the Tower of the Hand. As they went up the spiraling stairs, it became clear that the tower’s apartments were in the process of being changed over. Green curtains were folded into baskets, old furniture was placed near the landings, ready to be taken away, and they passed by a lovingly-made tapestry of the Hightower of Oldtown in grey and white wool.

“When did grandmother decide to take over the Hand’s apartments?”

“As soon as she arrived. It’s not like Otto Hightower needs them anymore,” answered Baela. “I don’t understand why she let him stay so long in the first place.”

Propped up against the wall, there sat an unhung painting, a family portrait. The previous Hand of the King stood in the center, younger than Rhaena had ever seen him, accompanied by a pale, willowy woman with red-brown hair. Before them was a group of four small children—a toddling babe, a little girl in a gown of robin’s egg blue, a boy that must be Ser Tristan, and another son who certainly was Ser Arthur, the only one of Queen Alicent’s brothers she had yet to meet.

Their eyes, all rich brown, followed Rhaena and her sister as they rounded the corner, vanishing from sight. “She took over the Hand’s solar, but there were other things to worry about at the time than moving across the castle.”

And I think she did it for my sake, she thought. To keep me safe in a part of the keep where no passageways run.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter now,” Baela stopped before an oak door. “Here we are. Your rooms.”

Pushing it open, she found a sprawling bedchamber with a burning hearth and fresh rushes laid out over the stone floor. Sunlight flooded in from eight glass windows set into the rounded wall of the tower, and pale blue curtains hung from a massive canopy bed set upon a plush rug. A small writing desk sat in a well-lit corner beside an empty bookshelf and a vanity. These rooms were spacious, bright…fit for a queen, or at least a former one.

A horrible thought came to her. “These are not Queen Alicent’s old rooms, are they?”

“No,” said her sister, giving Rhaena a long look. “This isn’t where that little boy was killed.” She sighed in relief and then Baela continued, the muscle in her jaw twitching. “Your letters never went into much detail on what happened that night, even when I asked.”

“I did not want to relieve it.” She answered, stepping fully into the room. I held Jaehaerys’ head in my hands, thought Rhaena, and she grew nauseous at the memory.

Baela followed, hovering like their mother did all those years ago when she was worried, but was waiting for Rhaena to willingly offer up what was bothering her. Yet, unlike Laena Velaryon, her sister had not yet mastered patience. “Tell me about it.” A pause. “Please.”

Swallowing, Rhaena smoothed out the bodice of her dress. “Ask the maid to draw a bath,” she said. “And I’ll tell you everything.”

A maid was found and the command given. As they waited, Rhaena sat down on a velvet chaise; Baela perched on a chair, legs crossed. She started from the beginning, slow and hesitant. Waking up in the night, the heavy hands holding her down. The stink of sweat and blood, a hoarse voice in her ear. She spoke of her fear, the dark void in her wall, opening up the bag and finding—

Rhaena stopped, wincing, and was startled by how even now it was difficult to speak of. Baela’s hands were shaking, a horrible scowl on her face. “I should have been there,” she said angrily, breaking the silence. Her voice was pained.

“Then they would have carried both of us off.”

“No, I would have killed them!”

She was getting worked up, agitated and snappy—like their father did, although such a comparison would surely push Baela over the edge. “Peace, sister. It’s alright,” Rhaena said placatingly. “They’re already dead. I would not have told you if I knew it would upset you so.”

“Don’t hide things from me for my sake,” Baela snapped, but then she immediately shut her eyes, exhaling sharp and slow. “Forgive me, it’s only that—I’m supposed to protect you. As your older sister.”

“You are only three minutes older,” she replied, tone exasperated out of habit. This had been a very old argument; her twin rolled her lavender eyes. “Don’t roll your eyes at me!”

A snorting laugh. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still older.” Baela paused, frowning deeply. “I—”

“Stop. You did not fail me or let me down or whatever it was that you were about to say. The fleet needed you. Grandfather needed you. You are heir to the Driftwood Throne, Baela—there are more important things for you worry about.”

“More important?” Her eyebrows flew up, affronted. “You are my sister, my twin! I will always look out for you, Rhaena.”

“As I will always look out for you,” she said warmly. “But remember as well that I am not incapable of taking care of myself.”

Slowly, Baela nodded, pausing as a pair of boys carried in the tub. It landed with a dull thump against the stone floor and they scurried out quickly, bowing. “You are right,” admitted her sister, drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair. “But still…” She sucked her teeth. “That Father sent those men for you.”

“He didn’t send them for me,” said Rhaena, oddly wounded to say it. “He sent them to kill Jaehaerys. I was just collateral.”

And yet she heard the ratcatcher’s voice in her ear. Your daddy sent us. We’ve come to rescue you, little lady, and bring you home. Had that been true? Did her father think himself a hero, rescuing his daughter from the clutches of her cruel, traitorous grandmother and the vile usurper? Was that act of violence an act of love? Rhaena would never be able to ask him what he was thinking, and she was not sure if she truly wanted to know.

“I don’t think that’s true,” began her sister, voice distant. “He seemed very upset that you had escaped. He could barely look at me when I dressed in your gowns. Father wanted us to be together again.”

“Was he cruel to you?” Rhaena watched her sister’s face. The stiff stillness of her body.

A nod. “Only sometimes, but I would be cruel right back. I said some things to him that…” Baela trailed off with a frown, knocking her knuckles against the upholstery. “I wouldn’t take them back—I meant what I said. I only wish that I could speak with him again. To try and understand him.”

That was a task that had proved impossible, most of all for his daughters. Rhaena suspected that it was the curse of all children to not be able to understand their parents. It was true even for her mother. After all this time, she did not understand why she had wanted to die the way she did, why she had not taken them home to Driftmark, why she had fallen in love with the Rogue Prince.

“It does not feel real,” confessed Rhaena quietly, drawing her knees up to her chest. “With mother, at least we saw her after…I keep thinking he’ll be right back with Caraxes any day now.” He had been a constant presence for her entire life. Always a shout away, sitting at the head of the table at supper. She saw him waltzing through the door with a new dress or elaborate necklace or any one of the many other numerous, precious, and treasured gifts that lived in her room on Dragonstone. “I—”

Miss him? She thought doubtfully. For the better part of a year, she had lived in fear that Daemon Targaryen would find her, and she still had yet to properly mourn his loss. “I don’t know how we will tell the boys,” she said instead.

“The boys?”

Rhaena was confused for half a heartbeat. “The babes, Baela. Aegon and Viserys.” A frown. “They are so young. I don’t know if they will understand that father is gone.”

“The little prince—Maelor. He might not understand that Queen Helaena is dead, but he does know that she is gone. It will be the same with the babes, I think,” said Baela. "They do not know death. Not yet."

“Have they been recalled from Essos?”

Brushing a strand of hair away from her face, Baela nodded. “They have. Rhaenyra sent word to the Prince of Pentos. They should arrive here within the week if the weather is fair. Grandmother says they will have to renounce their claim to the throne.”

“That is wise.” She imagined Viserys, who would be nearly three now, stumbling through the words. “Even though I am sure they will not understand.”

“I know our stepmother will tell them in great detail what they lost and how she was deposed,” huffed her twin.

Some arrangement would have to be made. To make sure her brothers grew up content with their lot. To make sure that twenty years from now all the grown-up babes that had survived this war would not rise up again and kill each other like their fathers had. Maybe one of them could be fostered on Driftmark, as Baela had been.

A group of three maids entered the room with buckets of water, pouring them carefully into the tub in a rush of steam. When they left, Rhaena spoke. “Does the king still wish to keep her alive? I found it hard to believe when we received Grandmother’s letter.”

“Everyone found it hard to believe, even Rhaenyra. But it seems he’s going to stick to it. Dragonstone is being emptied of anything of value, monetary or historical or otherwise—Grandmother’s orders. I’m fairly sure the king would not have bothered, but she insisted.” Baela paused, her lavender eyes watching the maids reenter with more water. “Our king is a bit reckless. Untrained, even.”

Bobbing her head in agreement, Rhaena stood, shaking out her skirt. “When would he had learned? Uncle Viserys wanted Rhaenyra to rule.” And if she had granted Baela Driftmark, perhaps she would be queen now. “Grandmother will teach him. She would not serve an unworthy king.”

“No,” Baela agreed. “She would not.”

Set near the hearth, the tub was full of steaming water, ready and waiting. Baela stood and stretched, raising her arms high over her head. “I should leave you to it,” she said, nodding her head at the bath.

“You’re leaving?” Rhaena said childishly.

Laughing, her sister sauntered towards the door. “Don’t worry, I won’t be far. My rooms are right next to yours.” She grinned as Rhaena sighed in relief. “Take your time. I’m sure grandmother will send for us as soon as the small council concludes.”

With that, Baela was gone. Her sister had been right; there had been just enough time to soak in the tub until the water went lukewarm, to dress herself in a pink gown—one of hers, from the wardrobe!—and was just beginning to thread beads through her hair when a page boy politely informed her that the Lady Hand wished to share a meal with her family. She went down to the Small Hall, which was nearly full to bursting with Velaryon sailors and soldiers. Rhaena’s family sat at the raised table, smiling and wonderfully alive. There were toasts and cheers and speeches, one from her grandfather and another from her grandmother, and after they ate, Alyn begged her for a proper tour as Baela laughed.

And so Rhaena’s life became consumed by a whirlwind of activity. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, there were people clamoring for her attention and time. Baela insisted they break their fast together each morning; afterwards, they were swept away by Addam and Alyn for a bit of fun, exploring the godswood or watching court from the galleries as the king and their grandmother tried to put the realm back together.

At midday, they joined their grandparents for a meal, before all went their separate ways for the afternoon. Grandmother to the small council; Grandfather down to the docks with Baela and Alyn to manage the fleet; Addam to Seasmoke in the Dragonpit. To help them adjust back to life in the Red Keep, Rhaena had taken it upon herself each day to visit Jaehaera and Maelor, who always lit up when they saw her.

She went to the nursery on the afternoon of the fourth day after their return. Quiet giggles floated through the door, and Ser Tristan, who had been appointed to guard his grand-niece and nephew, let Rhaena in with a friendly smile.

Somehow, it always surprised her how little everything had changed. The cribs and cots were still in the same place. The abundance of toys scattered over the floor, and even more packed away into a chest. Plush pillows and fluffed blankets were strewn around, thrown over benches and chairs and even the floor.

There had been no sign that the room was being prepared for the arrival of Aegon and Viserys, who were due at the docks in the next handful of days. Rhaena felt oddly sad at that realization. King Viserys, for all his faults and failures, would have commanded that the children share the nursery together in hopes of fostering friendship Aegon was not much younger than Jaehaera, as was Viserys to Maelor. They could have grown up fast friends, but the war had prevented that. Now, her baby brothers’ fate was uncertain.

“Rhaena!”

Jaehaera waved from a cushioned bench set before the window, an encyclopedia of animals in her lap. She was every inch a royal princess in her finery, dressed warmly in green wool trimmed with white furs. In her time on the road, she had clearly grown, for the hem of her skirt was too short. Rose, the very same nursemaid who had been there the day the city fell, was building a block tower with Maelor, a smile bringing some life to her hollow, gaunt cheeks.

“Come here! I was waiting for you,” continued Jaehaera.

“You were waiting for me?” She said indulgently, sitting down upon the cushions. Inked in swirls of pink and green, there was a parrot drawn upon the open page of the book.

The princess nodded, her delicate emerald earrings bobbing at the motion. “You come each day after lunch. Here, I saved this for you.”

Jaehaera pulled a cloth napkin off the windowsill, cupping it in her hands like a precious treasure. Nestled among the linen was an apple tart dusted with cinnamon and clove. “Oh, sweetling. This is for me? You shouldn’t have.”

“Why? I wanted you to have it.”

Carefully, Rhaena took it in hand. “I suppose that is as good a reason as any. Thank you, Jaehaera. Shall we share?”

“No. It’s for you,” said the princess insistently. “Not for sharing.”

“Not even with Maelor?”

Her nose crinkled, but very judiciously, she looked over to her brother. “Well, you could share it Maelor, and Rose too, but only if you really want to.”

“It will be winter soon,” began Rhaena, “and apple tarts like this will be a distant dream.” She tapped her finger against the tip of Jaehaera’s nose. “We should share while we still have it.”

Lighthearted, they joined Rose and Maelor on the floor, breaking the tart into pieces and leaving Rhaena’s fingers sticky and sweet. The nursemaid ducked her head in gratitude and murmured a quiet thanks, while the prince eagerly shoved his portion into his mouth. Even with her cajoling, Jaehaera insisted on giving her piece to Rhaena, and she conceded defeat in the face of such generosity, eating the remainder.

The next hour passed in peace. She sat and played quietly with Maelor, granting Rose a moment for herself and a chance to tidy up the nursery. Fetching her book from the bench, the princess read aloud the entry on the Dornish sunbird. Ornithology seemed to be a nascent interest for the girl, one which Rhaena found far more palatable than insects—as much as she had liked Helaena, spiders and centipedes and beetles would always disturb her.

Swinging open again, the door revealed Ser Tristan dramatically kissing the back of his younger sister’s hand. Queen Alicent huffed good-naturedly, wearing a striking gown of grey which immediately caught Rhaena’s eye. The sight of her in anything other than green was shocking, although she had not quite abandoned the color completely. The lining of her dropped sleeves was the color of vetiver and pine, while the capelet around her shoulders was equally as rich. She stepped through the threshold escorted by her youngest son.

Full lips spread into a genuine smile, bright as the emeralds in her jeweled headband. “Lady Rhaena.”

“Your Grace,” she said, rising to her feet. Maelor waved at his grandmother, while Jaehaera continued silently mouthing the entry of the sunbird again, her fingers trailing over the vellum. “My prince.”

“My lady.” Daeron nodded at her. Today, he wore a green and gold brocade, likely some old cast-off from Aegon or Aemond, but his boots were the same soft leather pair he had worn during the march.

I like him best in blue, Rhaena decided. Blue for Tessarion. For the sky and sea.

“I was hoping to find you here,” said Alicent. “Jaehaera says you visit every afternoon.

Lacing her fingers together sheepishly, she nodded. “I had not realized I was already so predictable. If you had need of me, Your Grace, I would have gladly answered your summons.”

“There has been no time but it is my intention to invite you for tea once the castle settles down,” said the queen dowager. “Daeron, why don’t you attend to the children. I’d like a moment to speak with Rhaena.”

“Of course, Mother,” he said. Without thinking, Rhaena’s eyes followed the prince as he walked over and crouched beside Jaehaera, an idle hand tousling Maelor’s hair.

A hand took her by the arm. “It pleases me to see how close you have become,” remarked the queen dowager, guiding Rhaena to the window. King’s Landing was grey and cold, so sluggish it could be felt all the way up on the Red Keep.

“He—” Flustered, she struggled to string her words together. “Well, I—Prince Daeron has been very kind to me.”

“Oh?” Alicent’s eyes flashed with interest. “I was referring to the children.”

“So, you were.” Inhaling, Rhaena nodded, horrifically embarrassed, but then Queen Alicent did her a great kindness by not pursuing that topic further. “The prince and princess are quite dear to me,” she continued after a moment, earnestly. How could they not be after everything they went through together? “They are my family.”

That did not quite capture the love, the affectionate feeling when Maelor wanted Rhaena to hold him, when Jaehaera sought out her company and opinion, when they insisted in their childlike way of giving her little gifts. Helaena had died to keep them safe, and Rhaena would have done the same, as she would for Baela, for her brothers, for her cousins.

Alicent took Rhaena’s hands in hers. Red and ragged, her nail beds were slowly beginning to heal, and her skin was very warm, soft. “You will always have my gratitude for what you did. You kept them safe and alive, and even before you fled the city, you watched over them when Helaena could not.” A painful pause, followed by a wistful smile. “Thank you for being a true friend to my daughter, Rhaena, even if it was not for a long time. Helaena did not have many friends in her short life, but she was lucky to have you.”

“And I her,” said Rhaena, vision blurring. “There were no girls my age on Dragonstone.” When Baela was gone, it had just been her, alone. Brothers were not the same as sisters, not the same as friends. “Helaena was my first true friend. I will never forget her.”

Although she remained composed, the queen dowager’s eyes shone brightly with tears. “Thank you, child. Her memory will live on in Jaehaera and Maelor.” Alicent released her hands, taking a deep breath and slipping into a more formal posture. “My son, the king, has already informed the small council of his intention to grant you a boon for your bravery and service, but I would like to offer you one of my own.”

“I need no reward, Your Grace,” said Rhaena. “I only did what I thought was right.”

“That itself is a virtue to celebrate,” replied Queen Alicent, in an insistent tone reminiscent of Jaehaera. “I remain in charge of the household accounts, and, at my son’s recommendation, I would like to offer you a selection of the royal jewels. There are several heirloom pieces that would suit a young woman as lovely as yourself, Rhaena. Princess Viserra had several tiaras, I recall, as did Princess Gael.”

At the recommendation of your son, she thought, eyes flickering over to the center of the nursery. Daeron was play-jousting with his nephew, a beautifully carved mounted knight in his hands, but he was watching Rhaena, clearly eavesdropping, and smiled.

Rhaena mirrored the expression, turning back to the queen dowager. “That is very generous. I will wear them with pride.”

“As you should,” she agreed. “We can find a time for you to make a selection once everything from Dragonstone has been inventoried.”

“Wonderful, and that reminds me—a ship arrived yesterday with a batch of my things from the island.” Remnants of a past life. “I ought to see if they’ve been brought to the tower yet.”

“Of course,” said Alicent. “Let us not keep you, and forgive me for interrupting your visit with the children.”

Rhaena laughed softly. “There is nothing to forgive. They are your grandchildren after all!” And then she swept over the rug to say farewell. “I must be off, Jaehaera.”

Flipping a page in her book, the princess nodded but did not look up. “Goodbye, Rhaena. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Rhae!” Maelor yelled, abandoning his uncle for his grandmother.

Daeron rose to his feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in his doublet. “Would you like an escort, my lady? As long as my mother agrees, of course.”

Alicent Hightower waved an idle hand, sweeping Maelor up into her arms. They had the same nose, Rhaena observed. “I will not feel abandoned if you do, Daeron,” she said, and her warm brown eyes flickered between them, curious. “But I’ll remind you that we are supposed to meet Aegon for supper.”

“I won’t forget,” he said, and when Rhaena left the nursery, he followed. “My apologies if this was presumptuous of me, it is only that we haven’t had a chance to speak since we returned to the keep.”

“I am glad you did.” She smiled and they quickly started down the hall, escaping from Ser Tristan’s watchful gaze. “How are you settling in?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “It has been overwhelming, but not as much as I expected. When I was last here, I was the center of attention—it has been very convenient that everyone is too busy now with tying up this war.”

“Too busy to notice you? I find that hard to believe,” teased Rhaena, and the prince flushed. “You are a heroic knight and brother to the king to boot.”

“Such things mean little to the nobles trying to save their skin or rebuild the realm. But what of you, my lady? Are you adjusting well?”

Together, they exited Maegor’s Holdfast and crossed the drawbridge. A chill breeze shook Aegon’s black-and-gold banners and the spikes in the drymoat, which shuddered horribly.

“I am glad to be off the road,” said Rhaena, raising the hem of her skirt as they began their way down the Serpentine Stair. Today, she was wearing the pink-and-white gown that had been a gift from her grandfather all those moons ago, the pale diamonds and morganite on the neckline shining weakly in the grey light. “It must sound silly to you, but I missed my dresses and jewelry almost as much as I missed having a warm meal and a roof over my head.”

“It does not seem silly to me,” replied Daeron. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, but his eyes were fixed on her pink slippers, as though he was worried she would trip and fall. “Even the most fearsome warrior longs for the comforts of home. Most are simply too cowardly to admit as much.”

She raised a brow. “So by that standard I am brave?”

“By any standard.” His eyes looked up to her face. “I think you are very brave, Lady Rhaena, and I am pleased to hear that you are happy to be home.”

“I-Indeed,” she stammered, thrown off-guard by his sincerity. “Happy, but quite busy. With grandmother occupied by the council, and grandfather with the fleet, it has fallen on me to get the household in order. Nearly a dozen ships have come from Dragonstone, and there are still more on the way.”

It was good work, work that made her feel useful and clever, and it kept the Tower of the Hand from toppling over under the sheer number of objects from Dragonstone and Driftmark. The sea Snake wanted his wife outfitted with the luxuries of High Tide, and King Aegon was eager to foist off anything of historical value to his Hand. Tapestries said to belong to Queen Visenya? To Rhaenys. Good Queen Alysanne’s silver drinking cup? To Rhaenys, as well. Everything had a place, and if it did not, Rhaena would make one or send it off to Queen Alicent to be placed away in royal storage.

They turned the bend in the stair, switching back the other direction. “I never realized how many things there were on Dragonstone. Truly, I think Aegon cared only for the Painted Table and the dragon eggs.”

“It was a bit like living in a history book,” mused Rhaena.

In an overwhelming sense. In Pentos, everything had been new, lavishly made, always in response to some new trend, while on Dragonstone, everything was ancient, imbued with legacy and history. Too important to use or touch or play with, weighing down the castle and everyone who lived within it with age and stagnation. Rhaena had become accustomed to it, just as she had with the smell of sulfur and the tremors that shook the castle when the Dragonmont was irritated, but that did not mean she had liked it.

Perhaps it was a good thing that the king had cut ties. That all the relics and treasures were fated to be forgotten in a storage room. Maybe it was time for a new era of the Targaryen dynasty, whatever it may be.

“Like living in a history book,” the prince repeated. “I must admit that sounds fascinating. ‘Tis a shame I’ll never see it.”

Rhaena bit her lower lip. “The castle itself is a marvel of architecture. I do not think Rhaenyra will be in a position to deny you to visit.”

They came to the bottom of the stair, stepping into the middle bailey. “Ah, but that would mean having to speak to my sister again, which I very much don’t want to do.” Politely, Daeron offered Rhaena his arm. “My lady?”

Her hand settled into the warm crook of his elbow, sliding over soft fabric. But rather than lead her towards the Tower of the Hand, the prince instead veered towards the godswood.

“Would you mind if I kept your company a bit longer?” He asked, catching the confused look on her face. “My mother keeps a small garden, or at least she did when I was young. I always thought it was quite pretty.”

“I am yours for as long as you’d like me,” said Rhaena.

Something sparked in his eyes; Daeron smiled. “That may be longer than you expect, my lady.”

Throwing her head back, Rhaena laughed brightly, raising her other hand to grasp at the steady strength of his forearm. “If you say so, my prince.”  

The front area of the godswood was sparser than the rest of the forest. In winter, when the cold made people desperate, the trees closest to the bailey wall were felled for kindling, and the resulting space was suitable for small gardens before the trees grew dense again. Queen Alysanne had maintained one, as had her daughters Daella and Gael, but each had been subsumed back into the forest.

Passing through a copse of barren, adolescent birch trees, spindly branches waving in the breeze, they came upon a footpath of stone, unobtrusive in its simplicity, and veered left towards the bailey wall than deeper into the wood. A small sunken courtyard lay at the end of the path, around which dormant, bare flower bushes were planted. In the center, a small fountain had been installed and water burbled peacefully.

It was clearly meant to inspire peace, contemplation, and prayer, for on the far end there was a niche built into the retaining wall that held a small statue of the Mother and the Seven-Pointed Star. In the summertime, the garden would have been stunning, surrounded by flowers in bloom, shaded by the canopy of the nearby trees. Rhaena still thought it beautiful, but it was a melancholy kind of beauty.

“It is different than I remember,” frowned Daeron, eyes flickering over the dead leaves and flowers. “My apologies, I should have known.”

The only green thing was the moss growing near the waterline of the fountain. “No need to apologize, I am glad to have seen it.” Gently, Rhaena released his arm and stepped down into the courtyard, stopping by the fountain. “Besides, autumn has its own beauty.” When the prince came down to join her, she asked abruptly. “You have spoken to your sister?”

If he was surprised by the question, he did not show it. “She summoned—well, that makes it sound like she has any authority—she asked to speak with me, and I made the mistake of going.” With a sigh, Daeron trailed his hand over the water in the fountain bowl, disrupting the reflection of his frowning face. “We were never close. I don’t think she ever wrote me when I went to Oldtown. But she wanted—I don’t know what she wanted. Sympathy? That my friendship with Jace would make me want to advocate for her?”

“You are friends with Jace? I did not know that.” To think after six years living with her stepbrother that she never noticed.

“It was when we were children. You would have been in Pentos still,” he began. A shuddering breeze skittered dried leaves over the stone. “We were relatively close. Jace was always kind. I liked him, and I especially liked that my father was happy we got along.” He fell quiet, and remained so for a long moment.

Frowning deeply, Rhaena looked up at the prince and found his face somber, distant. “King Viserys did not seem like he was a good father,” she offered.

“He was not, and yet I am still sad I wasn’t able to say goodbye, even after everything he did.” A sharp exhale; the prince shook his head, rolling his neck. “Jace and I would write after those first two years in Oldtown, but after Aemond lost his eye…our hearts weren’t in it anymore.”

Rhaena silently linked their arms together again, shifting so that her head hovered near his shoulder, almost close enough to touch. “Sometimes, I fear there is nothing that could mend the rift in our family. To heal the years of resentment and bind us back together.”

So many decades of hurt and anger. Hatred and resentment that had turned friend to foe, brother against sister, daughters against their father, kin against kin. The grievances went back long before Rhaena had been born, and she prayed that they would not endure after she was dead and gone. Yet, the damage felt irreparable.  

In twenty years, would Aegon and Viserys take up the sword to fight for their claims? What if King Aegon remarried and had more children, would the cycle happen all over again? Would Rhaena’s own children be sucked into the conflict as she had? She swallowed painfully, surprised at how sad the thought made her.

“Hope is not lost, or so I believe,” Daeron said, and then a strange emotion passed over his face, as though he was working up the courage to continue. “A marriage is what ripped the family apart.” Which one, she thought, King Viserys and Queen Alicent’s? Rhaenyra and her Uncle Laenor’s, when the lines were drawn? Or her father and Rhaenyra’s? “Perhaps one can bring us together.”

Rhaena blinked and watched as her reflection in the fountain became startled, eyes wide, brows flying up. Her mouth parted in soft surprise. “My prince, I hope you know what you just implied. Are you asking for my hand?”

“Not asking,” he said quickly. “Not yet, at least.” Her face grew warm. “Things are too chaotic now, and I would prefer to wait until things die down so that you can give the matter thought and your full consideration. If we…a marriage would bind our families back together again. Not only mine to the Velaryons, but also to Rhaenyra’s branch of the family.” A strength appeared in Daeron’s voice as he walked through his reasoning. “I confess I do not know Joffrey or my sister’s little ones at all, but from the way you speak of them, they must love you very much. I think they would prioritize their sister’s happiness. And while one could argue that the betrothing Jaehaera and Aegon together would achieve the same, the children should be allowed to live their lives as they please. Not pay the price for this war."

When he finished, she was silent for a moment. Daeron had clearly given the matter some thought. Much thought, it seemed. “We have not known each other long,” said Rhaena, and she immediately felt foolish. “But I suppose that most do not meet their betrothed until their wedding day.”

His eyes, warm and bright and uniquely his, fell upon her face, and when he smiled, it reassured her. “We have travelled together for nearly two moons now, my lady. I am fond—I must confess I enjoy your company very much, and…you are very beautiful.” A pause; his blush made his freckles seem especially prominent. “If I am to marry, I would prefer the familiar face of a friend to a stranger.”

Very seriously, he pulled away and took her hand in his, boldly squeezing her fingers. “I do not need your answer now. I only ask that you consider it. And if you are amenable, we will go about it the proper way, as you deserve.”

Rhaena did like him. She liked him a great deal. She liked his smile and how he spoke. That he treated her gently and was kind to Alyn. She admired his courage and his chivalry, how accommodating he was to everyone, the easy way he was with his niece and nephew. Rhaena liked how Daeron lavished attention on Tessarion, his loyalty to his mother and his siblings, and he really was quite handsome.

There was no need for consideration; she already knew her answer, but she squeezed his hands in return and said, “I will have one for you soon. I promise.”

“Thank you,” said her prince with a hopeful nod. “Shall I return you to the tower? I know you have business to attend to.”

“Please. That would be very kind.” Taking his arm, she was led back out of the godswood, and they parted ways.

For the next few days, she turned the matter over and over in her head, debating if she should confide her intentions to Baela or consult with her grandparents, but when the Gay Abandon arrived from Pentos, Rhaena found herself distracted by other matters. 

The ship had been spotted early that morning; Rhaena dressed warmly and went down to the courtyard. Rhaenyra, for obvious reasons, would not be able to receive her children, and it was agreed upon by her grandmother and the king that a familiar face should greet them at the ship. A wheelhouse was already waiting, harnessed to a pair of chestnut horses. It was surrounded by a small crowd, made up of both curious onlookers and a squadron of armed soldiers who were there not for Rhaena’s protection, but to ensure that Rhaenyra’s sons were not spirited away before they could be brought back to the castle.

“But I want to go!” A voice cried, obscured by the bodies. “They’re my brothers too!”

In reply, another voice, familiar and patient. “I know, Joff, but there’s nothing I can do.”

She drew closer, eager from hearing her little brother’s voice, and the argument grew louder. “Why? You’ve always been able to make it better! To fix everything!”

Pushing through the crowd, her stepbrothers came into view. There was Jace, frowning and seated in a wheeled chair. His hair was longer than Rhaena remembered, curling finely around his face, and his eyes were dark and sad. Straight-backed, he held himself rigidly, clearly uncomfortable at the spectating audience and Joffrey’s anger. Her youngest stepbrother stood with his arms crossed, a red flush in his cheeks, and a bitter glow in his honey-brown eyes.

“Joffrey!” Rhaena cried out, and his head snapped towards her. Anger turned to disbelief to excitement, and a beaming grin made him suddenly return to the boy she remembered, untroubled in a time of peace.

“Rhaena!”

He started to run, but a nearby soldier aggressively seized Joff by the scruff and hauled him back, lifting the boy fully off the ground. Her stepbrother’s cry of alarm cut off into a choke as his black cloak cinched too tightly at the neck, feet kicking uselessly in the air.

In unison, Jace tried to roll forward, shouting, but was forcibly pulled back; Rhaena stormed forward and shouted. “Unhand him!” A blank, confused look. “Unhand him at once!” The man dropped Joffrey like one would drop a dog, and he collided into her torso with a thump, burying his face into her side.

“Lady Rhaena,” began a knight, pushing forward into view. His voice echoed strangely behind his helm, flat and unapologetic. “Please forgive Ser Godfrey, but we are under express order from the king to ensure the boy does not escape.”

“Escape?” She repeated incredulously, raising a hand to rest atop Joff’s thick brown curls. “What about that seemed suspicious? He was clearly running to me!” A sharp breath; her free hand was shaking and she gripped his shoulder. “He is my brother—a child! You will not treat him so roughly again. Do you understand?”

Bowing his head, the knight conceded, stepping away. “Is he alright?” Jace said softly, coming close.

“Are you hurt, Joff?”

He only hugged her tighter. “I missed you,” said her little brother, voice muffled into her cloak. When had Joffrey grown so tall?

“I missed you too.” As Rhaena tried to gently turn his face into view, she said aside to Jace, “I’ll take care of this.” A silent nod, and he moved aside after one last look of concern, maneuvering his chair towards the wheelhouse, where two carriage drivers helped him inside.

She tried again, voice cajoling. “Joffrey, are you alright?”

A sniffle, which startled her. All his fire, gone in an instant. “I’m not hurt,” he said sullenly, pulling back so that she could see his face. Dark brows drew together in a pout. “Why didn’t you come back, Rhaena? You said you would only be on Driftmark for a few days.”

“It was my intention to come back,” Rhaena brushed his hair away from his forehead, oddly guilty. That was the truth—she had intended to return to Dragonstone, and then her grandmother had changed the rules, declared House Velaryon for Aegon. “If I had known, I would have said goodbye properly. Can you forgive me?”

“Maybe,” he said childishly, but Joff was barely ten after all. “Only if you promise you aren’t angry at me.”

The soldiers were still watching, stiff and emotionless as statues. Rhaena pulled Joffrey towards the wheelhouse, crouching down before him to obstruct any prying eyes and grant them a semblance of privacy. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Why would I be angry at you?”

“Everyone is angry. Uncle Aegon is mad at Mother. Mother is angry at him and Baela. All the knights are mean, Rhaena.” He was babbling now, voice watery. “Ser Corwyn says a knight should be kind and brave, but the ones here are nasty and cruel. They won’t let me see Mother, or leave the Holdfast, or come play with you and Baela.”

Rhaena pressed her lips together, overwhelmed with pity. “Oh, Joff, no one is angry at you. None of this has been your fault.” He was innocent. The crime of his birth was not of his making, and yet he had to bear it anyways.

He blinked wetly. “Are you sure? Grandmother says—she says she is not my grandmother anymore. And you never wrote to me. Did I do something wrong?" Joffrey grabbed her hands as an overboard sailor would a lifeline. “Are you not my sister anymore, Rhaena?”

“Sweet Joffrey,” she whispered, pulling him back into an embrace. “I will always be your sister. My father married your mother. We will always be family, and nothing can change that, even if you cannot be a Velaryon anymore.”

While their parents had brought them together, the love between them had grown on its own, fostered by shared lessons and laughter, eating meals together at the table, playing in the nursery. She saw herself as a girl of two-and-ten, sneaking to the Dragonstone kitchens with Joffrey in her shadow, a chubby-cheeked boy of five. He was her brother by choice, and even the war and hate between their families had not dulled her affection for him.

Against her shoulder, Rhaena felt an exhale of breath. A sigh of relief. “Jace says we’ll take Mother’s name. We’ll both be Targaryens now, Rhaena. Maybe it will be nice to have the same name, like other brothers and sisters do.”

“A name will not change my love for you,” she said softly, swiping her thumb over his cheek. And it would not make his life any easier. A legitimized bastard was still a bastard. People would be cruel, but Rhaena resolved to support him to the best of her ability. “Now, we shouldn’t keep the wheelhouse waiting any longer. Go back to your rooms with the knights. I promise we’ll bring Aegon and Viserys to see you.”

“Alright,” Joff said, appeased, and before Rhaena stood, he pressed a dutiful kiss against her cheek. “I love you, Rhaena.”

She prayed that love would last the turmoil ahead. The hardship, and his mother’s influence. “As I love you.”

With that, she watched warily as the knights shepherded Joffrey back to the Holdfast before turning to the wheelhouse. Jace’s chair was strapped to the roof, and the drivers were shifting restlessly, eyeing the horses. Rhaena signaled them with a wave and climbed inside, shutting the door behind her.

Jace waited in silence. Rhaena sat herself down in the opposite corner as her stepbrother, who watched out the latticework window as the wheelhouse began to move. Only then did she feel the awkward tension, the palpable discomfort—both hers and Jace’s—now that there was no Joffrey to pretend for.

This was not how she had envisioned their reunion. Stuck together in a cramped wheelhouse on the way to retrieve their shared little brothers. She had always thought—what had she thought, really? That it would be like seeing Joffrey again? Jace had always been closer with Baela, and her twin only visited Dragonstone a handful of times each year.

Unlike Joffrey, Jace had participated in the war. Fought on the opposing side. He had won the swords of the North and the Vale, earned their loyalty and devotion, and the blood of countless men was on his hands. But he had gone to war for his mother. If Laena Velaryon had been alive, if she asked her daughters to fight for her, Rhaena knew she would have done the same, as would Baela. Anything to keep her alive and safe. But Jace and Vermax were responsible for Moondancer’s death. He had hurt Baela, which she could not forgive, but looking at him now only made Rhaena sad. He had lost Vermax, the ability to walk, and now his name—even if it had not been his to claim.

Rhaena cleared her throat and said the only thing she felt she could say. “I am sorry about Luke.”

That caught his attention. Jace twitched, hand tensing over his knee, and he ripped his eyes from the window, turning them upon her. “I am too,” he replied softly.

“What happened to him was—”

“It was horrible and cruel and an affront to gods and men. He should be alive.” His voice was raw. “It should not have happened.”

“No,” she agreed, folding her hands in her lap. “It should not have.”

Outside, hooves and armor clamored distantly, a reminder of their armed escort. Jace studied her face, his mouth twisting into a sad frown. “At least Aemond Kinslayer is dead. I hope Luke and all the poor riverfolk can find some justice in that at least.”

“I did not want to marry him,” began Rhaena, quick and ineloquent, “but I never wanted Luke to die.”

A thin smile. Her stepbrother softened suddenly, loosening his posture. “I know, Rhaena. You’ve always had a kind heart, more so than most.” Jace paused. “Are you well?”

She was reunited with her sister, returned to the gentle embrace of the Red Keep with all its amenities and safety. Rhaena had succeeded in keeping Jaehaera and Maelor alive; she was about to see her little brothers again. And now there was Daeron. “I am,” she said, a bit in disbelief. She really, truly was. “I am very well.”

Then, guilt seized her, a worming discomfort in knowing that while she was doing quite well, Jace was faring quite poorly. As though he could sense her thoughts, he spoke softly. “I am glad to hear of it. Truly. I want you to be happy, Rhaena. And Baela as well.”

“Thank you.” The carriage hit a bump in the cobbled street, and her older stepbrother had to grip the window to keep from sliding down the bench, fingers threading through the lattice. “What of you? Joffrey says the knights guarding him have been cruel. Have…have they harmed you?”

“They are harder on him than I, as they will be with Aegon and Viserys. Without my legs, no one will want to crown me.” A cynical smile. “They leave me be most of the time, but I can’t say the same for my brothers. The little ones will be treated decently, I know, but I worry for Joff. He grew up on Dragonstone—he did not have to endure the scrutiny of the Red Keep. Not like Luke and I.”

And King Viserys is no longer here to protect them, she thought. Baela said a knight had slapped Jace so hard his lip split open and there had been no repercussions. She had only just witnessed how roughly Joffrey was handled. “But you two will be legitimized, will you not? Surely that would improve the situation.”

“We will be, although from what I understand, Grandmother—Princess Rhaenys was advocating against it.”

Quite ardently, in fact. “Grandfather convinced her otherwise,” said Rhaena. Their argument that night could be heard through the entire Tower of the Hand.

Brown eyes widened, surprised. “I—I was not aware. He has always been kind to us, especially Luke.”

Kind to the point of folly, or so her grandmother would say, but Rhaena did not have it in her to see compassion as a flaw. All was settled now—Baela would be heir, Driftmark would stay in Velaryon hands, was there not space for mercy and kindness? How else would this cycle of pain and violence end?

“Yet the name will change little,” Jace continued, recovering himself. “Everyone knows what we are.”

Rhaena bit her lip. “Perhaps I can try to speak to the king. He has granted me a boon—”

“Don’t waste it. Aegon and Viserys are home. Cregan is not far. Soon, once this spectacle is over, we’ll return to Dragonstone and all will be well.” His voice gave the impression that Jace was trying to convince himself of that fact. “Joff and Mother will be happy. Aegon and Viserys will grow up safe. And I’ll help run the castle until Aegon is of age.”

There was something fragile in his face. Pale light shone harshly from the window, highlighting his brow and nose in dappled patterns. At certain angles, in the right kind of light, Jace rather resembled his mother, and Rhaena was struck by the resemblance in the slanted, troubled tilt to his mouth. The life he had described had not been the one that had been promised to him; Jace was clearly still coming to terms with that.

“I am excited to see Aegon,” she confessed, changing the subject. “And Viserys as well.”

A grimace. “I am not.”

Rhaena shook her head in disbelief. First Baela had not wanted to come, and now Jace as well? “Why would you not be pleased to see them? They have been across the sea for the better part of two years!”

“I am excited to see them” said Jace. “It is only—” A sigh, as if he were a beleaguered old man of eighty and not seven-and-ten. “I will have to explain everything to them. That Mother lost, that I am a bastard, that their father is dead...” He trailed off, watching her. “I am sorry about Daemon.”

Throat tight, she ignored the platitude. “It is—you do not need to tell them on your own. Aegon and Viserys are my brothers too. We will do it together.”

Jace nodded. “Together then.”

Silence settled between them—not quite comfortable, but cordial—and Rhaena peered out her window. They were rolling through Fishmonger’s Square, air heavy with the scent of salt, brine, and oily pitch. A handful of fishwives were hawking the morning’s catch, but there were far less than Rhaena remembered before she fled the city. Over the walls, ship’s masts peeked over brick, flags flying against the sky. A question came to her suddenly.

“Why Pentos?”

“Why did I send them there?” Her stepbrother echoed. “I convinced Mother by arguing it was too dangerous to send all three of her sons to the Vale, and that we should take advantage of Daemon’s friends in the Free Cities. But in truth, it was because of you and Baela. You always spoke of it so fondly.”

“I see,” Rhaena managed. As a girl she had loved Pentos. Its warm heat, the tiled roofs glittering in the sun. All the brightly dyed clothing and hair of the magisters. Seeing the Red Temple aglow at night. She remembered riding through the streets with her mother, off to see Vhagar. Baela laughing as they played in the shadowed courtyard. Her father, holding Rhaena in his arms, pointing out the constellations in the dark, endless sky. She hoped Aegon and Viserys had come back with a few happy memories, just as she had.

With a whistle and a shout, the wheelhouse came to a stop. Rhaena, excited, opened the door and climbed out into the light. Their escort was beginning to dismount from their horses, and the carriage drivers were already on the roof, untying Jace’s chair.

Out of all the ships docked along the Blackwater Rush, there was only one that bore amber sails—a fat-bellied trading cog that bobbed on the water. This was certainly the ship that had bore her brothers across the Narrow Sea, and her suspicion was only confirmed by the presence of dragonkeepers, alien in their plain habits among the colorful Pentoshi sailors. They were hovering around a wagon loaded with a tall metal cage, and the dragon locked inside crooned sadly towards the ship, loud enough to be heard over the din of the docks.

Stormcloud had grown quickly since Rhaena had last seen him, similar in size to a calf or young foal. Dark grey as a turbulent sky, his wings and fins had deepened in color to a bruise-like purple, and his horns shone like polished onyx. He would be beautiful when he was full grown, and even though he was still young, she could already tell the dragon had something of Syrax in the tilt of his horns and snout.

“If Stormcloud is already ashore, then Aegon must not be far.” Jace stopped his chair at her side, peering through the crowd. “Can you see them?”

Her eyes scanned the dock, then swept up to the ship. A short figure was watching the dragon from the deck, head barely tall enough to peer over the railing. “Look, on the ship. Aegon’s there.” As if the boy had heard his name from the great distance, he suddenly ducked out of sight.

They approached the ship and the knights closed in, forming a semi-circle that cut them off from the rest of the wharf. All the sailors fell silent with a palpable nervousness, ceasing all work, and looked towards the man who must be their captain, who appeared at the top of the gangplank.

With their hands linked together, two boys stood before him, drowning in woolen cloaks too large for their frame. One was slightly taller than the other, his hair a ghostly silver-white and with Rhaenyra’s round jaw and nose; the younger of the two had pin-straight hair of silver-gold that fell around his shoulders. When he raised his lilac eyes, the very same as her own, Rhaena’s breath caught. Viserys looked so much like their father.

Guiding the boys with a hand resting on each shoulder, the captain of the ship was sea-worn and sun-spotted, with deep wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes, which were a piercing amber-brown. He wore his beard as most Pentoshi men did, oiled and meticulously styled. His mustache twirled at the tips, and his beard was split into two forks. All his facial hair, of course, was dyed a brilliant pink, which somehow complimented the golden blonde of the hair on his head.

“You are the brother and sister, yes?” His voice rang with an accent that made Rhaena homesick for the manse of her childhood. Eyes darted suspiciously at the guards, and little Viserys gripped the leg of the captain’s trousers, intimidated.

“I am Rhaena Targaryen, daughter of Daemon,” she said, switching to Bastard Valyrian. The captain’s brows rose, just as pink as his beard. “And this is Jacaerys, son of Rhaenyra.”

A laugh, bright and overjoyed. “I see you are a true daughter of Pentos, Lady Rhaena. You still speak our form of Valyrian well. I am Gessio, captain of the Gay Abandon. I serve Prince Reggio, who was friends with your father. We mourn the loss of Prince Daemon deeply.”

“That is kind of you.” A flare of discomfort, and she quickly slipped back into the common tongue. “Thank you for returning our brothers to us.”

Jace’s eyes flickered eagerly over the boys faces. “And you have our gratitude for keeping them safe.”

“My prince treated the responsibility very seriously, as have I. He has commanded that I release the young princes into your custody alone. No one else.” Fond and concerned, he glanced down at her brothers, who remained silent and still. “These soldiers with you—I do not like how they look at the children. You swear they will be safe?”

“I swear it,” began her stepbrother. “As long as I live, I refuse to lose another brother.”

Rhaena echoed the sentiment. “They will be safe.”

Captain Gessio sighed in relief, nodding, and stepped back, leaving her baby brothers on their own. Yet they refused to come forward; Aegon’s dark purple eyes squinted at them hesitantly, while Viserys looked back at Gessio pleadingly.

Did they not recognize her? Or were they simply overwhelmed and frightened? Looking as wounded as Rhaena felt, Jace inched forward. “Egg? Vis? Do you remember me?”

“You’re Jace,” nodded Aegon, although their youngest brother had dropped his hand and was currently tugging on the captain’s aquamarine cloak. “Where are they taking Stormcloud? Where is mama?”

“Stormcloud is going to the Dragonpit, Egg. Don’t worry, the keepers will make sure he’s safe.” An anxious smile. “As for Mother, she is—”

“She’s waiting for you in the castle,” said Rhaena gently, crouching down beside her little brother. The sun of Pentos had done little to alleviate the pale pallor of his skin. “But you will see her soon. All we have to do is take the wheelhouse back up to the Red Keep. Does that sound fine to you?”

There was a moment of sullen contemplation, almost humorous on his childish features. “It does,” he said, and when Jace spread his arms, Aegon climbed into them eagerly, collapsing against his brother’s chest in the way that only exhausted babes could.

Viserys was less tractable. “Gessio! Take me home!” He cried in Bastard Valyrian. His lilac eyes glittered with angry tears and his face was flushed in an ugly manner, twisted in a tantrum.

“My little prince,” the Pentoshi sailor began, apologetic. “You are home.”

“No! I want to go back to Pentos!”

Helpless, Gessio looked to Rhaena for help and she briskly walked to them, skirts swishing around her ankles. “Viserys, there’s no need to cry,” she said in Valyrian, which seemed to soothe him a little. After a year in Essos, she would not be surprised if he was more comfortable in that language than in the common tongue.

He huffed. “I want to go with Gessio.”

“Do you not want to see your mother? What of Aegon? Your brothers and sisters?”

“They can come to Pentos too.”

In a different situation, she might have laughed, but the surrounding soldiers were beginning to look irritated. Time for a new tactic. “I used to live in Pentos—did you know that? With father and Baela.”

“Really?” Viserys blinked up at her. “With father?”

Nodding, Rhaena bent down, flicking his nose and smiling as it scrunched up. “For ten years. I missed it too when I first came back to Westeros, and I was very frightened.” Her baby brother nodded; clearly, he understood the feeling. “How about we make a deal? Come back with me and I’ll tell you all about my time living there.” A glimmer of curiosity, sharp and eager. “What do you say?”

Her youngest brother nodded, took her hand, and once he said a final goodbye to Gessio, allowed Rhaena to sweep him up into her arms and carry Viserys to the wheelhouse.

This time, the journey back to the Red Keep went quickly, occupied by answering her brother’s questions as Aegon dozed on Jace’s shoulder. Once they arrived, they were swarmed by an insistent set of nursemaids who confiscated Rhaena’s little brothers for a bath, a meal, a fresh set of clothing, and the promise of a strictly supervised visitation with Rhaenyra.

Rhaena kissed them both, amused at how irate Viserys became when they parted, and promised to see them again soon—with Baela next time. Yet, that promise became difficult to keep, for the castle swelled to a crescendo of chaos. Nobility from across the realm arrived to witness Rhaenyra concede her claim, filling the castle to the point where even the Tower of Hand had to turn out its unoccupied rooms for guests. Seemingly overnight, Rhaena found herself so overwhelmed that she had to enlist her twin’s assistance in managing the Hand’s household, and she was further waylaid by the guards keeping watch over Aegon and Viserys, who insisted that her baby brothers were permitted no visitors—not even their sisters.

Reluctantly, she could admit the concern was justified. The combined host of the North and the Vale lingered to the north of King’s Landing, while the men of the Reach, Westerlands, and Crownlands camped outside the walls, larger in number but far less fresh even after time spent recovering in the city. Jace had been brought out to treat with Cregan Stark and Lord Redfort, who commanded Jeyne Arryn’s forces on her behalf, and the prince who had secured their oaths now came to release them from it. Even though both lords had submitted peacefully, a sense of tension remained.

Her grandmother was busier than ever, shut-up in the small council chamber from first light and working into the late hours of night. There were contracts to draft. Crimes to punish. Fostering and wardships to arrange. While King Aegon had proved himself merciful by sparing the lives of his enemies, he was far less so when it came to the terms of surrender. The North and the Vale, like Dragonstone, would have to pay six years of reparations to the crown, and divert additional funds to help rebuild the devastated Riverlands. Once winter was over, Cregan Stark’s heir, Rickon, would be sent south to foster. Jeyne Arryn would not be stripped of her title, but she was to immediately release Arnold Arryn from the Eyrie’s sky cells and take on his son, Eldric as her heir instead of one of her choosing. Whenever she dared to venture into the Hand’s solar, Rhaena was struck by the piles and piles of paperwork, and for all intents and purposes, her grandmother had temporarily vanished from her life.

“Do you think that’s the last of it?”

A cool breeze blew Baela’s curls around her face, and her eyes followed her twin’s pointed finger, glancing down to the wagon being unloaded in the courtyard. “It must be,” she said. They were standing upon the bailey walls, catching a quiet moment away from the bustle of court and castle. “Rhaenyra will concede her claim to the court tomorrow, and I expect she won’t want to stay here any longer than she has to.”

Idly, Rhaena wondered what Dragonstone looked like now, emptied out and stripped of its wealth. “Addam says they brought the eggs over this morning. Since they are so fragile, they would surely be the last to be removed.”

“I pray they survived the journey,” frowned Baela, silver brows knitting together. “It’s almost winter. If I’m cold, then it’s far too cold for the eggs.”

“Don’t fret. The dragonkeepers have been safeguarding the eggs through winter for centuries. They will be fine.”

A grumble. Her sister turned away from the yard, leaning back against the crenellation. “How can we be sure until they hatch, or fail to?”

“Why are you so worried?” Rhaena touched her shoulder lightly with a gloved hand.

Sighing, Baela shut her eyes. “So many dragons have died. There are so few of them left now.”

Arrax and Vermax. Moondancer. Meleys. Vermithor, Dreamfyre, Caraxes, Syrax. Vhagar. Dragons young and old, feared and loved, all lost. “Then that is all the more reason to believe the keepers would have taken extra steps to keep them safe.” A thought occurred to her, swift and sudden. “Do you plan to ask for one of the eggs?”

“No!” Her sister said hotly. “Never!” Then, she exhaled sharply, calming herself. “I cannot imagine raising a hatchling again, not after Moondancer. It would feel like replacing her. There will be no more eggs for me.” A pause, and Baela studied her for a moment. “But when Rhaenyra leaves, I plan on going east. To claim Silverwing.”

“Then I will look for you in the skies when you return,” smiled Rhaena, sincere. It did not hurt so much to think of her sister succeeding where she did not. “I imagine it is worse to have a dragon and lose her than to never have one at all.”

Baela took her hand. “Pain is simply pain, sister. It is not a contest where one can win prizes, but I admit…I hope you never know a grief like this.”

Rhaena pulled her sister into an embrace, their curls and locs mixing together. Wordlessly, they held each other, shivering from both sorrow and the chill, until her twin whispered softly, “Do you think father died before Caraxes? I hope he did.”

“I think father died the day this war began,” she said with a painful wince in her chest. Or at least, the father she had known and loved, and craved his love and affection in return. “Sometimes, I almost I miss him.”

“I hate him.” Baela’s voice was rough, ragged. “I wish he was here.”

Swaying in the wind, it felt like hours passed. Rhaena blinked up at the great grey sky, and felt her shoulder grow damp as her sister tried to collect herself. She felt afraid and confused at the realization that Baela could cry for their father, while she somehow could not. Even after all this time.  

“Let us go back to the tower,” said Rhaena, once her twin raised her head. “I would not want to be late for supper. It is rare these days that Grandmother can join us.”

“And it will be good to get out of the cold.” Together, they went to down from the ramparts back to the courtyard, making their way up to the middle bailey and the Tower of the Hand.

They were only halfway up the spiral stair when a breathless messenger boy came running down, nearly colliding into Baela.

“My apologies, m’ladies!” The boy squeaked, barely older than eight. “I am looking for Lady Rhaena.”

He had bowed so quickly that he hadn’t gotten a look at their faces. As Baela smirked, obviously amused, Rhaena laughed softly and said, “Then you are in luck, for you have found me.”

“Lady Rhaena! My apologies again.” He must be new, Rhaena mused, for he could not stop fidgeting with the hem of his brown woolen uniform. “I bring a message from the Princess Rhaenyra. She wishes to speak with you urgently!”

“Rhaenyra?” Her twin repeated in disbelief. “Why does she want to speak with you?”

“I don’t know,” she said to her sister, and then to the messenger, “Did she say why?”

“No, m’lady.”

“Say no. You don’t have to go.” Baela crossed her arms over her chest, jaw tense.

But Rhaena did not quite feel the same. “Don’t you want to know what she wants?”

A scoff. “Not really. I’ve never cared much about what Rhaenyra wants.”

The last time she had seen her stepmother had been on the other side of the Painted Table, volunteering as an envoy for her cause. “I’m going to go. I’d like to know.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Baela offered.

“Whatever she has to say,” she started, “you would turn it into an argument. I will be fine. Go on to dinner and tell grandmother that I’ll be a bit late.”

Smiling, her sister shook her head. “So be it. Don’t take too long, or else I’ll have to mount a rescue with Addam and Alyn.”

“Go!” Rhaena huffed playfully, pushing her sister up the stairs. “I won’t be long!” With a last look, Baela continued on, while she followed the messenger back down.

Dismissing the boy, she continued the rest of the way alone, for it was not hard to find where Rhaenyra was being kept. Rhaena went up into the Holdfast, crossing the dry moat, and walked past all the noble apartments to the out-of-the-way hallways which housed the smaller, more humble quarters of favored members of the household staff.  

She rounded a corner, stepping into a more deserted hall that was guarded by two knights, who did little to appear inconspicuous, and a voice rang out. “Thank the gods! They must have sent the slowest messenger boy for you, sweetling.”

In a tunic of teal chased with silver, the Hand of the King stepped away from the wall, her golden pin flashing among the strands of silver hair. “That’s not his fault. I did not make it easy for him to find me,” Rhaena said. “What are you doing here, grandmother? Are we not supposed to have dinner together tonight?”

“I was on my way when I received word that Rhaenyra sent for you.” Her grandmother came closer, frowning in thought. “I should have expected as much, but she surprised me by waiting so long in the day to do so.”

“You know what this is about?”

“I do,” she answered. “I have been arguing about it with her for some time.” A sigh. “It concerns your father.” Cold dread shot up her spine. “And while I wish otherwise, what she has for you is not mine to give.”

“Grandmother,” Rhaena began airily. “You have made me quite nervous.”

“There is no need to be, but I will gladly accompany you if you wish it, child.”

“No.” Whatever lay ahead, she could face it alone. “I can do it. And I would loathe to keep everyone waiting. Go back to the tower and start supper before Baela and Grandfather upturn the castle looking for you.”

A warm, wrinkled hand came up and cradled Rhaena’s cheek. Her grandmother's purple eyes filled with a blatant pride. “We will wait for you.”

Signaling the guard, her grandmother walked away, and she turned towards the door, watching as it was unlocked. It swung open slowly, ominously, and Rhaena stepped inside.

Rhaenyra was seated in a cushioned chair, eyes distant and a hand over her mouth. Tumbling around her shoulders, silver hair fell free in a wave, neatly brushed but not styled as it usually was. Her room was modest and small, furnished simply, but she still wore the garments of her short reign as queen, clashing with the rest of the room. Black velvet hugged her collarbone and wrists, a ruby lived in the hollow of her throat, and her fingers were heavy with rings. Her stepmother was pale, shadowed, and there was something angry and haunted about her now, no longer the carefree woman Rhaena remembered from Dragonstone.

As she entered, the door shutting behind her like a tomb, violet eyes snapped to attention. “Rhaena,” she began, voice unreadable. “You have grown. You look well.”

“Thank you.” Rhaena bobbed her head in acknowledgement, but then remained silent. She was skilled enough in courtesies to know that saying anything more would only show her hand. Let Rhaenyra be uncomfortable for once.

There was an extended, agonizing, moment of silence. With her hands folded together, she watched as Rhaenyra’s face became increasingly irate. A blotchy, red flush rose in her cheeks, jaw tensing, and then at last, she snapped. “Have you nothing to say to me?”

Rhaena smiled innocently. “Oh, my apologies. Are you well, Rhaenyra?”

“Am I well?” She repeated in disbelief. “I have summoned you here and that is all you have to say? How can I be well? Tomorrow, I will humiliate myself and swear fealty to my half-brother. I will condemn my sons to a lifetime of hardship and indignity to save their lives, and you ask if I am well?”

“Rhaenyra,” said Rhaena bluntly. “If you shout at me, I will leave. What do you want from me?”

“I have a gift for you!” Rhaenyra cried, exasperated, pinching her nose. “Gods, grant me a moment.”

So she did, waiting patiently as her stepmother tried to collect herself. Rhaenyra stood from her chair and began to pace, fidgeting with her rings. After a minute, she spoke. “You have a gift for me?”

A nod. “From your father. I am only his messenger now.”

Expecting Rhaenyra to produce a pin or cloak or some other memento of her father, there was a brief flash of surprise as her stepmother instead went to a small table, upon which a brazier was placed. She lifted up the lid and revealed a pale pink dragon’s egg nestled amongst the hot coals, the same color as the soft blush of a newborn sky. White whorls banded around it like clouds, and there were flecks of black at the top, startlingly dark.

Rhaena inhaled sharply. “What is that? All the eggs on Dragonstone were to be confiscated.”

“This one could not be, as it already belongs to someone.” Involuntarily, she stepped forward, drawn to it, and Rhaenyra continued. “As you might remember, Syrax laid a clutch shortly before my father died. One egg was set aside for Visenya—the other two went into the care of the dragonkeepers.” A rueful smile. “But when you volunteered as an envoy of my cause, Daemon went and selected one of the remaining two for you.”

“I don’t understand.” It was suddenly difficult to speak.

“He intended to give it to you when you returned from Driftmark, and then you did not return,” she said bitterly. “But it is still yours.”

Dumbfounded, Rhaena could only blink, drinking in the sight of the dragon egg, perched so perfectly in the brazier, glistening in the smoke. “Why?” She managed at last, nearly whispering. “Why give it to me now?”

“Your father was the love of my life,” began her stepmother, in the casual, drawn-out tone that reminded Rhaena of breakfasts on Dragonstone, when Rhaenyra recounted a story from her girlhood. “Yet, you and your sister were…not even I could compete.”

“That’s a lie. Everyone knows he loved you best.”

Rhaenyra’s voice turned harsh. “And yet he left me anyways. He flew off to die because Baela was displeased with him and you had abandoned him. But I love him still. I give it to you now because he cannot, and I wish for his soul to be at rest. He always knew you would command a dragon one day."

What? “If he did, he showed it an unusual way,” she said haltingly, confused. Despite his disapproval and disappointment, he had faith in Rhaena? He had loved her?

“That was always his way,” Rhaenyra agreed, resigned. “Even when I was girl.” A pause, her stepmother gestured towards the egg. “Take it, Rhaena, and let us be done with this chapter in our lives. If there was ever any affection between us, let this be the end of it. I am your stepmother no longer.”

Lilac eyes met violet. “You are the mother of my brothers,” Rhaena began quietly. “All five of them. For all that you have done, all the harm you have caused, part of me will always be grateful to you for that.” She took a breath. “Rhaenyra, I came here in part so that I could tell you something. I will never be like you. I will not treat Aegon and Viserys like you did your own siblings. They will not be cast aside because of what their mother has done, or because of my dislike for you. You failed in that task, Rhaenyra, but I will be better. They will always know, without a shadow of doubt, that their elder sister loves them, that I love them."

Abruptly, it looked as through Rhaenyra was about to cry, her mouth parted in surprise. The Half-Year Queen turned away, hiding her face beneath the cascade of her hair. “Leave me, Rhaena. Take it and go.”

She would not be able to carry a brazier all the way back to the Tower of the Hand, and so Rhaena grabbed the egg with the fabric of her skirt. It had cooled slightly without the lid containing the heat, but was still hot to the touch. For a brief moment, she thought it came alive, twitching in her fingers. Holding the egg made it feel horribly, heartbreakingly real, and Rhaena fled from Rhaenyra’s chambers without a word.

A garbled voice. The knight said her name but it sounded distant and strange. All Rhaena could focus on was the egg, and she kept glancing down at it in disbelief as she stumbled through the Holdfast in a daze. By the time she crossed the drawbridge, it had cooled enough to touch. Rhaena cradled it in her arms, running her fingers over the ridges and scales. The pink of the shell was almost pearlescent, the white streaks the color of frothing waves, and the black speckles near the tip were black as a starless night. A deep heat flared as she pressed her palm flat against it.

What she held in her hands was proof of her father’s love, his faith in her, and she could not reconcile that knowledge with the man who had dismissed his dragonless daughter, who had sent assassins to slay a child. Rhaena was not sure if she could ever forgive him for what he had done. For his cruelty. His anger and ambition. For loving her. To protect this final, precious gift from the cold, she bundled the egg to her chest, pressing it against her heart, and braved the cold air of the Serpentine Stair, down into the middle bailey, and into the Tower of the Hand.

Laughter floated out from her grandmother’s apartments, accompanied by the scent of fresh food, rich and well-spiced. Breathless, Rhaena pushed open the door and found her family seated at the table. Grandfather and Grandmother sat at either end, their faces soft in the warm firelight. On one side, Addam sat beside Baela, while Alyn grinned at her, an empty chair to his side. There were baskets of fresh bread, shellfish braised in wine and topped with thyme. Cheese softening on the serving board, beside dried fruits and nuts. Yet, the first thing she noticed were the empty plates. They had waited for her.

Five sets of purple eyes fell upon the egg in her hands. Grandmother did not seem surprised, but the rest did. With a gasp, Baela smiled, her eyes bright. “Rhaena, is that—?”

“Father.” A breath. “He—he—” That was all Rhaena could manage, raising the egg helplessly, before she finally burst into tears. He was dead. He was never coming back. She would never be able to tell him how ashamed she was of him, how angry and hurt and scared she had been. There was never going to be an apology, a reconciliation. Daemon Targaryen would never do anything again, and yet he had still, somehow, managed to leave her this.

What was the last thing I said to him? Rhaena tried to remember, and could only see him on the shores of Dragonstone, waving as she sailed away. Had he been proud of me? Overwhelmed, she sank to the ground and wept over her egg, tears streaking over the surface of the shell.

Suddenly, Baela was there, kneeling down beside her. Gentle arms wrapped around her shoulder, their heads pressed together, and then came the long silver hair of her grandmother, falling like a curtain as she came around to her other side. Alyn and Addam crouched in front of her, murmuring softly, sweetly, and the firm weight of her grandfather’s hand settled upon Rhaena’s head, warm and steady.

“It will be alright,” her sister said softly. “We’ve got you.”

In Rhaena's hands, the egg twitched.

Chapter Text

134 AC

A handful of hours after the raven was sent, Rhaenys heard a dragon trill.

It was not Seasmoke’s familiar croon, nor the high-pitched shriek of Silverwing, but rather the adolescent cry of a young dragon, echoing faintly over High Tide and distracting her from the low moans and curses from behind Baela’s door.

Rhaenys stood up from her chair, slowly pushing herself up with a groan. All those blasted stairs in the Tower of the Hand had done more damage to her knees and hips than all the rest of her years alive.

“If she calls for me, will you send someone?” Even though she would not be gone long and knew that Baela would call for no one save her sister, she asked it anyways.

Marilda of Hull glanced up from the wooden seahorse she was carving in her lap. “I will,” she said in reply, green eyes bright. There were wood shavings in the bottom half of her braided brown hair. Gods, she was beautiful—mayhaps the babe would inherit her cheekbones like Addam and Alyn had.

As Rhaenys walked away, Baela made an agonizing cry that pitched down into a groan, and she picked up her pace, chest aching, grateful to have a brief moment to not agonize over her granddaughter’s pain, unable to help. The halls of High Tide were bright with springtime sunshine, casting the white stone walls in warm light. Rhaenys had missed this castle dearly, and was glad to have returned to it for a time, even if it would not be for very long.

Cutting through the deserted Hall of Nine, Rhaenys walked through the courtyard, out the shell-studded gates, and down onto the tidal beach. A single dragon had landed onto the wet sand, sea water flowing around her back legs and forewings. Pink scales were reflected onto the water, shimmering like a sunrise, and the she-dragon chuffed as she waded close.

Rhaena landed with a wet splash, dismounting from her small saddle. Her silver locs were piled atop her head in a bun and her lovely lilac eyes were crinkled in a broad smile. Although they had seen each other less than a fortnight ago, Rhaenys opened her arms and embraced her granddaughter eagerly, laughing as Morning trilled in protest.

“Jealous, this one is,” she said, scratching the she-dragon’s jaw. In four years, she had grown rapidly to the size of a horse and was large enough to ride, as if Morning herself had not wished to deny Rhaena the gift of flight for too long. Her horns, black as night, were flaking, a sign of new growth.

“I think she deserves the affection for flying me here so quickly,” said her granddaughter, pulling free. Morning clearly agreed, nuzzling her snout against her rider’s cheek. “I came as soon as Orwyle brought the raven—how fares Baela?”

A wave lapped around their ankles. The tide was coming in. “Her water broke late last night, but the contractions did not begin in earnest until this morning.”

“You should have sent for me then,” frowned Rhaena.

“I did not want you flying in the dark. And it is Baela’s first. Those labors always take longer, as you know.” Shaking her head, Rhaenys recalled the day Laena entered the world. The endless agony and boundless joy.

“So they say.” With a frown, her granddaughter’s hand fluttered down to hover over her stomach. Her miscarriage the prior year had left Rhaena wan and thin, and so Rhaenys quickly steered the conversation to happier things.

She made a great show of peering over Morning’s back, as if someone could be hiding in the saddle. “I see you came alone. Where is my namesake?”

A bright laugh. “I give you one great-grandchild and immediately I am no longer of interest,” Rhaena teased. “Rhaenys will come with her father. She is so very excited to have a younger cousin to boss around. Hoping for a boy, she is.”

“Baela wants a girl,” Rhaenys said, watching as her granddaughter dismissed Morning with a kiss. The pink dragon took to the cliffside ridge where Silverwing and Seasmoke currently nested, familiar enough with both dragons to safely share their space. A black ribbon was tied around the base of her tail, fluttering in the wind. Affection for her granddaughter overtook her—there was truly no other dragonrider like her in the world.

“So she has told me. And Alyn? Does he favor a son?”

They began to cross the flooding beach towards the glittering gates of High Tide. “I believe he simply wants to name the babe, but he can only do so if it is a boy. He has told Corlys that his great-grandson will share his name.”

“Another Corlys and Rhaenys,” hummed Rhaena. “That would be sweet.”

Names were strange things. Personally, Rhaenys had never desired to weigh down her own children with a lofty ancestral name and all the grand expectations that came with it. She had been named for the conqueror queen, trained to rule herself, yet that had never come to pass—and the only two dragonriders to have been shot down bore the same name. Was that not a bad omen? Let children have names unburdened by history and the dead, let them forge their own paths. But when Rhaena, so exhausted, pale and sweat-soaked, pressed her daughter into her grandmother’s arms, the babe named in her honor, Rhaenys had wept, moved by such a brazen gesture of love and affection.

“That aside, I do not believe he has any preference,” she continued. Sometimes, it was still hard to wrap her head around the fact that Baela and Alyn were married. Gods, the stunt they had pulled after Addam’s wedding…to this day it could still rile her up!

As they stepped into the courtyard, a distant shriek echoed through the castle. Rhaena stiffened, reaching out to grasp Rhaenys’ hand. “She sounds wretched.”

“You sounded much the same, child. I thought I would go deaf.”

“How is she?” Surprisingly, her granddaughter seemed even more bothered, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. “Does she seem frightened?”

They descended into the Hall of Nine, still deserted without any sign of Corlys, Addam, or Alyn. “I do not know. Baela has refused everyone save the midwife, who says there have been no complications.”

“Everyone?” Rhaena echoed, aghast. “Even you, grandmother?”

“Everyone save for you,” she said.

Abruptly, Rhaena began to walk faster, nearly running up the stairs towards her sister’s chambers. Her knees protested angrily, but somehow Rhaenys managed to keep up with her young and spry granddaughter.

Marilda was still seated in her chair, although the seahorse in her hands had taken on a bit more detail around the face, rendered finely in spruce wood. As she stood, a storm of wood shavings fell to the floor. “Rhaena! ‘Tis good to see you again.”

“Marilda, you are as lovely as ever,” cried her granddaughter, rushing over to press a kiss against the woman’s cheek. After a quick embrace, she twirled off towards the door. “I would stay to chat but I have to go!”

When she opened the door, Rhaena was greeted by a terrible, guttural scream. “Get out!”

“Baela! It’s me!”

A pause. Rhaenys could taste the heavy scent of sweat and tears. The stuffy heat. “Sister?”

Her granddaughter crossed the threshold, vanishing into the dark gloom. “I’m here, Baela. I—” Then the door closed and she could hear no more, cut off from her granddaughters.

“Brave girl,” said Marilda, bemused. “If Baela was screaming at me like that, I don’t think I’d have the courage to go in. You can tell she’s got dragon’s blood.”

“Indeed.” Blood of the dragon and the blood of the sea; the temperamental, stormy blood of a Baratheon, too. “Thank the gods that Rhaena’s here.”

A nod. Full lips spread into a crooked smile and the captain of the Mouse laughed. “Would that I had a sister when I was in my labors.”

“I often had the same thought,” confessed Rhaenys, but she at least had her mother there. To comfort her, to grasp her hand. And then, an insistent curiosity took hold of her, a desire to learn more about this woman who had become part of their family. “Was your labor difficult? When you delivered your sons?”

Exhaling, she slid the whittling knife back into her belt, running her fingers over the ridge of the seahorse’s back. “In some ways. They were so little. Enough that the midwife thought they were premature.” This did not surprise Rhaenys, for Baela was taller than her husband, as was Addam with his own wife. “Mostly, I was frightened. I was an unmarried woman—my father had been furious, although he came around when Addam was in his arms.”

It made Rhaenys sad to think of it. Marilda, young and frightened. Her grandsons born in a small house in Hull, without any maester. They could have all so easily died. Not for the first time, Rhaenys lamented that Marilda had not come forward sooner. Maybe then she could have been there for the boys’ childhood, but at the same time, Addam and Alyn were the men they were today because of their mother. Because they had grown up in Hull instead of the splendor of High Tide.

“That does not surprise me,” she said wistfully. “You think you know love, and then your child puts their own babe in your arms.”

The younger woman nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “I am excited to know the feeling, although I admit it is strange. I still think of the boys as children, and yet here they are—both about to be fathers.”

“You will used to it eventually,” laughed Rhaenys softly. “But imagine how I feel—I am a great-grandmother now.” A pause. “After this, it is off to the Stepstones?”

“That is the plan. Addam and I will spend a day or two with Baela and her babe, but not any longer. Ellyn is due within a fortnight, but all of her mother’s births were early.”

“What’s this about my wife?” A voice said. Coming down the hall was the Lord of the Stepstones, dressed richly in teal slashed with silver, a prancing seahorse embroidered around his collar. Addam had developed a taste for finery—Corlys’ influence no doubt—and his smile peeked out from beneath his beard, which Rhaenys was still not quite used to yet.

He was accompanied by Alyn, who was uncharacteristically quiet, glancing to the door and wincing Baela cried out. In the past year, he had grown out his hair and switched from twists to braids, worn tied up in a style that reminded Rhaenys of Laenor.

While she loved her grandsons, Rhaenys mostly had eyes for the old man following behind them. Corlys had just celebrated his eighty-first birthday in the early days of the year, and more and more he was looking his age. The skin around his eyes was wrinkled deeply, furrows cut through his forehead and around his mouth. His shoulders stooped, and he had taken up his cane once more, old injuries increasingly causing him pain. Yet, when he smiled, clapping a reassuring hand on Alyn’s shoulder, she thought he was still the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms. The man she had fallen in love with.

“What are you doing here?” Marilda asked, readjusting her son’s collar in the fussy way only a parent could. “I thought you were going to Spicetown.”

“We saw Morning,” he said in answer, stepping out of his mother’s reach. “Grandfather—”

Corlys came forward, his cane clicking against the stone. “I was hoping to see my great-granddaughter.” Ah, Rhaenys realized, maybe we are a bit too preoccupied with our great-grandchildren. “Did she not come with Rhaena?”

“She’s coming with her father,” she answered, gravitating towards her husband. With his free hand, he took hers, skin warm and calloused.

That got a small smile out of Alyn, lessening the ashen pallor to his skin. “That’s great. Been too long since I’ve seen Daeron.”

There was little to do but sit and wait. Rhaenys gave up her chair for her husband, and Addam went to fetch more. Pacing up and down the hall, Alyn blinked owlishly as Marilda forcefully sat her son down, pressing her whittling knife and a fresh hunk of wood into his fingers.

“Keep your hands busy, love. It’ll help,” she said firmly. “I already made a seahorse for your little one, so make something else.”

“But they’ll be a Velaryon,” said Alyn. “You can’t have enough seahorses.”

Thumping his cane on the floor, Corlys laughed. “Exactly!”

Her grandson began to work, guiding the blade into the grain of the wood with ease. In her solar in the Tower of the Hand, Rhaenys still kept the carving of Meleys her made for her upon her desk. When Addam returned, he sat beside Corlys and they began to discuss the work in the Stepstones, pulling Marilda into the conversation as it turned to matters of shipbuilding. Bloodstone was about to finish their first yard, and then Addam would start to build a fleet of his own, independent to the one on Driftmark. Rhaenys leaned back in her chair, content to sit quietly and look out the window.

Waves and water had drowned the causeway to Spicetown, leaving High Tide an isolated island. Sunlight glittered over the wrinkled sea, and a handful of ships were vanishing into the horizon. She listened for Baela’s cries and moans, for Rhaena’s soft, placating voice. She lost herself in Corlys’ warm laugh, the timbre of Addam’s voice, the repetitive sound of a knife carving through wood.

About an hour passed before Tessarion arrived. The Blue Queen announced herself with a trill, circling the castle. Rhaenys watched as she attempted to land on the tidal beach, pulling up at the last moment when both dragon and rider realized it was too deep to land. Poor Daeron still struggled with timing the tides. Instead, the cobalt dragon glided up to the ridge, and all the other dragons chorused in greeting.

A boat was sent for them, and she waited impatiently as it bobbed over the water towards High Tide. By the time her goodson came walking down the hallway, Rhaenys was ready to run out and find him herself.

Daeron had grown from the boy knight she met at Tumbleton into a handsome young man. One-and-twenty now, he was taller, shoulders broader, but he still kept his hair cut short in a boyish style rather than grow it long as the other Targaryen men of Rhaenys’ time preferred. The spring sunshine had doubled the number of freckles on his face, and Rhaenys noted that the scar on his lip, gained from the time he tumbled down the icy stairs of High Tide, had faded slightly.

In his arms was a precious treasure—an eager girl of two, itching to be put down. Bundled up in a cloak to chase away the chill, Rhaenys saw a flash of silver and a gap-toothed smile.

“Apologies for the delay, I—” Daeron was interrupted by a high-pitched shriek, a small hand tugging at his hair. “Oh, alright. Down you go.”

He kneeled, depositing his daughter onto the ground, and she ran immediately into Corlys’ knees. A round face grinned up at him, framed by a lovely spray of silver curls. Her great-granddaughter had inherited Rhaena’s cooler shade, compared to Daeron’s more golden hue, but her curls were far looser, closer to Baela’s texture. She had Daeron’s eyes, although more violet than brown, and they were only for her great-grandfather as she tried to climb up into his lap.

With a grunt, Corlys hoisted her up. “My little Rhaenys,” he said indulgently.

“‘M’not little,” replied her great-granddaughter, pouting.

“Forgive me, darling,” he said, very seriously. “My mistake.”

As they began chattering away, Addam rose and embraced Daeron. “It’s been too long, mate.”

“I know. I know, but you’re the one who went off to rule the Stepstones.” Then, the prince ducked down and wrapped an arm around Alyn’s shoulders. “Hanging in there?”

“Best I can.” Alyn flicked a shard of wood onto the floor. It seemed he had decided to carve a mouse, or at least that was what it looked like. “I understand now why you were such a wreck when it was Rhaena. Bloody miserable it is.”

“It will be Addam’s turn next. Take some comfort in that.”

It pleased Rhaenys to see them all so close, brought together by that horrible winter quarantining on Driftmark. They had been good influences on one another. Her goodson became more relaxed, dropping the princely façade, while Addam had grown confident and more outspoken; Alyn thoughtful and deliberate.

Rhaenys was startled from her thoughts by precious laughter, grinning as her great-granddaughter fell forward and buried her face in Corlys’ cloak. “She likes you better than me,” she said, only slightly serious.

“Not true,” replied her husband. “She just sees me less often.” Then, coaxingly, he continued. “Come, little one. Say hello to your grandmother.”

Her namesake babbled, half the words incomprehensible, but she followed the direction of Corlys’ arm. Large, half-violet eyes focused in on her face, and she was met with a gummy smile. Small and delicate like pearls, her front teeth had come in; the rest were in varying stages of erupting through the gum. Rhaenys the Younger reached out for her grandmother, who eagerly plucked her from Corlys’ lap.

Pressing her nose to the crown of curls, Rhaenys breathed deep the scent of sulfur and salt, Tessarion and the sea. May your egg hatch, she prayed. Neither Silverwing or Tessarion had brought forth a clutch since the war ended; Morning was still too young. Let there be hatchlings again. Life to chase away all the lingering dead.

“Hello, sweetling,” she murmured softly.

In reply, there was a drawn-out sound that might have been, “Hello, grandmumma.” Little Rhaenys spoke clumsily, slower than most children her age, but she had assured both Daeron and Rhaena that it was not unusual, especially for babes raised amongst older children. Maelor and Jaehaera simply did all the talking for their young cousin, just as Laena had done for Laenor. She would find her voice in time, and clearly the girl understood those around her just fine.

A hand wrapped itself in Rhaenys’ hair, another came to touch her wrinkled face. “Did you miss me? You must forgive me for being away for so long.”

“You saw her two weeks ago,” Alyn cut in, eager to focus on something unrelated to Baela’s labors. He waggled his fingers at the babe, stealing her attention. “I haven’t seen her in moons!”

Abandoning Daeron, who simply looked amused at the attention lavished upon his daughter, Addam crouched down, blocking the line of sight to his brother. “If it’s a competition, I haven’t seen her since your wedding. Hello, Rhaenys, do you remember Uncle Addam?”

Entertaining her great-granddaughter kept them all occupied for the next handful of hours. Addam fetched a set of marbles and they played a game on the floor, laughing as Rhaenys the Younger chased after the small balls of colored glass. Whenever she tried to put one in her mouth, Daeron or Alyn would swoop her up into the air, tossing her until she shrieked herself silly.

Yet her energy began to fade, and, as with all the babes that Rhaenys had known in her lifetime, exhaustion meant a tantrum. Her great-granddaughter erupted suddenly into screams and tears, beating her fists against Daeron’s shoulder as he tried to soothe her to sleep. At the sight of tear-streaked cheeks, the scrunched expression as she fought off sleep, Rhaenys’ heart ached.

“Good set of lungs,” Marilda offered, once she had settled. She nudged her younger son with her elbow. “Much the same as you were, Alyn, back when you were small. I thought you’d scream the house down.”

“Must be Velaryon blood,” said her goodson, eyes crinkling into a good-natured smile. “My mother always said I was a very agreeable babe. Hardly ever cried.” Daeron paused, frowning and tilted his head. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Addam asked.

It was quiet. Distantly, waves crashed against the shore and beat against the cliffs. Seals croaked and howled. Gulls screeched as they plunged towards the sea. Baela was no longer screaming, and at that realization, both Alyn and Rhaenys stood, sending their chairs skittering. Then, after a nearly endless silence, a babe began to cry, reedy and thin.

Unwilling to wait for permission, Alyn barged into the birthing room; a few moments after that, Rhaena emerged. An apron had been hastily thrown over her riding leathers. Parts of it were wet—a handprint here, a formless splotch there—but not with blood. While her face was weary, there was no distress or fear or grief. A good sign.

“Is Baela well?” She asked, trying to keep her voice level.

When Rhaena nodded, relief ran through her. “She is. No unusual bleeding. The head midwife says she should be fine once the afterbirth passes.”

“And the child?” A note of nervousness hung in Corlys’ voice. “Healthy?”

“Very healthy,” her granddaughter smiled, and then she joked, “She has all her fingers and toes. I counted—just to be sure.”

Marilda laughed joyously, clapping her hands together. “A girl!” For a woman who had only borne sons, a granddaughter was surely most welcome. “When can we see her?”

“The midwife will fetch us once Baela feels ready,” answered Rhaena, voice firm.

No one protested to that, despite their eagerness. Her granddaughter deserved to rest after fighting so long to bring this new gift into the world. A little girl. Another great-granddaughter. Overwhelmed, Rhaenys found her husband’s hand and laced their fingers together.

Here was their legacy. Their children’s children living on where Laena and Laenor did not. Addam, a man grown, lord of his own island, linking arms with his mother. Rhaena, her eyes soft with love as she kissed her husband’s cheek. Baela and Alyn in the other room, meeting their child for the first time. Two great-granddaughters, one fast asleep on Daeron’s shoulder while her mother ran a hand over her hair, the other brand new to this world, her whole life ahead of her.

When Baela bid them to enter, it was grandparents first. She found her wonderful, fearless girl propped up against a wall of pillows. Sweat matted her hair against her forehead, parts of her nightgown were still plastered to the skin. Lavender eyes looked up from the small bundle in Alyn’s arms, and Baela smiled weakly.

Marilda went immediately to her son’s side, eyes shining brightly as she beheld her first grandchild; Rhaenys and Corlys went to the opposite side of the bed. She set herself gently upon the mattress, careful to not disturb the new mother, and took Baela’s outstretched hand.

“Brave girl,” began Rhaenys. “How do you feel?”

“Exhausted and sore.” Her voice was hoarse, left raw by her screaming. “Mother must have been in so much pain when she—” When she died, she finished grimly. Baela’s mouth clicked shut, unwilling to invite death into the birthing chamber, and tried to disguise her train of thought by adding quickly, “This was just one babe—I can’t imagine twins.”

Corlys spoke softly. “She would have been proud of you.”

Baela blinked away the wetness in her eyes. A quick glance to her daughter, who Marilda was cooing at. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” she said insistently. “As you know. You have your own girl now—tell me, could you ever be anything but proud of her?”

A shuddering inhale. “I am tired of being so weepy,” her granddaughter groused, rubbing angrily at her eyes. “Will it stop now that the babe’s here?”

“For the most part,” laughed Rhaenys, squeezing her hand.

“Come now,” Baela said to Alyn, pulling at his sleeve. “Let grandmother and grandfather see her.”

Carefully, he handed his daughter to his wife. She cradled the babe in her arms, surprisingly at ease. With her scarred cheek turned away, Baela looked so much like her mother.

It occurred to her then that Rhaenys had never seen Laena like this. By the time Daemon’s raven reached Driftmark and she made it to Pentos, the twins had already been two days old, Laena refreshed and clean. Just one of many moments that fate had denied to let her share with her daughter. She would be sure to treasure this one instead, sighing as the babe was delivered into her arms, and she felt Corlys’ hand grip tight on her shoulder as he leaned over curiously.

Baela’s girl was a wee thing, made smaller by the vastness of the teal brocade wrapped loosely around her. Purple and wrinkled like all fresh babes are. The midwives had washed her, but there were still flakes of vernix stuck around her nostrils and her tiny fingers.

“Have you decided on a name?” Rhaenys asked, trailing a finger over the delicate slope of her nose. It scrunched up adorably, and little fists came swinging out of the blanket. Already a fighter.

“Laena,” said Baela. “Her name is Laena.”

Knowing how it discomfited her granddaughter, she had sworn to herself that she would not cry, but her vision blurred regardless. Corlys made a low sound. “Laena,” she repeated. Saying it was sweet. “A good name.”

“A great name,” corrected Corlys, and he reached down to run his thick, calloused hand over the girl's soft dusting of silver hair. “The very best name for a daughter.”

Laena stirred quietly, eyes opening to a suspicious squint. They were a pale lavender, and she regarded them quietly. Feet kicked at the blanket. Twitching, her mouth opened and she began to cry, a horrible wail, and yet, as Rhaenys handed her great-granddaughter back to her mother’s arms, she only had one thought.

She was perfect.

Chapter Text

SAILS AND SCALES

OR, A HISTORY OF HOUSE VELARYON

FROM AEGON’S CONQUEST TO THE WAR FOR THE DAWN

WRITTEN AND COMPILED BY PRINCE RHAEGAR TARGARYEN AND

PRINCESS DAENERYS TARGARYEN OF DRAGONSTONE, ROYAL HISTORIANS

V. THE REIGN OF RHAENYS

And so it was that the war was ended! With her head bowed in defeat, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Half Year Queen, returned to Dragonstone with her surviving children, ending nearly two years of strife.

The Seven Kingdoms had been torn asunder. The verdant valleys and winding waterways of the Riverlands were choked with ash and corpses. To the west, the coastline of the Westerlands lay ravaged and wounded, and the Iron Islands descended into chaos with the death of Dalton Greyjoy. In some cases, entire houses had been extinguished, ending lineages that stretched back to the Age of Heroes. Nine of the seventeen tamed Targaryen dragons were dead. Misery and pain had been all the realm had known for one and a half years. How could the kingdom move forward and close a chapter of such anguish and loss?

With a wedding, as it happened. To the joy of both their families, Prince Daeron Targaryen and Lady Rhaena Targaryen announced their desire to marry less than two moons after the Half Year Queen returned to Dragonstone. It is said that Queen Alicent wept in delight upon learning that Rhaena, who had so valiantly protected her grandchildren, would become her gooddaughter. To his Velaryon relatives, the prince had equally proven his bravery and virtue, although Lord Corlys often lamented often and loudly that Daeron did not know how to sail.

Preparations were made quickly as winter was soon approaching. As Grandmaester Orwyle attests in his annals, it was a more modest affair than one would expect from a prince of the blood and the granddaughter of the Sea Snake and the Queen Who Never Was. Yet, there was no clearer way to communicate that the lavish days of feasting and tourneys that had defined the reign of King Viserys were over.

The ceremony would be held in the Grand Sept. A single dinner reception was planned the night prior for the impending newlyweds. While some guests in attendance later complained of the meagre fare, most praised the royal family for their restraint in such troubled times. The fish served at the high table was purchased directly from the poor fishmongers in King’s Landing, and the shellfish was dredged up off the shores of Driftmark—an homage to the bride’s Velaryon heritage. Anything left uneaten was sent immediately down to the people in the city, who feasted in the name of their prince and soon-to-be princess.

The only aspect of the wedding where no expense was spared was the bride’s dress. On the fourteenth day of the tenth moon of 130 AC, Rhaena Targaryen was escorted down the aisle of the Grand Sept by her grandfather, Lord Corlys. She wore a gown of white silk that was sewn with the salvaged scales of Moondancer, Meleys, Vhagar, and Caraxes which had been collected from their lairs on Dragonstone and Driftmark. Her maiden’s cloak had been one originally made for Lady Laena’s unrealized marriage to the Sealord of Braavos, displaying both the dragon of House Targaryen and the seahorse of House Velaryon. While it had languished in the storerooms of High Tide and was decades out of style, it was an object of immense sentimental importance to Rhaena, as well as Lady Baela, who later used the same cloak at her own wedding years later.

Upon the altar, before the glittering light of the stained-glass windows, Prince Daeron cloaked his bride in a mantle of black velvet, embroidered with dragons in gold, blue, and pink thread. While it is a common story that Queen Alicent labored day and night over the cloak to have it finished in time for the wedding, household records note that a team of widowed seamstresses were hired from the impoverished parts of King’s Landing to craft it. However, we can say with confidence that the queen dowager gifted Rhaena with the jewels she wore on her wedding day. A set of emerald earrings owned by the queen dowager’s own mother, Alerie Florent, was worn by the young bride, along with a set of diamond bracelets. Her hair was sewn with pearls and seashells in the Velaryon fashion, and her silver hair was crowned by an opal tiara belonging to the Princess Gale. In lieu of a necklace, a newly-hatched dragon curled around her shoulders—a pale pink and delicate specimen named Morning.

The new princess and her husband chose to spend the remainder of autumn at the Red Keep, but at the end of the year they went east to winter at High Tide along with Lord Corlys, Alyn Oakenfist, Addam of Hull, and Lady Baela, who flew to Driftmark on the back of the newly-claimed Silverwing. As Hand of the King, Princess Rhaenys remained in the city, although her grandson frequently flew his grandmother between King’s Landing and Driftmark upon Seasmoke.

At the onset of 131 AC, King’s Landing had recovered some sense of stability, and so King Aegon turned his gaze upon the rest of the realm in search of candidates to appoint to his Small Council. Rhaenyra’s brief rule had resulted in the deaths of Jasper Wylde and Otto Hightower; Tyland Lannister had been horrifically tortured and disfigured, left blind and gelded. His mind remained, and after a period of recovery, the Master of Coin was able to continue his service, leaving Master of Ships and Master of Laws vacant.

The Sea Snake declined to serve once more as Master of Ships. “I will not be the next Lyman Beesbury, an old man droning on and on,” said Corlys to his king. “Let me see to my house with the time that remains to me.” And so the position was offered instead to Lord Ryam Redwyne, who was commended by both Prince Daeron and Princess Rhaenys for his good comportment on the march up the Rose Road. Lord Elmo Tully was invited to serve as Master of Laws. While he had embarrassed his house with his inaction during the war, it had been understood that his appointment was a gesture of appeasement for the devastation inflicted on the riverlords by Prince Aemond.

Yet, this too would not come to pass. Lord Elmo died from bad drinking water on his way to the capitol. Kermit Tully, his eldest son, was only nine-and-ten, therefore unsuitable for such a high office. Instead, after much deliberation, the title was offered to Lord Humfrey Bracken. Although his house had submitted later to Daemon’s dragon, their house was the first to shed blood for King Aegon.

With the Small Council secured, King Aegon began the great undertaking of putting the realm to rights. Winter had exacerbated preexisting food shortages, and it became clear that many farmers and tradesmen had died. A number of smaller-scale succession crises cropped up, for many young nobles were also dead—all which needed to be arbitrated by the king. Aegon, who had always been sensitive to the needs of the smallfolk, struggled greatly when he realized the crown itself did not have enough resources to alleviate their suffering.

This first year was an arduous trial for the king and council, although many of King Aegon’s more ambitious projects and reforms originated during this period, stretching on late into his reign. However, in the early days of 132 AC, the reconstruction efforts were paused when Addam of Hull landed Seasmoke in the courtyard of the Red Keep. He had come to bring his grandmother back to High Tide, as Princess Rhaena had begun her labors. King Aegon, Princess Jaehaera, Prince Maelor, and the queen dowager, Alicent Hightower quickly followed suit, sailing to High Tide to attend the birth of Daeron and Rhaena’s first child.

Born on the second day of the second moon, the babe was a girl, the first of six daughters, and she was named Rhaenys. It is said that when she was presented to her great-grandmother and namesake, the Queen Who Never was wept. The child was received with much joy by her mother and father, as well as her host of uncles, cousins, great-grandparents, grandmother, and her lone aunt, Lady Baela. Notably absent was the Dragonstone branch of the family. Princess Rhaenyra had denied her youngest children permission to visit, which particularly wounded Prince Joffrey. This would be the first of many grievances between the Half Year Queen and her second son.

King Aegon had brought a gift for his new niece—a dragon’s egg, the last remaining egg of Dreamfyre, and the last cradle egg to be granted until Maelor placed one in the crib of his own son. This great gift was returned in kind by the young princess, for the birth of Rhaenys the Younger saved the lives of the royal family. By coming to Driftmark, the king and his household narrowly managed to escape the arrival of Winter Fever in King’s Landing. The violent and bloody disease had arrived in the ports after their departure, and spread so rapidly that Tyland Lannister ordered the gates of the city to be closed within days. In a missive, the Master of Coin pleaded for Aegon to not return. The city would remain under quarantine for the remainder of the year.

Concerned the disease would spread to Driftmark, Corlys Velaryon also closed the ports of his island, which is why there are very few surviving accounts of the ten months King Aegon and his family spent living amongst the Velaryons. Whatever occurred, it was clear that the bonds that had been broken at the Great Council and by the actions of King Viserys, Prince Daemon, and Princess Rhaenyra had been reforged. Houses Velaryon and Targaryen would be true partners once more, and the friendships formed between Aegon and the Hull brothers, Addam and Alyn, would prove to be particularly impactful throughout the rest of their lives.

Winter Fever receded by the beginning of 133 AC. When Grandmaester Orwyle commanded the city gates to be reopened, nearly half of the population had been killed by the epidemic, as had the ever-faithful Ser Tyland. The king returned to his court in a somber procession, accompanied by his children, mother, and his Hand of the King.

His reception in the city was quite cool, as many of the smallfolk accused Aegon of abandoning his people during the epidemic. The resulting blow to his confidence left the king relying on his Hand more than ever, and began the period known colloquially, and sometimes disparagingly, as the Reign of Rhaenys. Reconstruction efforts were immediately resumed, albeit slowed by the continuing harsh winter. Velaryon ships were dispatched to bring surplus food from the Reach to the desperate population of King’s Landing, the Riverlands, and the North. Those displaced by the war were invited to take up residence in the depopulated capitol.

Despite setbacks, a precarious stability was found. Aegon, having won back the favor of the people, embarked on the project that would come to define his entire rule. Winter Fever had disproportionally impacted Flea Bottom, leaving the slum deserted and full of rotting dead. The bodies were removed and granted burial, after which the most reviled and crime-filled section of the city was demolished. Over the next decade it would be rebuilt entirely to be cleaner and safer. Houses were constructed out of proper, sturdy materials, and a certain number were reserved at subsidized costs for those left crippled by war, women and children left widowed, and the poor.

But not all were appeased. Having spent the last two years licking his wounded pride, Borros Baratheon reared his head and threatened to disturb the king’s peace. The lord paramount wanted what he was due, for despite serving House Targaryen faithfully, no rewards or honors had been bestowed upon him nor House Baratheon. He had not been considered for any positions on the Small Council, and most importantly, his royal marriage had fallen through.

This presented a problem. Prince Aemond was dead; young Prince Daeron was married and a new father. Borros’ four daughters were too old for Maelor and his son, newly-born Royce Baratheon, was too young for Princess Jaehaera. The king himself adamantly refused to marry, unwilling to repeat the mistakes of his father, and was content with his mistresses.

Lord Baratheon was appeased with a marriage, but not the one he expected. At the request of both Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, Addam of Hull was legitimized by royal decree. He would not, as his grandparents stressed, have any claim to Driftmark, but he would be the lord of the newly-established House Velaryon of the Stepstones. The garrison left behind on Bloodstone would not be enough to hold back the Triarchy forever, and the Sea Snake intended to see the islands secured within his lifetime. In a joint effort from the crown and House Velaryon, a permanent stronghold would be established to secure the valuable trade route. And what better deterrent to scare off pirates than Seasmoke? It would be a fine seat for a new lord…and his lady wife.

To the relief of many, Borros agreed. The hand of his eldest daughter, Cassandra, was swiftly offered, but to her father’s chagrin, she vehemently refused to wed a bastard—legitimized or not. Maris, his second eldest, was also affronted at the idea and infamously insulted Addam Velaryon at a royal feast, permanently earning her the ire of Baela and Rhaena.

It was their younger sister, the third daughter of Lord Borros, who married the new lord. Ellyn Baratheon was a romantic at heart, or so the songs claim, and she was enamored by the tales of Addam’s loyalty and bravery during the Dance. Furthermore, she was of a similar age to the groom. The two seemed quite besotted with one another at their first meeting. Lady Ellyn was a typical Baratheon beauty with jet-black hair and storm blue eyes, and although she towered over Addam Velaryon, Rhaenys repoted that the pair seemed well-matched. They were wed at Storm’s End in the middle of 133 AC with all of House Velaryon in attendance. The groom’s brother, Alyn, also newly legitimized, presented his new goodsister with a ship as a wedding gift.

Just earlier that year, a wedding was also held on Dragonstone. Winter had proven harsh for the nascent cadet branch of House Targaryen, and it was sobering for the residents to realize how heavily the island had relied upon the financial support of the Iron Throne. They produced little and exported even less; merchant ships increasingly diverted to Gulltown, Spicetown, and other ports of call, for the only thing traders wanted from Dragonstone was coin and there was little to spare. A marriage would alleviate their financial troubles, but only one of Rhaenyra’s sons was of an age to marry.

Prince Jacaerys was betrothed to the daughter of Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Lady Cerissa. The Half Year Queen had an exceptionally difficult time finding a suitable woman for her son. Even though Jacaerys had distinguished himself in the Dance, albeit for the losing side, and was generally regarded as a polite and agreeable young man, his bastardry was now compounded by his disability. Those who would have jumped at the chance to marry their daughters to the former crown prince, favorite of the late King Viserys, now balked.

Cerissa Celtigar was in many ways a godsend to House Targaryen of Dragonstone. Her house was of distant Valyrian descent and wealthy enough to support the, as Dragonstone attempted to establish itself without the financial backing of any sworn vassals or the Iron Throne. Much like Jacaerys, Cerissa’s reputation was irrevocably blackened on account of her father. Bartimos was not well-liked and his taxation of King’s Landing had cast a shadow over his family. His children, especially his daughters, were assumed by association to be equally greedy, unpleasant, and grasping.

The jester Mushroom claims that Rhaenyra vehemently disliked the girl, believing she was ill-suited for her son, however, Jacaerys clearly took to his betrothed. They were wed in a small Valyrian ceremony that was leagues away from the royal wedding his mother had once promised him. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaena were in attendance, which delighted Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys. While she took great care to correspond to her brothers, they had not seen one another in years, and it is believed that this is when Joffrey, now two-and-ten, first approached his sister about arranging for his squireship.

The year bore witness to two more notable weddings, although they both were for the same woman—Lady Baela Velaryon. For the better part of two years, High Tide had been inundated with ravens as lords and ladies across the realm offered the hands of their sons in marriage. Many were hoping, rather transparently, to install their second or third-born sons as lord, assuming foolishly that Baela would let anyone rule through her.

The future Lady of the Tides was famously exasperated with the process, once overturning a table in the Hall of Nine, but Baela received no recourse from her grandparents. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys were sympathetic to their granddaughter’s plight, but they informed their heir that she must be wed. And soon, for Corlys was growing old.

Perhaps searching for a middle ground between the betrothal process of Laena and Laenor, they would permit Baela to choose her own husband, although he would have to be vetted by both her grandparents. They had trusted their daughter with the Rogue Prince after all, and it seemed that they would not make the same mistake twice. Baela’s consort would need to be kind, considerate, shrewd but not ambitious, and respectful of her claim. Finding such a man would prove to be a nearly impossible task.

Lady Baela, as she did with most things, took the matter into her own hands and surprised the realm by secretly approaching her cousin, Alyn, requesting his hand. What she said or how she convinced him is unknown to us, but the morning after Addam Velaryon married Ellyn Baratheon, they eloped on the beach near Storm’s End. The groom’s brother and the bride’s sister were the only two witnesses, but Lady Ellyn was certainly involved. Baela had borrowed her wedding gown, and the new Lady of the Stepstones singlehandedly orchestrated an unspeakable debacle involving a flock of chickens at breakfast to keep the other guests distracted.

When it was discovered, the Sea Snake and his wife were most wroth—not at Baela’s choice of husband, but that they had been denied the chance to see their heir wed. Their anger is understandable—Laena’s wedding to Prince Daemon had been rushed, and Laenor’s had ended in tragedy. There was an attempt to keep the elopement secret, but Maris Baratheon ensured that the scandalous news was spread far and wide. Despite that, a second, more ostentatious ceremony was arranged at the Red Keep. Baela and Alyn received no punishment, but their grandmother did request King Aegon to embarrass them as much as possible, to which he happily obliged—to Baela’s mortification and Alyn’s mirth.

The guests recall the wedding a joyous occasion. Prince Daeron took his infant daughter upon the dance floor; Alyn invited Rhaena to dance as the Sea Snake did so with his heir, Baela. The king convinced his beloved aunt to join him, perhaps the first time in history that a king danced with his Hand at a feast.

Ten months later in 134 AC, High Tide was blessed with a daughter, another ruling lady to follow Baela. She was named Laena, in honor of her grandmother, and her birth was shortly followed by the arrival of a son to Addam and Ellyn, who was named Laenor. Unwilling to be shown up by her sister and cousin, Rhaena also announced that she was expecting after a miscarriage the prior year. The family rejoiced.

A year of births was closed by the death of Corlys Velaryon in the final days of 134 AC. The Sea Snake had seen more of the world than any other man in Westeros, embarked on nine legendary voyages, brought House Velaryon to new heights, and had seen the Stepstones finally secured. While she was not queen, his wife had been finally granted the honored position she deserved at court, and he lived long enough to see his grandchildren married. Corlys was even privileged enough to meet three of his great-grandchildren, each one named for the most important people of his life. At an impressive eighty-one years, he died a happy man.

Personal accounts from both the king, Princess Rhaena, and Lady Baela note that Rhaenys was devastated by the loss of her husband. At the beginning of 135 AC, she temporarily stepped down as Hand of the King, appointing the king’s brother and her own goodson, Prince Daeron, to serve in her stead. She withdrew to High Tide for the next half year.

A salacious rumor put forth by Mushroom claims that Rhaenys returned to Driftmark because Aegon had proposed marriage to his widowed aunt, having been secretly in love with the older woman for some time. Obviously, this is untrue; she clearly intended to assist Baela with her ascension to the Driftwood throne.

Corlys had spent the last years of his life rigorously preparing his granddaughter for the role, but Baela Velaryon was twenty and a brand-new mother. Though she had proved her capability and earned the love her smallfolk, sailors, and the other members of House Velaryon, some who formerly had supported her changed their tune when the moment of her ascension finally arrived, and the second most powerful house in the realm was now in the hands of a young woman.

Many looked to Vaemond’s sons, the Sea Snake’s nephews for a challenge. However, Daeron Velaryon made it abundantly clear that his cousin would rule unimpeded, which his brothers supported. Those willing to overlook his bastardy championed Baela’s husband, hoping that Alyn could be persuaded to rule through his wife. They would be sorely disappointed.

Baela and Alyn were not a love match, at least not in a romantic sense. However, there was no other man in Westeros who would have respected his wife’s claim as much as the young Oakenfist. He deferred to his wife’s orders, supported her decisions and rulings to the people of Driftmark and at large in the Seven Kingdoms. When his wife ascended to the Driftwood Throne, Alyn was the first to swear fealty to her, and once she was established, he promptly embarked on the first of his six great voyages, forcing any final dissenters to accept thar Baela ruled, not he.

In Oldtown, there were also concerns about succession, although of a completely different type. Aegon’s cousin, Lyonel Hightower, had been petitioning the crown for four years for permission to marry Lady Samantha Tarly, his stepmother. The High Septon repeatedly decried their relationship as incest, and the young lord’s refusal to end the affair had resulted in discussions that he was not fit to rule as head of House Hightower.

Queen Alicent championed the matter personally, taking it upon herself to discuss such concerns with her son. Rumormongers claimed that Lady Sam had attempted to seduce Lyonel and sway him into recalling the Hightower army after the death of Lord Ormund, which he had done little to disprove. The king agreed with his mother. Samantha Tarly could not, under any circumstances, be the Lady of Oldtown again. Summoning his cousin to the capitol, he offered a choice: the Hightower or Lady Samantha.

Lyonel chose is lady love. He abdicated his claim to the seat of Oldtown and after receiving permission from his kingly cousin, married his former stepmother. Martyn, his younger brother and dear friend to Prince Daeron, ascended to lordship instead, and many rushed to put forth their daughters as the new Lady of Oldtown. Having the ear of her son, Queen Alicent argued ardently that Princess Jaehaera be betrothed to the new head of House Hightower. The princess would soon be two-and-ten, and it was only a matter of time before her father would need to start seriously considering candidates for her royal hand.

The murder of Prince Jaehaerys and the trials endured by his surviving children had left Aegon unusually attached to his son and daughter. It was not uncommon to see the king playing with his children in the godswood, peeking in on their lessons, and taking their meals together. Maelor and Jaehaera were both a frequent sight at the Small Council, and on multiple, rarer occasions, Aegon sat the throne with his son in his lap and his daughter reading on the dais.

As Maelor was only nine, the matter of selecting his future queen could wait, but the king’s mother had a point. Jaehaera’s hand would need to be settled, although it was made abundantly clear by her father that she would only be married once she came of age, not a moment sooner.

But who was worthy of the princess, Aegon’s only daughter, who so resembled the late Queen Helaena? When it was raised by the Small Council that Jaehaera could be betrothed to her brother, Maelor, the king disapproved so strongly and loudly that the entire castle knew the siblings would not be wed to one another.

Discounting Rhaenys and Rhaenyra, who had married into the prestigious Velaryon line, only twice had a Targaryen princess married outside the family. Rhaena, daughter of Aenys, the first rider of Dreamfyre, had married into House Farman, but that had been a second marriage. Daella went to the Vale and the Arryns, a lord paramount. While Princess Viserra had been betrothed to a Manderly, that arrangement had been hastily done to keep her from Prince Baelon and becoming queen, more of a punishment.

Only a Lord Paramount could be worthy of a Targaryen princess, but there were still no suitable choices among them. Cregan Stark had fought for Rhaenyra and was far too old; the same was true for Lord Eldric, who was a grown man when he took control of the Vale after Jeyne Arryn’s death from Winter Fever. In the south, Kermit Tully was equally unsuitable, having recently married; Loreon Lannister was too young, as was Leo Tyrell and Royce Baratheon, who would not be marrying age until Jaehaera was in her early twenties.

Aegon turned his eyes further south and put forth a different option for the hand of daughter. After conferring with Rhaenys and his council, a raven was sent to Dorne, inquiring about the younger brother of the ruling princess, Aliandra Martell. Her youngest sibling, Qyle, was reportedly a vivacious young man, notoriously overprotective of his two older sisters. And, perhaps most desirable to the king, he was of a similar age to Jaehaera. Born only two years prior to the princess, this was a much more suitable age gap than Lyonel, who would be six-and-twenty by the time Jaehaera was of age.

An additional appeal was that a royal match may quell the conflict between the two polities. Qyle, skilled in the spear and whip, had already proven himself formidable in skirmishes in the Dornish Marches, and incursions into the Stormlands were growing in intensity as the Seven Kingdoms recovered from the war. As King Aegon realized early at Rook’s Rest, sometimes the best course of action was to turn an enemy into a friend. Aliandra Martell clearly felt the same, for the raven was returned with a favorable reply.

At the king’s behest, his dear friend Alyn Velaryon was dispatched to Dorne to take stock of the young man as the first stop on his first great voyage, making port in Sunspear to meet the prince before continuing on to the Summer Isles. A letter was sent to his wife, which was then forwarded on to King’s Landing. In it, the Oakenfist described Qyle Martell as “a guard-dog, sensitive to any perceived slight against his sisters and his homeland. If Aegon wants a suitor who’d protect Jaehaera as though she were the most valuable treasure in Westeros, this is his man.”

The king was pleased and a betrothal was brokered between House Targaryen and the Martells. A lengthy treaty was also drafted, promising peace and the unification of Dorne with the Seven Kingdoms, a gradual process that would take the next five years. Yet, this would only come to pass if the marriage did. The prince and princess began a regular correspondence and once Jaehaera turned five-and-ten, Qyle came to spend a year in King’s Landing.

Jaehaera was oft described by the courtiers as a severe, Valyrian beauty, which was undercut by her morbid, acerbic, and blunt personality. The tumult of her childhood, especially the death of her twin and the violent events witnessed at Bitterbridge and Tumbleton, had left a deep impression on the princess. She had little patience for court and was often direct to the point of rudness, yet her family knew her as a bright and curious girl, witty, and more sensitive than she let on. Maelor was inseperable from his sister, and both were deeply attached to Rhaena, who had, along with Queen Alicent, taken up a mother’s responsibilities.

While they had cultivated a friendship through correspondence, there was a period of confusion and tension upon the betrotheds’ first meeting face-to-face. Qyle, headstrong and forward, clashed against Jaehaera’s blunt and distant personality. Both parties seemed shocked and surprised, discomfited by the disconnect between the person on paper and the one that stood before them. Qyle, quite mistakenly, believe that Jaehaera’s coolness stemmed from a dislike of his Dornish appearance, habits, and culture, which could not be ignored in person.

It seemed that the marriage and treaty would fall through. Yet, Princess Rhaena stepped in to mediate, for she knew her niece’s mind as a surrogate mother, older sister, and aunt would. She conferred with Qyle in private, soothing his fears, and explained the troubles that had plagued the princess’ childhood, many of which were not known outside of the immediate royal family. She assisted him in a bid to engender Jaehaera’s trust and affection.

While she never came to love insects, Jaehaera took after her mother and became an avid bird watcher. It was not unusual to find Aegon’s daughter in the gardens with a Myrish eye or feeding birds in her personal menagerie. A month or two after speaking with Rhaena, Qyle gifted Jaehaera a Dornish sand hawk, and was granted a rare smile in return. The pair henceforth got along swimmingly for the rest of Qyle’s residency in King’s Landing, although the prince complained endlessly about the cooler climate of the Crownlands.

The princess was settled. Yet, Prince Maelor remained unspoken for and would remain so for several more years. His dragon, Shrykos, grew rapidly and was large enough to ride by 138 AC. The residents of King’s Landing were often blessed to see the white dragon flying above them, accompanied by the midnight black of his sister’s mount, the pale pink of Rhaena’s Morning, or the deep cobalt of the Blue Queen. On truly spectacular days, Sunfyre the Golden would join them among the clouds. Marriage was still a distant dream for the boy—what was a more pressing issue was Maelor’s seat, for he could no longer be the Prince of Dragonstone.

It would be his uncle, Prince Daeron, who would tackle this issue. In 135 AC, he and Rhaena were blessed with twin daughters, Alyssa and Jocelyn. Both bore the silver-gold hair and lilac eyes of their Valyrian ancestry. Two years later their fourth daughter, Vaella, was born in the Red Keep and Rhaena quickly announced another pregnancy, swelling their household to seven members. It had become apparent to the prince that they were quickly outgrowing the Red Keep. In 138 AC, during the months leading up to the birth of his fifth daughter, Naerys, Daeron approached his brother with a proposal: to build a new castle for the family.

King Aegon was clearly receptive—and perhaps wanted breathing room from the small army of nieces populating the Red Keep—and ground was broken on what would become Summerhall at the end of that year. Expenses were paid for by the crown, for it was understood that this would fill the void left behind by ejecting Dragonstone and serve as seat for the heir apparent. Daeron would oversee the construction of the castle and reside there with his family until its completion, upon which it would pass to Maelor to rule.

Concerning Dragonstone, the other branch of the Targaryen family had kept itself afloat during the long winter. Cerissa Celtigar had delivered a son to Jacaerys in 136 AC, who was lovingly named Lucerys. While his mother technically still ruled the island, Jacaerys has taken up most of the responsibilities of lordship until Aegon the Younger came of age. In a bid to save Dragonstone, he commanded the dragonglass deposits beneath the Dragonmont to be mined, as well as salt deposits on the island. But while salt could be easily traded, dragonglass was a different matter.

Using the contacts of his wife’s house, jewelers were invited to Dragonstone to try their hand at working with the rare material in hopes that it would sell well—which it did. Jacaerys also riskily invested what little gold left in a bid to train a number of smallfolk into skilled artisans. To the realm’s great fortune, he was successful. This generation of artisans proved integral to the foundation of the prestigious jewelers, glassblowing, and weaving guilds that still exist on Dragonstone today.

Prince Joffrey, who had once pledged to kill for his mother, now found himself most vexed by her. Devoted to his elder sisters, he was hurt by her refusal to let him attend Rhaena’s wedding, as well as Baela’s second, public ceremony in King’s Landing. When he declared his desire to become a knight, Rhaenyra denied his request, wanting to keep her son close, and it was only at the intercession of Rhaena, who involved King Aegon, that the prince was able to leave Dragonstone to squire with Ser Corwyn Corbray in the remote reaches of the Vale.

By the time he had earned his knighthood at the age of six-and-ten fighting the mountain clans, he had grown tall and handsome, all curls and earnest smiles. It is said he so resembled Ser Harwin Strong that Rhaenyra fainted when Joffrey returned to Dragonstone. It is likely that this striking resemblance led to the Half Year Queen writing to her half-brother in the only known letter exchanged between brother and sister about the succession of Harrenhal.

House Strong had been decimated by the actions of Aemond Targaryen, but not all was lost. With haste, Lord Larys married Maris Baratheon, as he seemed to be the only man in Westeros not put-off by her acerbic personality. Lady Maris disparaged her husband up until the wedding day, when she had to briefly stop the slew of insults to say her vows, but she was quickly won over by his clever nature and his disinterest in being a husband.

Larys stayed in Harrenhal long enough to sire a child upon his wife before quickly returning to King’s Landing to resume his duties as Master of Whispers. Before his departure, he entrusted the ruling of Harrenhal in the capable hands of his older sister, Alys Rivers, as well as the wellbeing of his wife and newborn daughter, Roslin. Some women may have felt slighted by the sudden departure of their husband, but Lady Maris seemed quite pleased, growing close with her bastard goodsister. For many years, it was said that two witches ruled Harrenhal; when Roslin became of age, that number swelled to three, and later to four, when a sorcerer joined their ranks.

Alys Rivers had also borne a child shortly after the conclusion of the Dance. A bastard boy with bone-white hair, red eyes, and unnaturally pale skin marred by a wineskin birthmark that stretched up most of his face. Widely speculated to be the son of the deceased Prince Aemond, his mother never made any attempts to associate with or have him recognized by the ruling Targaryen dynasty, granting him the simple name of Brynden Rivers. Like their mothers, Lady Roslin and her bastard cousin were inseparable, and he too was said to be capable of wonderful and terrible magic.

Such was the state of House Strong in 138 AC. In her letter to the king, Rhaenyra wrote, “It breaks my heart to see Ser Harwin’s beloved Harrenhal run by such an unholy menagerie. Permit Joffrey to marry Lady Roslin, and he will set things to right.” Yet, Larys Strong seemed quite content to let Roslin inherit the ruined splendor of Harrenhal, and ruling ladies were no longer so unusual. Lady Baela had set a precedent by inheriting Driftmark, and many of the houses decimated by the war had been only left with widowed wives and daughters. Myrielle Peake, for example, was reluctantly confirmed as her father’s heir, and Lord Jon Roxton’s sister unexpectedly inherited the lordship when her brother was sent away to the Wall for his crimes at Tumbleton. As such, when Rhaenyra’s proposal was presented to Lord Larys, the Clubfoot chuckled once, a terrifying sight, and dismissed it immediately.

Rhaenyra then turned to the Vale, and had only begun negotiating a betrothal with House Hunter when Joffrey discovered his mother’s plot, becoming enraged at the thought of being married off. Mushroom testifies that the resulting argument was so loud that residents of the castle believed the Dragonmont was erupting—not even Jacaerys and Cerissa could defuse the conflict. For the first time years, Rhaenyra briefly wrested her authority back from Jace and forcibly confined Joffrey to his chambers. Yet, with all the guards being king’s men, it easy to pass a message off to King’s Landing, informing both the king and his sisters of his predicament.

As Rhaena was pregnant, it was Baela Velaryon who came to rescue her stepbrother on Silverwing, and she swiftly delivered the young knight to King Aegon. There before the court, Joffrey declared his intentions to eschew marriage and his desire to travel the Seven Kingdoms as an adventuring knight, protecting and serving the people. The king seemed inclined to grant this particular request, but the next one gave him pause, for Joffrey knelt before the throne and humbly beseeched his uncle to be permanently reunited with his dragon.

Young Tyraxes and Stormcloud had been permitted to return to Dragonstone for a brief period after peace had been brokered, but once they grew large enough to ride, they were relocated to the Dragonpit. Sharing an exceptional bond with Sunfyre, King Aegon could not find it in himself to separate dragon from rider forever, and so visits and flights were permitted under the supervision of a larger dragon, typically Daeron on Tessarion or Baela upon Silverwing. Even then, Joffrey had flown on Tyraxes perhaps a handful of times in the span of six years, and the young man was clearly desperate to prove he could be trusted with his dragon.

After hearing the prince’s plea, King Aegon asked a question of his own. “If I grant you Tyraxes,” he said before the court, “I will be unable to take him back from you. I believe that you do not wish to use your dragon to usurp my throne for your brother, but tell me, nephew, how can I trust that your own children will not claim Tyraxes and challenge my son? You may not wish to marry now, but that may change in time.”

The prince replied, “I assure you, Your Grace, I am confident that will not be the case. I can prove it, if you wish, but what I have to say must be for your ears alone.” When the king agreed, Joffrey approached the Iron Throne, bent down, and whispered in his uncle’s ear. Whatever was said made his eyes widen in the surprise, and Aegon laughed in amused delight. The request was granted.

Reunited with his dragon, it was suggested that Joffrey, as one of his first deeds as a fully-fledged knight, deal with the resurging reavers on the coast of the Westerlands. From there, he travelled up and down the Seven Kingdoms, and it was said Joffrey had a friend in every village and holdfast in the realm. He was a frequent visitor at Heart’s Home, the seat of House Corbray, as well as Summerhall, as he was still dear to Rhaena and proved very popular among his many nieces.

Many stories and songs would be written about Joffrey the Dragonknight, his fierce Tyraxes, and their great deeds. He even flushed Nettles and Sheepstealer out of hiding in the Vale. However, the story that is still most beloved among the smallfolk is the tale of Joffrey’s great love with his rumored Dornish paramour, Jordan Jordayne, the bookish Lord of the Tor. While the more salacious rumors surrounding their relationship will not be recorded here, Ser Joffrey spent much time in Dorne with Lord Jordan to his mother’s dismay, and true to his word, he never married or sired children. The same was true for Lord Jordayne, who selected his sister’s son as heir. It is worth noting that Mushroom was ejected from Rhaenyra’s household and forcefully removed from Dragonstone when he joked, “Perhaps Joffrey really was Ser Laenor’s son after all!”

Another of Rhaenyra’s children would also fly far from Dragonstone. Viserys Targaryen had been spared the conflict of the war, but his time in the Free Cities had fascinated him long after his return to his mother’s custody. When he became of age, he bid his tearful mother goodbye and established a household in Braavos. Viserys would distinguish himself by serving as a representative for the Iron Bank. It was likely not the occupation that Daemon Targaryen had envisioned for his youngest son, but he performed it well and was often called upon as a liaison between Essos and Westeros. The lives of his children will not be detailed here, although the people of Westeros can be quite thankful that their antics were limited to the continent of Essos.

As for Aegon the Younger, the rider of Stormcloud was fostered at High Tide in 137 AC. Brother and sister had been kept apart from one another by war and circumstance, but when her younger brother arrived on the shores of Driftmark, Baela embraced him warmly and he was reunited with Stormcloud for the duration of his fostering. While he was not a Velaryon by blood, the young prince found himself fascinated by the art of sail and shipbuilding, particularly the craft of celestial navigation, the skill and life-long pursuit that would later earn him the title of Aegon the Astronomer. He also encountered his great love, Daenaera Velaryon, the charming and intelligent daughter of Ser Daeron. After a lengthy six-year courtship, they married when the bride turned six-and-ten.

Returning to the main branch of House Targaryen, Princess Jaehaera was married to Qyle Martell in an ostentatious ceremony in 140 AC. Dornish courtiers arrived at the Red Keep, and many would linger once the wedding celebrations were over, establishing a Dornish presence at court for the very first time. Rhaena Targaryen and Queen Alicent personally escorted Jaehaera to her new residence in Sunspear; while Qyle rode with his wife for most of journey, the princess had wanted the honor of giving her grandmother her first flight on dragonback, taking the queen dowager out of the Dragonpit on Morghul. Despite her love for her new husband and the joy of her marriage, the farewell between the three women was quite tearful, as her grandmother and aunt had been the closest thing the new Princess of Dorne had to a mother after the loss of Queen Helaena.

Rhaenys Targaryen, exhausted by the efforts to arrange Jaehaera’s wedding and negotiate peace with Dorne, announced her intention to resign as Hand of the King. Now in her seventies, she wished to spend her remaining days with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren—only two years ago, she had been blessed with another great-grandchild through Baela, who delivered a son named Corlys, and Rhaena was once again expecting with her sixth and final daughter.

King Aegon honored the request with considerable grace, although it was clear he was heartbroken by the loss of his self-proclaimed aunt and confidant. However, he would not permit her to leave the office without honors, and lavished his former Hand with gifts. Princess Rhaenys was permitted a selection of various royal jewels worn by her late mother, Princess Jocelyn, and, to her dismay, a small statue was erected in her honor in the garden of the Red Keep, which still stands today.

Of all the honors afforded to Princess Rhaenys, the most important and surprising was a betrothal, formally requesting the hand of Rhaenys’ eldest great-granddaughter for Maelor, who would soon be three-and-ten. The eight-year-old princess, who had spent most her childhood in the Red Keep, was a rambunctious child, and Rhaenys the Younger was a dragonrider, unlike her sisters. The egg gifted by the king had hatched when the girl was four, revealing a crimson and black she-dragon heralded as the Red Queen reborn. She was called Tethys, named for an obscure sea goddess and daughter of the Merling King.  

Rhaenys the Elder was touched by this gesture and immediately brought the suit to Prince Daeron and Princess Rhaena, who accepted the betrothal for their young daughter. Their only condition was that the marriage would wait until the princess turned eight-and-ten, for all remembered the tragedy of Queen Aemma. Prince Daeron also cited his sister, Queen Helaena, and the difficulties she faced giving birth to the twins at the tender age of four-and-ten. All parties agreed. A betrothal brokered. There would be, at last, a second Queen Rhaenys on the Iron Throne.

With their eldest daughter spoken for, Daeron and Rhaena arranged the betrothals of their remaining daughters in quick succession, and, accomplishing a feat that has yet to be recreated by anyone else in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, were parents to a queen consort, a princess consort, and three ladies paramount.

Princess Alyssa, clever and crowned with pale golden curls, was engaged to the young Loreon Lannister. Her twin, Princess Jocelyn, who had been long enamored with her father’s tales of the Reach, was betrothed to Leo Tyrell. Although she took after her mother in appearance, Princess Vaella matched her aunt Baela in personality, brash and courageous. She was promised to Borros Baratheon’s son, Royce. If the gods had been kinder, poor Princess Naerys would have lived long enough to see her wedding. She had been betrothed to the heir of Riverrun, but passed from a fever in 151 AC at the age of three-and-ten.

Their youngest daughter, the last of six, was born in 141 AC and named Helaena, a sickly and sensitive child who later blossomed into a great beauty and dragonrider, claiming the wild dragon, Grey Ghost. She was betrothed to the eldest of Aegon the Younger’s sons with Daenaera Velaryon, Prince Daeron, named for his grandfather, Daeron Velaryon, son of Vaemond. When he died tragically at war with the Triarchy, the engagement was brokered to the second eldest son, Baelor, yet that also fell through when the young man ran off to join the Faith of the Seven. It is said that the news that her grandson had devoted himself to becoming a septon caused the stroke that led to the decline and subsequent death of Princess Rhaenyra in 157 AC. Suddenly left without heirs, as his daughters were already promised elsewhere—Daena to Laenor Velaryon of the Stepstones; Rhaena to the Faith, per her own wishes; Elaena to House Dayne of Starfall—Aegon the Younger looked to his older brother’s son, taking Lucerys Targaryen on as his heir.

When the first phase of Summerhall was completed in 145 AC, it was with great eagerness that Daeron and Rhaena relocated their household to the partly-finished castle. During farewells, Maelor embraced his aunt warmly and famously remarked, “At least you’ll be exactly halfway between Jaehaera and I.” To his future queen, he simply wished her well and a safe journey.

They would not see each other for five years. Rhaenys the Younger had been eight years old when she was betrothed to Maelor; now, she was three-and-ten. They had grown up in the same castle and were fast friends, growing even closer after Jaehaera departed for Dorne. However, some were concerned that there would never anything other than platonic love between the future king and his queen.

Yet, on the fifth day of the seventh moon of 150 AC, a glorious summertime day, Rhaenys the Younger was wed to Prince Maelor Targaryen, and he was stunned by the beauty of his bride. She was tall and willowy, with rich brown skin and her silver hair worn braided in the style of her mother, Princess Rhaena, and she had inherited the eyes of her father, although they were more violet than brown. Like her namesake, the young princess chose to ride her dragon to her wedding, inspiring the crown prince to do the same.

Tethys and Shrykos took to the skies after the ceremony, accompanied by all the living Targaryen and Velaryon dragons. Morning and Tessarion danced like lovers, Silverwing cartwheeled with Tyraxes, Stormcloud circled with Morghul, while Sunfyre and Seasmoke raced over the city. It was a promising start to the beginning of a new dynasty.

Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, did not live to see her eldest great-grandchild coronated as queen. While visiting Rhaena at Summerhall the following year in 151 AC, she requested a flight on Rhaena’s she-dragon Morning. At sunrise, they flew out and, according to the princess’ account, her grandmother slipped into a deep slumber mid-air. She would not wake again, but she held onto life long enough for Rhaenys the Younger to fly out on Tethys and summon Baela, Addam, and Alyn to her bedside. She passed peacefully the next night on the eighteenth day of the fourth month, just shy of seven-and-seventy years old.

The realm mourned. Silverwing bore her body back to Driftmark, where she was laid to rest in the Velaryon tradition, consigned to the sea near Driftmark to rest beside her husband, her daughter, and her son. King Aegon wept publicly, and all the dragons in attendance cried out as one—or so the stories say.

With her passing, a chapter of Targaryen history closed. Rhaenys was the last of the older generation who had known the Old King, who had seen both Balerion and Vhagar alive. She had trained for queenship, yet was cruelly passed over. And still, by the end of her life, Rhaenys had proved herself one of the most influential people in the realm. As Lady of the Tides, she safeguarded the interests of House Velaryon, and her decision to back King Aegon secured their fortune for decades to come, reaching unprecedented heights in the years of Maelor’s reign, as well as the reign of his son, King Aerion.

Rhaenys demonstrated her acumen and martial prowess at Rook’s Rest and Duskendale, as well as above Fair Isle, where she sacrificed the life of the Red Queen Meleys to protect the people of the Westerlands. After the war, she performed admirably as advisor to King Aegon, grounding the young king emotionally, and serving as a voice of reason and realism for his more ambitious acts and reforms. Under their administration, lives of the smallfolk improved dramatically, what had been damaged and lost during the Dance was rebuilt better than it had been before, and the number of craftsmen and artisans soared in King’s Landing.

Even before she had known that her great-granddaughter would one day be queen, Rhaenys had done much to endear the Targaryen dynasty to the ruined realm. She orchestrated a complex network of fostering and wardships that healed relationship between houses that had fought for Rhaenyra and those that had fought for Aegon—although not even she could not manage the feat of making peace between Houses Bracken and Blackwood. Maelor had grown up surrounded by friends from Houses Manderly and Stark; Mooton and Tully; Hunter and Redfoot and Arryn of Gulltown. Under the command of King Aegon, she managed to put aside her personal feelings and worked with the High Septon to rescind the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, bringing the Targaryens closer to the Faith. Maelor would be the last Targaryen king born from sibling incest.

Of these many accomplishments, perhaps one of the most important influences that Princess Rhaenys had upon Westeros was the gradually shifting attitudes towards ruling ladies. Aegon had fought for his claim against his elder sister, but he retained women in powerful positions in his court. Princess Rhaenys served as Hand of the King; his mother, Alicent Hightower, and Princess Rhaena, also took up the duties of queen when the king decided to not remarry, wielding considerable influence.

It is known that while Rhaenys later grew close to Aegon, she did not declare for his cause out of belief for his right to rule, but rather for Baela’s right to Driftmark. When both the Queen Who Never Was and the new Lady of the Tides proved their capability and skill, many throughout Westeros began to become more receptive to ruling women, and this was later compounded by Dorne joining the Seven Kingdoms. House Velaryon was the first to legally adopt equal primogeniture, ensuring that Lady Laena would follow her mother as Lady of the Tides. Other houses followed suit, and many would cling to their old traditions. Yet, in 188 AC, King Maelor would pass into law that the Iron Throne would follow the same rules of inheritance, although there would not be a ruling queen until 215 AC.

By the end of her life, the realm was stable, the scars of war mostly healed. Unlike her cousin, King Viserys, she ensured that the kingdom would not fall apart after her death. King Aegon the Magnanimous ruled admirably for the remainder of his reign, honoring her service; Lady Baela and Princess Rhaena frequently cited their grandmother and kept her memory alive amongst the smallfolk of King’s Landing and Driftmark; Alyn and Addam Velaryon named a number of ships after their grandmother; and Queen Rhaenys, when she ascended the throne with her husband, modeled herself after her great-grandmother, the famous Queen Who Never Was.

And so, the Reign of Rhaenys came to an end.

- Princess Daenerys, 313 AC