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Chapter Text

Year 103 AC, King's Landing

Well, shit.

That was the first thing he thought after coming to terms with what appeared to be his new, dreadful, reality. He is not ashamed to admit that it took a total of two full mental breakdowns –not really, but I earned the right to be dramatic–, at least twenty silent screams and countless desperate tears to admit that, yes, he died. And yes, he came back to life, but not in his own body. Not even in his own reality.

Now, that would not be a bad thing per se right? Having another chance at living, to live differently and maybe do things that you always wanted to but, for some reason or another, did not in your previous life.

Yes, it should be a gift. But the place where he is to have this new chance at life happens to be none other than Westeros. Yes, that Westeros.

And of course he was not given the body of a small noble with a keep so far away from King's Landing that he would not find himself involved in the deadly Game of Thrones.

No. Of course not.

Looking in the mirror, he sighed for what appears to be the hundredth time since waking up.

Pale silver-golden hair and otherworldly purple eyes. Undoubtedly Targaryen. But not any Targaryen. Viserys I Targaryen.

Yeah, the king. The easily manipulated, bad decision maker, feast loving, wilfully blind king. The one whose decisions led to a bloody war of succession known later as The Dance of Dragons.

Fuck.

Okay, it is bad. Really bad. But it could have been worse. He could have ended up as a slave in Essos…Yeah, it could definitely be worse.

He had no idea how he ended up in what was supposed to be a fictional world, a really cruel and unforgiving one for that matter, occupying the body of the character that made him want to pull his hair out with every dumb decision he made, but here he is.

His previous life was as normal as it could get; a 25 years old single man from Brazil who worked an office job and spent all his free time (which wasn't much) at home, watching TV shows and movies instead of going out to socialize and maybe find someone to have a relationship with.

A single child with an absent father and deceased mother, estranged from the rest of the family (they sucked), with few friends and that didn't have a dog or cat because pets weren't allowed where he lived.

...Fine, it was a pretty shitty life.

Then, on one random friday, he felt an unbearable pain in his chest that made it impossible to even breathe and before he knew it, it was over.

Thinking about it now, it was probably the result of his sedentary lifestyle and the amount of pizza he ate in place of real meals.

Before his untimely demise, he never got around to actually reading the books written by George, but he found the TV shows that were based off of them quite interesting so he searched for more information of what is in the books and got kind of obsessed with it all, if he's being honest.

It was really fascinating to read and watch about all the dragons, intrigues, backstabbing, politicking and cutthroat nature of the fictional world.

But I never once wanted to actually live it, damn it!

He looked around the unnecessarily luxurious chambers and sighed again. No point thinking about the past now, this is his new reality and he definitely does not want to live the same life as Viserys, so changes will need to happen. A lot of changes.

He seems to have acquired some of the memories from the original owner of this body, seeing as he knew exactly where and who he was after waking up. It is as if both of our memories are currently occupying his pitifully small brain and fighting for space, which is causing him a pretty annoying headache.

And from what he could gather from these memories, this reality he found himself in is apparently a mix of book and show cannon.

From what he knows, it is now the third moon of Viserys's reign, Queen Aemma is still alive and, shockingly, not currently pregnant.

Princess Rhaenyra is a little child of 6 years old and completely unaware of the terrible future she was meant to have.

The Rogue Prince is, shockingly, not exiled as of now and occupies a seat on the Small Council as Master of Coin.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. With his permission, an entourage of servants came in to prepare him for the day. He found himself in a weird position where half of him was unbothered by this; a reaction he is sure was caused by the memories from Viserys and the fact that for him having multiple people bathing and clothing you as if you were a little child was absolutely normal.

While the other half, his own half, was completely mortified.

I am perfectly capable of doing all of this myself, he grumbled in his mind.

But to reject them would be weird, seeing as this is the norm here for someone from his station. Also, he is not too proud to admit that these clothes are pretty complicated to put on and he is not confident that he could, in fact, do it himself.

After they were done clothing him in an attire fit for a king, he took a look in the mirror once more and let out a final sigh.

Time to start the show.

"I wish to break my fast in my solar with the Queen and the Princess."

"Understood, Your Grace." The servant bowed.

"Ah, invite my brother too. Tell him I have something I wish to talk about with him while we eat."

"At once, Your Grace."

Let's meet my loving and totally unproblematic family. 

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

While waiting for his new family to come, Viserys was pacing the length of his chambers back and forth, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He was nervous for this first encounter and unsure of how it would go. 

Viserys knew he had enough memories and information about them to ensure that nothing would seem amiss, not to raise suspicion because of his behavior. Yet, he had always been quick to worry, so worry he did. 

I have a family now. The thought suddenly appeared inside his mind, making him pause. 

A wife, a brother and a daughter.

It was unbelievable. He had always dreamt about forming his own family, of being a better husband and a better father than his own ever was. Of having a sibling, forming a bond with them.

Now I have it all.

And their lives will be a fucking shit show.

Fuck.

Okay, I need to calm down. It will not happen like that because I will not let it. 

A sharp knock at the door startled him, and he heard the voice of Ser Ryam Redwyne.

"Her Majesty Queen Aemma and her Highness Princess Rhaenyra."

His heart started to beat faster than he thought possible.

Fuck. It's now or never.

"Enter." 

The door barely had time to open before a blur of pink and white soft skirts burst through it.

"Kepa!" 

Viserys had little time to brace himself before Rhaenyra launched into him with the force of a small hurricane, knocking the air right from his lungs. 

"Oof." 

Instinctively, his arms came around her, steadying her little body against him. She was so small, yet so full of life. She weighted almost nothing, but her presence was massive, filling the entire room with warmth and light.

"Rhaenyra!" Aemma's voice was stern, but amusement laced her tone. "How many times must I tell you not to run like that? That is not a behavior fit for a princess." 

Viserys could barely hear her, too busy taking in the sight of them.

Aemma. His queen. His wife.

She was gorgeous. Her long, light blonde-silver wavy hair was cascading down her back beautifully. The pale, Arryn-blue eyes were sharp and intelligent, yet they softened while she looked at her daughter and husband.

But still, she was so slight it looked as if a gust of wind could knock her to the ground. Her face was pale and a touch too thin. Viserys knew why.

All the pregnancies, the losses, the strain on her body.

How could he do this to you?

Viserys would never understand.

His eyes then focused on Rhaenyra. His daughter.

She was nothing like her mother in terms of health—robust, lively, cheeks flushed a perfect shade of pink. The little girl had the most gorgeous shade of silver-gold hair, wavy and long like her mother's, and big purple eyes. 

His family. 

"Well, good thing she is not just a princess then," he said, pinching her chubby little cheek, “but a little dragon.”

Rhaenyra scrunched up her little upturned nose and said with all her might "I am not little, kepa! I am a dragon! Ferocious like my Lady Syrax!" 

Her declaration was so fierce, so serious, that Viserys let out a laugh. Aemma chuckled softly, shaking her head in exasperation. Even Ser Ryam, always serious, let slip a quiet, small chuckle.

Rhaenyra was definitely not amused. She huffed and crossed her arms, her small foot stomping against the stone floor in protest.

"Oh, I am so sorry my darling! Of course, you are not little at all. Can you forgive your kepa?" Viserys said with feigned seriousness and almost started laughing again when the little princess put her hand on her chin as if deep in thought, deciding if she could, in fact, forgive the king. 

"Well... I think I can forgive you. But only if you let me eat four—no, five—lemon cakes!" 

Aemma sighed, "Rhaenyra, I already told you that we shouldn't indulge in too much dessert, it is bad for us." 

The princess huffed dramatically. 

"Well, since I have offended my ferocious dragon so much, I think it is fair that I apologize properly," he e made a show of thinking. "How about... three lemon cakes? But it is only for today, and you need to promise me that you will behave yourself during your lessons. Can you do that?"

Viserys' lips quirked up a bit when Rhaenyra seemed to seriously ponder if it was worth it before accepting with an exaggerated nod of her head. 

"You spoil her," Aemma said in exasperation, but there was a small smile on her lips. "You and Daemon both. Gods help us when she grows up." 

"What is a father's duty if not to spoil his little girl rotten?" Viserys countered, then he fully turned to his wife and instantly felt light-headed at just how utterly perfect she looked.

"Good morrow, my queen." 

Aemma smiled. "Good morrow, my love."

She kissed his cheek softly.

"I heard you called Daemon to break his fast with us as well?" Aemma asked with a little bit of confusion, after all it was unusual for Viserys to invite Daemon like this.

What a shitty brother. 

He nodded. "I wanted to have our family together this morning." 

Aemma raised a brow, clearly surprised. "Well, let's see if my good-brother will be able to wake up this early." She laughed.

As if on cue, another knock sounded at the door.

Ser Ryam began to announce Daemon, but the Rogue Prince had strolled inside already, without waiting for Viserys's permission and smirking unashamed, as if the chambers belonged to him. 

Yes, that's cannon accurate, all right.

"Kepus!"

Rhaenyra launched herself at Daemon like a little cannonball. The prince picked her up and tossed her high in the air, as if she didn't weight anything, while the girl giggled in delight. The smirk was off his face now and in its place now rested a real, genuine smile. 

Viserys looked at the scene before him and couldn't help but feel a little weirded out. Those two would end up married in the future, after all.

He reminded himself that it was a different world with different rules. And right now Daemon looked at Rhaenyra as nothing more than his little niece, a child he adored and spoiled.

As for Rhaenyra... She worshipped him already. 

"Good morrow, brother. I am glad you came."

Viserys decided to speak first after it was clear that the Rogue Prince was too occupied playing with Rhaenyra to greet his king. Typical Daemon behavior, he chuckled in his mind. 

The prince set the little girl down, to her utmost disappointment, and finally looked up at him. His eyes narrowed and for a second Viserys thought that he knew the truth and felt cold sweat start to form on his hands.

Then, the moment passed and the prince smirked.

"Brother," Daemon drawled lazily. "Of course, I had to come. My king summoned me and who am I if not a loyal servant ready to obey." 

Viserys snorted. "Yes, yes. Whatever you say, brother. Come, let's sit. I am starving." 

Daemon chuckled. "You are always starving, Viserys. That is why your belly is so… round." The evil smirk was on full force now. 

The king's eye twitched.

This little shit.

It was true. Viserys was a king who loved feasts and loathed the idea of going to the training yard, so he had quickly grown stout.

Maybe that was the cause of his untimely death. A heart attack, perhaps. Viserys knew that, in the show his sickness was something like leprosy, cuts he acquired on the blasted throne that never healed.

Right now, his body had no wounds caused by the swords of the Iron Throne, so he was not sure if in this world his death would be a result of that or a heart problem due to his unhealthy lifestyle.

It didn't matter, he was going to prevent it, whatever it may be. He was not going to die that young. Again. 

"You are so funny, brother. Perhaps I should make you the court fool instead of Master of Coin." 

The prince laughed in amusement. "Whatever my king wants." 

Aemma sighed, shaking her head at them. “The both of you are like cat and mouse. Always bickering.”

"More like dragon and sheep," Daemon corrected. "I am obviously the dragon and Viserys is the fat sheep, in case it was not clear enough."

The prince strode towards the table and sat down, immediately reaching for the food. Rhaenyra trailed after him like a lost puppy.

"Maybe today is the day I finally become a kinslayer," he muttered darkly, watching his brother through narrowed eyes.

Aemma laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, please. You know that is just his way of saying that he loves you." 

"He can take his love and shove it up his—"

“Viserys, hurry up,” Daemon interrupted, impatiently rolling his eyes. “We would like to break our fast before nightfall, wouldn’t we, princess?”

"Yes! Hurry up, kepa! I want my lemon cakes!" Rhaenyra exclaimed, bouncing on her seat with boundless energy.

His family. 

And he was going to protect them.

No matter what.

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

Why wasn't he satisfied with this? 

Viserys pondered the question as he observed the scene before him.

A beautiful, kind wife patiently explaining—for the fourth time—why their daughter couldn’t bring her dragon, which was about the size of a small horse, into Maegor’s Holdfast for a sleepover.

A daughter so adorable and clever that resisting the urge to spoil her felt like an impossible task.

And a brother—foul-tempered, sharp-tongued, and morally questionable—but one who had raised an entire army just to see the crown placed on Viserys’s head. A brother who would undoubtedly kill for his family, and even die for them.

So why wasn't this enough?

Because of a dream? A dream that was more warning than blessing?

Did he even actually have a real Dragon Dream or was it just his deep rooted desire for a male heir? 

Viserys looked once again at them and felt his resolution strengthening.

It may not have been enough for him, but it is for me. 

"Tell me, brother, how is your wife?" He asked nonchalantly, plucking a grape from the bowl.

Daemon’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. His eyes went cold and sharp, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might crack a tooth.

"Dead, if the gods would be so kind," he said flatly. "But they rarely are, so the Bronze Bitch is probably still running around with her sheep in those dreadful mountains and green pastures. No offense, good-sister."

Aemma scoffed. "Well, I find those dreadful mountains and green pastures where I was born and raised to be quite beautiful, actually."

Before Daemon could respond, a small voice piped up.

"What’s a bitch?" Rhaenyra asked, her wide purple eyes filled with curiosity.

Viserys nearly choked on his damn grape. Daemon, the bastard, burst into loud laughter.

"Rhaenyra! You cannot say that word," Aemma scolded. "It’s unseemly for a princess."

"But kepus is a prince and he said it!" the little girl argued, her logic sound and unshakable.

Viserys slid another slice of lemon cake towards her. "Here, sweetling. Eat more cake."

Rhaenyra happily took the offering, immediately distracted, her previous line of questioning abandoned in favor of sugary treats.

Viserys was amazed at how quickly the girl forgot about her line of questioning, and then started to get suspicious that maybe it was all a ploy to get more lemon cake. 

"Well, I only asked because I wanted to make sure that your opinion on your Bron–wife didn't change since the last time she was brought up." 

Daemon snorted. "My opinion will never change, and you know that. This marriage was never something I wanted—never something either of us wanted. I was dragged to the sept, drunk out of my mind. I didn’t even say the damn vows!" He scowled. "It’s beyond me why you won’t just give me an annulm—"

"I will."

Daemon froze.

"... What?"

His expression was so comical that Viserys had to held in his laughter. He wasn't sure Daemon wouldn't slide Dark Sister through him if he didn't. 

"I said I will grant the annulment," he repeated, completely serious.

Daemon was silent for a few long seconds. Just watching him with hawk eyes, trying to gauge the truth in his brother's words.

Viserys realized that, even though he constantly asked for the annulment ever since Jaehaerys was still alive, he didn't truly believe he would ever get it. 

"Why?" 

Viserys tilted his head. "Why what?"

"Why now?" Daemon’s voice was quiet, but intense. "I have been constantly asking for this for the past three moons, and your answer was always the same. So why?" 

Viserys sighed, of course the Rogue Prince wouldn't simply accept the annulment and shut the fuck up. 

"I have my reasons," he said vaguely. "Reasons that are better discussed in private. For now, just know that soon enough, you’ll be a free man again. I’ll begin the preparations today—I need to send ravens to the High Septon and House Royce."

Daemon studied him for another long moment. Viserys half-expected him to keep pushing, but after a while, a slow, satisfied smirk appeared on his lips.

"Good," he said simply.

And just like that, he finally let it go.

"There is something else," Viserys said carefully, watching his brother’s reaction. "I’ve been thinking… perhaps Master of Coin isn’t the most suitable position for you, brother."

Daemon scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk, but his eyes were ice-cold. "And let me guess—Otto Hightower was the one who put that little thought in your head?"

"No. No, he wasn’t," Viserys admitted easily. Then, after a pause, he added, "I mean, he certainly would if given enough time, but no."

Daemon blinked. That threw him off. Viserys had, after all, just admitted that his loyal Hand would try to oust the prince from his position on the Small Council if he had the chance.

Viserys continued before Daemon could respond. "I just think you’re better suited for leadership. For commanding men, not counting coins and adjusting wine taxes." He waved a hand dismissively. "The City Watch is a mess—underfunded, undisciplined, barely able to protect themselves, let alone King’s Landing. I want you to take command, mold them into real fighters—a force to be feared. Enforce my laws. Bring order to the streets of my city." 

Viserys leaned forward, eyes sharp. "If anyone can do it, it’s you, brother. You’re a leader of men. You can inspire loyalty in the dirtiest street rat of Flea Bottom. So… will you accept?"

Daemon Targaryen was, maybe for the first time in his life, speechless.

No sarcastic remarks, no poisoned words, not even his trademark smirk. Just stunned silence.

And with a heavy heart, Viserys realized—this was the first time since they were grown men that Daemon had ever heard his brother praise him.

Finally, Daemon swallowed thickly and inclined his head.

"Yes, Your Grace," he said, voice rough with emotion, though his face remained an unreadable mask.

Viserys nodded, satisfied. "Good."

When he glanced at Aemma, she was already watching him, a soft smile playing on her lips.

After finishing their meal, Viserys bid farewell to his wife and daughter, pressing a lingering kiss to Aemma’s lips and ruffling Rhaenyra’s hair. He promised to spend more time with them later, then turned and walked toward the Small Council chambers—Daemon at his side.

Time to face the most insufferable, self-righteous little shit in all of King’s Landing.

Otto fucking Hightower.

Viserys and Daemon were the last to arrive at the Small Council. As he took his seat, Ser Ryam deposited his orb on the table.

"Good morrow, my lords. Let’s begin today’s meeting. What are we to discuss?"

What followed was a mind-numbing sequence of petty squabbles between noble houses, discussions on tax adjustments, and other matters that barely warranted the attention of a king.

People were starving in the streets, and this was what they chose to debate? No wonder the city is in such a state. 

And Gods, Otto Hightower never shuts up, does he?

The man had an opinion on everything, an irritating tendency to cut people off, and the general air of someone who truly believed himself to be king in all but name. And honestly? He wouldn’t have been wrong—if the original Viserys were still here.

But he wasn’t.

So after dealing with the deeply urgent concerns of his council—such as which lord was mildly offended by another—Viserys decided it was time to begin his own plans.

"Now that those matters are settled, I wish to announce some changes." He let the words settle before continuing. "The first concerns my brother’s position as Master of Coin. I have decided he will be relieved of his post."

Out of the corner of his eye, Viserys caught Otto’s smirk as the old weasel turned to Daemon.

He doesn’t even bother to hide it.

Daemon, of course, responded in kind—flashing Otto a grin full of teeth.

"My brother is a warrior, a knight of exceptional skill, the wielder of Dark Sister. His talents are wasted in his current role," Viserys said smoothly. "That is why I am appointing him as Commander of the City Watch."

Otto’s smirk remained—likely because the City Watch was currently a glorified gang of beggars and drunks.

"He will retain his place at this table and will provide us with reports on the security of King’s Landing," Viserys continued. "Right now, the Watch is in shambles, so my brother will have free rein to rebuild it. He will assess its needs—recruitment, equipment, training—and present a budget to the new Master of Coin."

He leaned back. "Speaking of which, send a raven to Lyman Beesbury, inviting him to take the position."

And just like that—the smirk was wiped clean off Otto’s face.

The man barely gave himself a moment to recover before opening his mouth to protest.

"Pardon me, Your Grace, but I do not think it wise to—"

"My decision is made." Viserys cut him off without looking at him. "I do not require advice on this matter."

Stunned silence.

Viserys glanced around the table and realized something truly pathetic—his council looked shocked that he had made a decision without Otto Hightower’s approval.

How embarrassing.

Across the table, Daemon was having the time of his life, openly amused and making no effort to hide it.

"The last matter is that of my brother's marriage." At this, Daemon stopped smirking and looked warily at him. He still didn't believe Viserys was going to go through with it. 

"His marriage to the Lady Rhea Royce is an unfortunate one," Viserys stated bluntly. "My late grandmother was a great queen, but she was not the best matchmaker. The union remains unconsummated after six long sunturns. That is why I have decided to grant him an annulm—"

"Your Grace! I must protest! This is unacceptable! An affront to the Gods! Prince Daemon is—"

"If you ever interrupt your king again, you will be asked to leave this meeting, am I clear, Ser Otto?"

Viserys’ voice was calm.

He did not feel calm.

He interrupted the king. The level of entitlement is ridiculous. How could Viserys let it get to this point? 

Otto’s mouth was still open, but for the first time in his miserable life, he had nothing to say.

Viserys exhaled through his nose. "Let it be known that while you are all here to advise me, the final decision belongs to me. Your king." His gaze swept over the council. "And on this matter, I am not asking for your opinions—I am telling you what will happen."

He turned to Lyonel Strong, who was still staring at him, wide-eyed. "See to it that this is handled properly—with the High Septon, House Royce, and all legal measures. I will write personal letters—see that they are sent by day’s end."

Lyonel recovered quickly. "At once, Your Grace."

"Good. You are all dismissed."

Viserys left the council chambers immediately. The moment Otto tried to follow, he waved a dismissive hand without looking back.

I have no patience left for you today.

He was halfway to his chambers when he felt a presence beside him. He turned to see Daemon, watching him with barely concealed curiosity.

"What is it, brother?" Viserys sighed. "Do you wish to speak to me?"

"What the fuck was that?" Daemon demanded, blunt as ever.

Viserys blinked. "What do you mean? Are you unhappy with my decisions? I thought we had reached an agreement." He feigned ignorance.

"Daemon scowled. "You know damn well what I mean. That—whatever that was—was not you."

Being assertive is not like me, is what he means. 

Viserys sighed, already exhausted despite the fact that the day was far from over. "I have my reasons, as I said. We will speak later. For now, I want to rest."

And with that, he left his brother standing there—pondering alone.

Why can’t they just accept whatever the fucking king says without questioning everything? Tsk.

This is exhausting.

But it was fine. A nap would fix everything.

Yes. A nap. And maybe a nice cup of wine.

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

It was so simple.

Freeing Daemon from that cursed marriage? A few letters, a couple of orders, and it was done.

Giving him a position where he could actually excel? Just as easy.

Shutting Otto Hightower up and making my own decisions? The simplest of all.

It was so simple because he is the fucking king. Because he does not need to scream to be heard, to work hard to get into a position of power, to fight tooth and nail against those who think differently from him. He only needs to open his mouth, and others will listen.

And yet, the original Viserys almost never did things that would bring happiness and peace to those who loved him. Even though it was so… simple. He thought, bitterly. 

Was it worth it? Sacrificing his family for the approval and validation of the Small Council? For the validation of a fickle court full of self-serving, treacherous leeches who would quickly change their opinions based on what is to gain?

He could not understand it. And he was glad that he didn't.

Viserys sighed and turned on his bed, unable to fall asleep. No matter how much he tried, he could not stop thinking. 

I have no time to get all philosophical, whatever his motivations were, they don't matter now. 

The next step is to free Aemma.

That poor, poor woman. Free her body from the endless burden of childbearing. Free her mind from the crushing weight of having to birth the king a male heir. Free her soul from weeping over empty cradles. 

He could still feel it—the love the original Viserys had for Aemma. The memories, the emotions, all tangled up in his mind, confusing him.

And yet, he let her suffer. Let her body break. Let her die. Gave the order himself.

So what kind of love is that?

Selfish love.

Heavy demands cloaked as duty, as necessary for the good of the realm, as necessary for fulfilling a prophecy.

Even at the cost of the love of his life. 

I don't think he was an evil man, or that he intentionally tried to hurt the people who loved him. But you don't need to be evil to do cruel things. And your actions don't need to be intentional to be hurtful.

He was a man who never learned to appreciate what he had. Probably because he was given everything too easily—including a crown.

I am letting my mind take me far away again. Concentrate, damn it. 

His fingers raked through silver hair in frustration.

I am not the type of person to take things for granted. Especially people. Aemma will not have to lose pieces of herself in the quest for a male heir anymore. I  already have an heir. 

An heir who is currently a small child, perpetually sticky-fingered from candied lemon slices.

An heir who is not Daemon Targaryen.

And he doesn’t know that yet.

...

Fuck.

Viserys threw off the covers and started pacing. Sleep was clearly out of the question.

Their relationship had improved, at least a little, after the annulment and the Small Council meeting. But this? This would set it all on fire.

Daemon would not take kindly to losing his claim to the Iron Throne in favor of a little girl.

I will need to talk to him. Break the news softly as if explaining to a toddler that he won't be getting more sweets, no matter how big of a tantrum he throws.

I can't have him going into a rage, mounting Caraxes and fleeing to Essos for Gods know how long. I need him here, our family is stronger when it stays together.

And once that’s done, Viserys will have to change Rhaenyra's lessons entirely. He needs to make sure that she will receive an education fit for the heir of the Iron Throne.

No heirs will be left unprepared under my watch. 

He stopped pacing and looked at the flames dancing enchantingly inside the hearth. 

Then, inevitably comes the matter of her future spouse.

Gods, she's just six and I am already thinking about her marriage.

As the first Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, she will need a strong consort. Ideally, the realm should respect her for her, because she is their future ruler, without needing to link her name with someone else's–but this is Westeros. So a consort needs to be carefully picked. One that will strengthen her claim, and preferably, one that will inspire fear in the hearts of her enemies. 

Realistically, Daemon is the best option.

He is a Targaryen, so there wouldn't be any conflict of interest due to him trying to elevate his own House. There will be no questions about their children's last name. No giving away dragons—the most valuable asset of their house—to another family.

And also, Targaryens do like to keep it in the family for numerous reasons.

Daemon is a dragonrider with a battle tested and fierce dragon. I'm pretty sure Caraxes' whistles alone are enough to make many a men shit themselves.

He is not one to cower under the scrutiny of the nobles at court, sharp tongued ladies with their veiled insults and judgmental stares will never crumble his spirit.

He would probably make them cry. Viserys thought, with no small amount of amusement.

Daemon cares for Rhaenyra. She is his blood, after all.

And Daemon Targaryen has many flaws, but he does not play when it comes to his family.

He will defend House Targaryen against all threats—though sometimes, he himself may be one of those threats. But that is a problem for another day.

His family is important to him because he wholeheartedly believes in Valyrian supremacy, which is pretty problematic when I think about it with my modern perspective... but I'd rather not go there. This is Westeros. Westeros. He repeated to himself. 

Daemon would be willing to kill anyone who may stand in Rhaenyra's way or pose a threat to their House, and even die for her cause. 

Lastly, he is popular with the people of King's Landing. His habits of frolicking about Flea Bottom and his well known disregard for court manners endeared him to the smallfolk.

The Prince of the City, they call him. The nobles see the smallfolk as inconsequential, little more than animals who could never be a threat.

I know better. 

All of that aside, he is still her uncle. And sixteen years older than her. 

The modern part of my brain wants to curl up and die. But I understand how things work here. I can’t let modern sensibilities cloud my judgment. I won’t change the entire world’s thinking. I have to work within it

Daemon is the most logical choice, even if the original Viserys was adamant that literally anyone else would be better than him. He would probably be happier if Rhaenyra decided to marry a rock. 

Laenor Velaryon would be the second best option–if not for two issues.

One: he doesn't like women. He would never produce a legitimate heir with Rhaenyra.

Two: his family already has too much power. Too many dragons. 

The Velaryons.

Now, that is one tricky family.

Corlys has a seat on the Small Council. He has money, too much of it. They have dragons, two as of now.

Two too many.

And in the future they will have three, one of them being the oldest and biggest in the world.

The Velaryons would have more dragons than the Targaryens. The ruling family, the House of the Dragon. 

And Corlys Velaryon is an ambitious man. He will never forget his lost chance at the Great Council. He claims his fury is due to his wife being passed over, but Viserys knows better. His biggest regret is that his own blood will not sit the Iron Throne through his son, Laenor.

The man lives for legacy, and as someone who is not a Targaryen, what bigger legacy could he have other than being the father of the future King of the Seven Kingdoms? His blood on the throne, Velaryon blood. 

Rhaenys is a formidable woman, way better prepared to rule than Viserys ever was. But even she does not fully temper her husband’s ambition. And that is a problem.

He can't afford to have the Velaryons as enemies, but he can't give them much more power either.

Viserys exhaled, rubbing his temples.

This shit is hard. 

Rhaenyra will not be marrying Laenor, and it will undoubtedly be perceived as a slight by Corlys. So Viserys will need to offer something in exchange to appease the Lord of the Tides. But what?

After some thought, he decided to offer Rhaenys a seat on the Small Council, as an advisor.

He first thought about making her his Hand, but Viserys is still wary of giving too much power to the Velaryons.

In a few years, when she's older, he will also invite Laena to be Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting. 

That should be enough. At least for now. 

The sky outside was tinged with orange hues. Dawn was approaching. He had spent far too long inside his own head. 

I can’t just sit here thinking. I need to act.

He called for his servants, dressed quickly, and strode toward the Queen’s chambers.

Viserys found Aemma sitting on a beautiful ornate chair in front of a large window, embroidering. She wore a simple blue gown, her light blonde hair freely cascading down her back in soft waves. Behind her, the sunset painted the sky in hues of gold, pink, and violet.

When she looked up and smiled sweetly at him,  his heart nearly leapt from his chest.

Beautiful.

For a moment he forgot how to speak and made a fool of himself, staring at her with his mouth open. Aemma giggled, the sound as endearing as the woman herself. 

I can't be feeling like this already. I just got here. We are strangers. Even if she doesn't know that.

The original Viserys' emotions must be clouding my mind.

But I can see myself falling in the near future.

How could I not? 

"It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that look on your face, husband. Not since the early days of our marriage," she said softly, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks.

"Being able to leave you speechless again makes me happy. I thought I had lost my charm." Her lips curled into a mischievous smirk.

"Impossible," he said without thinking. "A woman like you could never lose her charm. I was simply a fool not to show you every single day how much you leave me in awe."

What the fuck.

That was way too forward.

We just met, this will definitely scare her off–wait, no. We are married and have a daughter together.

Okay, this is confusing, but I'll just go with the flow. 

This time Aemma was the one left speechless. Her face became even more flushed and her eyes were wide. 

Adorable. 

Viserys cleared his throat and sat on the chair next to her. 

"How are you?"

Aemma seemed puzzled at his question. "I am well, husband. Why do you ask?"

He looked at her frail appearance and sighed internally. He really wanted to ask how she was faring after her last miscarriage. She may not be pregnant right now, but she was until not long ago. She spent almost her entire life being pregnant, after all. 

But he could not ask her that. So he decided to change the subject. 

"Just asking after my wife's wellbeing," he smiled at her.

She returned his smile, her expression bright. "I’m feeling quite alright. I spoke to the maester recently, and he said it should be safe for us to try again in a fortnight or so," she said nonchalantly. 

Try for again. For a baby.

This is so fucked up. 

Viserys took a few seconds to compose himself. 

"Well, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about," he said as calmly as he could.

Aemma’s brow furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

He took a slow breath. "I’ve decided… there’s no need to try again. For a child, I mean."

Shock flickered across her face. "What do you mean, Viserys? We can’t stop trying. What about your dream? The stability of the realm? You need a male heir."

"Fuck the realm. Fuck the dream."

The words flew out before he could stop them. Aemma’s eyes went impossibly wide, and for a second, he worried they might pop out of her skull.

Why can't I think before speaking? What the hell was that? Could I have said anything less Viserys-esque if I tried? I should write a book: 'How not to act like Viserys 101'.

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by Aemma's voice.

"Viserys, what is going on? You are not making any sense right now." She appeared genuinely concerned.

I am not making any sense for not wanting to force my frail wife into squeezing out kids even though her body clearly can't handle it. 

He exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully.

"Aemma, you have suffered enough. And I… I have let you suffer for too long." His voice softened. "Every time we lose a baby, even in the earliest weeks, a piece of you dies with them. You have mourned every single child. No mother should go through that."

Tears welled in her blue eyes.

"Childbearing takes a heavy toll on a woman’s body. if I keep with this foolish quest for a male heir and end up losing the love of my life... if I take Rhaenyra’s mother from her—" His voice wavered. "I would never forgive myself, Aemma. How could I?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice broken. "I'm so sorry, Viserys. I failed you. I failed everyone."

His heart shattered right in the middle.

"Aemma, look at me." He pulled her into his arms, tilting her chin so she met his gaze. "You didn’t fail anyone. I failed you, my sweet Aemma. I failed Rhaenyra.” He was looking right at her lovely eyes, who were swimming in an ocean of tears. 

"I made you feel as though you were never enough," he murmured. "But you are. You and Rhaenyra—you are everything to me. The only thing I need." He cupped her face. "I was weak. I let the pressure of the crown and the weight of legacy break our family. Break your heart. No more."

Aemma clung to him, her head resting against his chest.

"I have an heir," he continued. "A perfect little girl, who will be a great queen. I don’t need more, Aemma. You have already given me everything. I am sorry."

She sniffled, hopelessness in her voice. "They will never accept a woman as queen regnant."

"They won’t have a choice."

He said with finality.

Aemma blinked up at him.

"Or else I will remind them why our House’s words are Fire and Blood." 

A soft laugh escaped her lips, though it still carried the weight of sorrow.

"You don't have to worry, my love." He cupped her face and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. "I will take care of everything."

Viserys' eyes burned with conviction.

“Rhaenyra will be queen.”

He smiled darkly.

“Or Westeros will burn to ashes.

Chapter Text

Aemma POV

She was lost. Her husband just freed her from the duty of providing him with an heir. From her duty as queen. As a woman.  

She was lost, because this duty was all she ever knew. It was why she married at one and ten, and was bedded at three and ten, as soon as she flowered.

Her duty was to ensure the Targaryen line, which was quickly diminishing despite how many children the Old King and Good Queen had. 

Queen Alysanne talked to her when she first arrived at court. She explained what was expected of Aemma, her duty. Royal wombs. 

She still remembers the sad and resigned look in the Good Queen's eyes. She believed that when looking at Aemma, she saw her daughter, princess Daella. 

Aemma never met her mother. Princess Daella died of childbed fever right after she was born. So of course she knew the risks of pregnancy and birth. Every woman did. 

But everyone has duties, and this was hers. Ever since she flowered she could feel the pressure of expectation on her. The king, the queen, the court, the realm, her husband. Everyone was waiting for an heir. A male one. 

The realm needed more Targaryens. And I failed. Time and time again. Until Rhaenyra. My precious daughter, born healthy and oh so perfect. 

After Rhaenyra's birth, a part of Aemma, a really small part that she hid in the deepest pits of her soul, thought that she had done her duty. She had suffered enough. That part wanted to rest. 

But she couldn't. The realm's expectation. The stability of their family. Her husband's dream. All of it would never let her rest.

Until today. Her husband walked inside her chambers and broke the chains keeping her bound to her duty. He took the heaviest of weights off her shoulders and for the first time in a while she could breathe properly. 

So, yes, she was lost. But she was also so happy. Like a small child thrumming with energy after getting a gift that they really wanted. 

After letting Viserys hug her tenderly for a long time while she digested this new reality she finally said "I don't know what to do now. If I am not to continue with my duty of providing you with an heir, then what else could I do?"

He looked down at her and smiled "Whatever you want. You are the Queen." 

Even after he was gone, those words kept circling inside her head. Yes, she is queen. Her daughter will also be queen in the future, but not like her. No, her daughter will rule in her own right. The first to do so, breaking tradition and even the precedent that set her husband on the throne. 

She will face opposition. Many will not accept her simply because their king said so. They will question her every move, every decision. She will need her mother. 

And I will be there for her. Not as a sickly, sad woman, who's either bleeding out dead babies before they could even properly grow inside her, or birthing babies who only got to breathe for a few moments. 

No, Rhaenyra will have a mother. One who is by her side, guiding her, spending time with her, comforting her. She will have me. Completely. Not pieces of a broken woman with a bleeding heart.

She remembered what Viserys said about keeping this matter a secret for now. His reign was too new, Rhaenyra too young. It would not be smart to declare her as heir right now. 

"Let them think that we are trying for a male heir for now. It will give us time to prepare ourselves to face the opposition that will surely follow." She agreed with him. Viserys only wears a crown because the realm did not want a woman on the throne. 

Rhaenyra will be groomed to be their future Queen right under their noses. While keeping the scrutiny and prying eyes of the court away from her. After all, a little princess simply going to her daily embroidery lessons will gain way less attention from the nobles than the heir to the Iron Throne would. Let her learn in as much peace as it is possible to have in this place. 

For that to work, they will need a trustworthy tutor. Viserys said that he would summon Archmaester Vaegon back to King's Landing on the pretext of having him as an advisor. He would then be secretly tutoring Rhaenyra, slowly preparing her for her role as heir. 

Archmaester Vaegon is the owner of a mask of gold, so he is proficient in mathematics and economics. He also grew up learning at the knees of the Old King and Good Queen themselves, so he was not ignorant of politics whatsoever. 

Aemma was worried about his personality, for the little that she knew about him, her uncle could be described as… rude. He never really fit in with the family, more interested in books than anything Targaryen, that is why he left for the Citadel. She is not sure he would accept to tutor Rhaenyra, but they should at least try.

Looking out the window, Aemma thought about how changed Viserys appeared to be. He made so many decisions she thought he would never do in his lifetime. She was curious about this change, so she asked him what happened, what made him do what he did. 

He looked troubled by her questions but then replied "Well, let's say the Gods were not happy with me. They made me see where my current path would lead me and I didn't like what I saw." He then turned around and left before she could ask him to explain. 

She is still confused but decided to just accept the gifts bestowed upon her. Also, she liked this version of her husband better. 

I can't wait to see what else you will do, my love. 

Viserys POV 

It was a little before the hour of the bat now, he was having supper alone in his chambers, needing the peace of solitude for a while so his mind could work better.

His peace was completely shattered when he heard a noise coming from the wall and turned around to see prince Daemon entering his chambers through a hidden passage.

He was gaping like a fish out of water at the prince's audacity while Daemon appeared as unbothered as ever. 

The rogue prince helped himself to his bottle of dornish red, filling his cup to the brim, then ungraciously plopping down on a chair by the fire. 

Is this what it's like to have a younger sibling? I hate it. Thank you. 

"Excuse me?" He said after clearing his throat to get the prince's attention, who simply sat there looking at the flames and ignoring him after breaking into his chambers and stealing his wine at such late hours. 

"You are excused." Daemon said, without even looking at him. 

This motherfuc- 

Viserys took a deep breath and refilled his own cup with more wine, he had a feeling he would need it. 

"I do not recall summoning you, brother." 

"You didn't."

"I know damn well I didn't! I'm politely asking you what the fuck you are doing here!" Daemon laughed loudly at that. 

"Also, did you just break into the king's chambers??" 

"Kessa." The prince took a sip from his wine and then stared at him, his face impossible to read. 

"What do you want, brother?" 

"Answers." 

"You need to ask the question first for me to answer it." Viserys said nonchalantly but he was panicking inside. 

Of course this damn prince wouldn't just let it go! Doesn't he have any hoes to fuck or something?

"I want to know what is happening. The reason why you are acting like someone with a spine for once in your life and not the fat, lazy sheep I am used to." 

... Okay, that's offensive and unnecessary.

Viserys quickly searched his brain for a good excuse, but came back empty. Daemon caught him by surprise, he wasn't expecting to be put on the spot right now. He then decided to use the same explanation he gave to Aemma. Even though his chances of succeeding were slim, Daemon Targaryen didn't believe in such things. 

"What does it matter? Even if I tell you, you won't believe it." 

"Try me." 

"The Gods spoke to me, Daemon. In a Dream. I was shown that my actions would lead to the destruction of our House." He said slowly, gauging the volatile prince's reaction. 

There was silence for a few seconds and then laughter. A mirthless one. 

"A Dream." Daemon drawled. "Right. Should I call you 'Viserys, The Dreamer' now?" 

"I knew you would not take it seriously -" 

"You are damn right I wouldn't." Daemon interrupted. His eyes were dangerously cold, a calculating glint on them. 

Oh, this is bad.

Daemon got up and unsheathed Dark Sister. He made a show of inspecting his sword's blade. 

Really fucking bad!

"I don't know what else to say to you, Daemon. You have silver hair, purple eyes, ride a fucking dragon but don't believe in Dragon Dreams. It's magic, and as Targaryens we are the living proof of magic." 

Daemon was silently looking at him now. 

"House Targaryen would have perished with all the other dragonlords if it wasn't for a Dream. I thought I Dreamed before, about a son born to me. I was wrong. But not this time."

He took the risk and decided to slowly approach Daemon. 

"I have been weak, brother. My entire life. I can see it now. And no matter if you believe it or not, I know what I saw. This weakness of mine, this desire to cater to the whims of the lords in a desperate attempt to be half the king our grandsire was, listening to Otto Hightower's words and using them as the absolute truth, all of this would end up destroying our family. I would fuck everything up, brother." He said, sincerity dripping from his voice. It was the truth, after all. The original Viserys would fuck everything up.

Daemon looked pensive, he did not appear to fully believe Viserys, but at least the murderous look was gone from his face. 

Thank fuck. 

"I understand your distrust, Daemon. I have not been a good brother to you. I took you for granted, you, Aemma and even Rhaenyra. But I need you by my side, our family should stand together. There are vultures circling us, Daemon. Planning our downfall, coveting our power, wanting it for themselves. They never liked bowing down to the dragons. They did it out of fear, but with me on the throne, what is there to fear? A Targaryen king with no dragon. Even Aenys had Quicksilver."

He was right in front of Daemon now. 

"So yeah, I am not the same Viserys. That Viserys would destroy everything he holds dear. I am not that man anymore. But I am still your brother. Are you with me, Daemon?" 

It felt like an eternity but no more than a minute could have passed when he got his response. 

Daemon emptied his cup in one go and sheathed Dark Sister again, finally putting Viserys's heart at ease. 

"Let's say I believe in this Dream thing. What did you see? Who are these vultures?" 

He did not plan to talk about what would happen in the future but if it gets Daemon on his side then it's worth it. 

And I bet he will love to know that I see Otto Hightower as the enemy now. 

"It is a really long story." 

"I have time." Daemon said as he filled his cup again and took a seat. 

"What do you think would happen if me and Aemma keep trying for a male heir?" He decided to start with a question. 

"She would die." The prince answered without hesitation. 

He nodded his head. "It took almost ten sunturns but it finally killed her. I am a widow now, with no son and no wife. Mourning, lost in grief. But the realm would expect me to marry again." 

Daemon nods, waiting for him to continue. 

"In this time I grew even more dependent on Otto's advice. I see him as a loyal subject, no, I see him as a friend. Then one day during my mourning, I get a visit in my chambers. A comely, pious and kind maiden, who came to comfort me in my grief. To read to me and hear about the regrets of a broken man and give him solace. Otto Hightower's daughter." 

Daemon's expression was hilarious. Eyes wide and mouth slightly open. 

"You fucked Otto's daughter?" He said loudly and Viserys wanted to throttle this fool. Alicent is still a seven years old child, what if someone hears this, what would they think about him? 

"In the Dream! I did, no, I would. You get what I mean. But she was of age! Of age!" 

"Your Grace? Everything alright?" He heard Ser Ryam asking from outside his chambers. 

"I am fine Ser, don't worry." 

"Yes, Your Grace." 

"So he sent you his daughter as one would a whore, and then, what? He really thought you would make her queen?" He laughed "That's absurd, what king in their right mind would make the daughter of a second son, with no lands or keep to his name, a queen?" He kept laughing but slowly stopped when he saw Viserys' guilty face. 

"... You fucking made her queen, didn't you?" 

"And had four children with her. Three boys and a girl." Viserys said, quietly. 

"You dumb fuck! I can't believe you would do something so stupid. You would put Otto Hightower's blood on the Iron Throne?? Dirty Andal blood? And for what? Was her cunt that good? Fucking unbelievable, you're a disgrace to this family. How can you be my brother? How is it possible that Baelon Targaryen sired you? That Alyssa Targaryen gave birth to you? How come Balerion the Black Dread let you claim him instead of burning you to a crisp like the fat sheep that you are?" The prince was now pacing like a caged animal. 

Damn. Got so angry he reverted back to High Valyrian. 

"Your Grace! I heard screaming!" Said Ser Ryam as he barged in, stopping short at the sight of Daemon. 

"Prince Daemon?" The poor man was understandably confused. 

He sighed "It is fine, Ser. My brother and I are just having a conversation. You may go back to your post." 

The knight seemed unsure but obeyed his king and left. 

"Calm down, Daemon. I haven't done anything yet, nor do I plan to. That's why I am doing things differently. If this is how you are going to react then I will stop here. I did a lot of stupid things in the Dream, after all." 

Daemon took a deep breath and sat down. "Continue." 

So he spent an entire hour telling Daemon about the 'Dream'. Only the parts he found necessary. He even told him about Aegon's prophecy. By the end of it, the rogue prince was completely speechless. Or so he thought.

"You really fucked up, huh." 

Viserys's left eye twitched slightly. 

"Yes. That is why I won't be trying for another child with Aemma. And why I will make Rhaenyra my heir." He said carefully, waiting for Daemon to go off. When he didn't, Viserys decided to keep talking. 

"I am not so blind anymore to think you are inept, brother. That was half Otto's poison and half my own inferiority complex, my need to see myself as better than my little brother. But I do think that you are not fit to rule as king. You are a protector, that's where you thrive. And that is why I would have you as Rhaenyra's consort, if you and her are okay with that. I will ask her when she gets older." 

At that, Daemon turned to look at him. 

"You would seriously let her marry me? You seemed pretty against it in the 'Dream', no?" He asked, warily. 

Viserys snorted "And you know how that ended up." 

Daemon nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. 

"So tell me again, why can't I just go to the Tower of the Hand right now and cut off Otto's head?"

"Seven hells." Viserys muttered "For the hundredth time Daemon, we don't want to be seen as bloodthirsty lunatics, executing people who as of now haven't committed a crime." 

"His existence is a crime." The prince murmured stubbornly. Viserys gave him a dry look. 

"His daughter will never be queen, he won't have a grandson with Targaryen blood and a claim to the throne and soon enough not even his position as Hand. We can't focus only on Otto, the lords of the realm will be a problem when I name Rhaenyra heir. And I am also wary of Corlys' ambitions. Oh, let's not forget the fucking triarchy." 

Viserys rubbed his face in frustration. "In short, we have to strengthen ourselves, to face any obstacles that may appear. That's why I'll try to claim a dragon." Daemon was sipping his wine right at this moment and ended up spitting it all over himself.

"You- you will do- what?" He asked between coughs. 

Viserys took a second to admire this sublime scene. Oh how the mighty have fallen. He snickered to himself. 

"Claim a dragon. The Head of the House of the Dragon being dragonless sounds like a bad joke. The more dragons we have, the more powerful we are. I will talk to Aemma to try claiming one too, even though she was born an Arryn, she is the daughter of a Princess of the Blood, granddaughter to a King and a Queen." 

Daemon hummed, trying to appear nonchalant as if he didn't make a fool of himself a few seconds ago. 

"And besides, I think claiming dragons will help with our health, the bond will make us stronger. Aemma was left debilitated after so many difficult pregnancies and I have neglected my health too. Not enough exercise and lots of feasts is not a good combination." 

Viserys yawned, it was probably the hour of the ghosts now. 

"I will go back to my chambers." Daemon said. 

"Brother." Viserys called out to him. Daemon turned, a questioning look on his face. 

"Let's do this more often. Drinking together, talking, plotting. After growing up we never got to spend too much time together, I want to change that too." 

Daemon looked at him with an unreadable face. 

"Who said I want to spend time with a dumb king like you?" His brother smirked at him and turned to leave. 

Oh, this little piece of shit! I should have him sent to the fucking Wall! 

When he was almost out of the chambers Daemon murmured, so low he almost didn't catch it. 

"Once every sennight." And with that he was gone, hidden entrance back in place. 

Viserys took a few seconds to understand what happened and then started laughing. 

He's like a cat! He really wants attention but acts uninterested!

Viserys laughed for a while and then prepared for bed. 

Maybe having a younger brother is not so bad.

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

"Kepa! Kepa! Look! Isn't it pretty?" Rhaenyra asked, proudly displaying the flower crown she spent the last few minutes crafting, a mix of vibrant bright red flowers and delicate little white ones gathered from the Royal Gardens. 

"In all my days, I have never seen a more beautiful flower crown! I adore it! Look at all the details, that required a lot of work, and I know it was not easy," he said earnestly, a threatening to break through as he saw his little girl basking in her father's attention and praise. 

"It wasn't too hard," Rhaenyra said shyly. "If you wish, I can give this one to you, kepa. Then you can wear it and be pretty too." 

"That is truly thoughtful, my love. However, men do not wear flower crowns. You may give it to me instead." Aemma suggested gently. 

"Nonsense! You are clearly envious because our daughter bestowed the lovely flower crown upon me and not you. An ugly sentiment as envy does not suit you, dear wife." Viserys declared theatrically, bowing his head for Rhaenyra to crown him with her creation. 

The girl giggled at her father's antics, her eyes bright with happiness. 

"Done! Now you are pretty, kepa!" 

"As pretty as you, princess?" He asked, feigning hopeful eyes. Rhaenyra looked thoughtful for a while.

"Well, no. But you do not have to be sad, because no one is as pretty as me, kepa," she said softly, taking his hand as if to comfort him. 

Viserys couldn't suppress a laugh. "You are quite right. There is no one as pretty and lovely as you, my little flower. A touch of humility would do you good, but we have time." He laughed again.

The princess huffed indignantly and scampered off to gather more flowers. 

For the past fortnight, Viserys had made a point of spending his leisure time with his family. They strolled through the Royal Gardens, visited the Dragonpit so Rhaenyra can see her Lady Syrax, enjoyed afternoon tea in the Godswood or simply stayed in his solar, conversing and reading together.

Regardless of his daily responsibilities, the lenght of the Small Council meetings, the amount of letters needing his attention, or the number of petitions he had to hear, Viserys dedicated at least an hour each day to his family.

He could already see the positive changes in Aemma, Rhaenyra and even Daemon's behavior towards him. They were more open and relaxed in his presence. Rhaenyra, in particular, was simply blissful, she thrived on his attention, eager to show her talents and bask in his praise. The little princess was starved for attention, her father constantly busy with his duties as king and her mother always pregnant or suffering the aftermath of miscarriages, leaving little room to spend quality time with her. 

"Wait, Alicent! That's not the right kind of flower, we need small yellow ones now." Rhaenyra instructed seriously.

Ugh, that's right.

At this point in time, Otto Hightower had already succeeded in squeezing his daughter into the princess's life. 

Viserys had already started to encourage Rhaenyra to meet and play with other noble children, to lessen her dependence on Alicent. In this way, she wouldn't become isolated and could form bonds with the children of other noble houses, which would serve her well in the future. 

Currently, she spent the most time with the Strong sisters, Rosamund and Beatrice. The girls seemed to have bonded well, and he was glad to see that Alicent was gradually losing her place as Rhaenyra's closest companion. Viserys knew that the Hightower girl was still an innocent child, but he was also aware that Otto would use any influence his daughter might wield over Rhaenyra to his advantage. 

He heard the princess' bell-like laugh and smiled warmly.

Let my little flower enjoy her free time for now. If what I know of the grumpy Archmaester is true, Vaegon will be a strict tutor. Soon, my poor girl won't have much leisure time. 

The Archmaester must be on his way from the Citadel, certainly annoyed by being called back to King's Landing. The man is known for loving his solitude, after all. Yet, no matter how much he tried to forget his roots, he was still a Targaryen, and the family needed him. 

His musings were interrupted by Aemma's soft voice. 

"She's truly happy, you know? Now that the both of us are spending more time with her, she's positively radiant. Even the amount of tantrums she throws has significantly decreased." 

Viserys chuckled. "I share that happiness. After enduring the endless complaints and bickering of those petty lords, nothing revitalizes me more than spending time in your presence." He took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, making her blush.

He had grown quite close to Aemma during this time, spending many nights laying together in his bed while talking. He wanted to know her better, asking questions her original husband never once thought to ask. He loved hearing her talk fondly about her childhood in the Eyrie. 

Viserys also used these moments to convince his wife to claim a dragon for herself. He explained why it was important, but she had been reluctant in the beginning, believing she wasn't suited to be a dragonrider, like her mother. He assured her this was nonsense, the blood of the dragon coursed through her veins, after all. Viserys could feel that she was almost caving, only a few more pleas, and she would accept his idea. 

Aemma glanced at his grip on her hand and seemed to be trying to find the right words to say something. 

"Viserys, I–" she paused, and he tilted his head.

"Yes? What is it, my love?" 

She hesitated again. 

"Well, when do you intend to resume our marital activities? It's been quite some time…" she said, her face flushed.

Oh. OH. 

Viserys wouldn't deny that he had thought about it; he was a man in his prime, after all, and Aemma was a lovely woman. However, he wanted to know more about her first, and he was also afraid of initiating intimacy and accidentally forcing her into doing something she did not actually want to do, seeing as she probably wouldn't refuse him, out of 'duty'. 

There was also the significant risk of another pregnancy, something Viserys absolutely wished to avoid. If they were to have sex, he needed to find a way to prevent pregnancy. Moon tea could be an option, but it should not be consumed frequently, so he decided not to use it. Also, he certainly wouldn't trust the maesters inside the Red Keep with the task of making the tea. Many of them were not loyal to him, and the fact that he and Aemma would not be trying for a male heir must remain a secret, at least for now. He intended to ask Daemon if, during his countless travels to Essos, he happened to find some other method besides moon tea to prevent pregnancy.

"Our marital activities?... Well, I do not wish for you to feel pressured, my love, and–" 

"I want it," Aemma said quietly, yet he heard her perfectly. "I am not feeling pressured, I—I miss you." Even her neck was now tinged pink. "You have been so attentive this past fortnight; it's like the beginning of our marriage all over again, and I can't help but desire—to feel closer to you. Physically." 

Well, I am only human after all. 

"Me too. I wish for it too, but I need to ensure that you won't accidentally become with child again. Allow me to find a better way to prevent pregnancy, and then we can resume our marital activities," he said, wiggling his eyebrows and earning a laugh from Aemma.

"Do not make me wait too much, husband," she said playfully.

My will is truly being tested, but I am going to prevail. I am more than my basic instincts! 

Daemon POV 

Daemon had never felt this at ease inside the Red Keep ever since he was a little green boy who knew nothing. Though it still remained a cesspit full of vipers and lickspittles, he now had the king at his side, sparing him from fighting them alone as he always did.

He remained skeptical about the whole 'Dream' thing—he had never been known for his blind faith, after all—but if it was what made his brother finally see the snakes he surrounded himself with for who they really were, then he could tolerate it.

Frankly, he could see the logic behind what Viserys said, but he loathed to admit he had been wrong about something. 

For the past fortnight, he had talked more with his brother than he did ever since their father died; actually talking, not screaming at each other's faces. It was fascinating to look at Viserys, to hear him speak, and feel something other than disdain. 

He even found himself no longer dreading spending time with his brother anymore. Not that he wished to meet with him so frequently, but they needed to plan for their House's future, an unavoidable necessity. A sacrifice Daemon was willing to make for the sake of protecting his blood

He said they could meet once every sennight at first, but then thought better of it. There were many things they needed to do, so it would be better to meet more frequently. For some reason, Viserys smirked at him when he shared his reasoning. 

Well, he's still weird, even after receiving a 'warning from the Gods'. 

Daemon helped himself to a bottle of Dornish red while waiting in Viserys' solar for him to return from hearing petitions.

Boring. 

He did not bother entering through the doors; it was more convenient to use the hidden passages. More fun too.

Daemon heard the door opening and looked up to see Viserys giving him a dry look.

"Can't you wait for the owner of the chambers to actually be inside before inviting yourself in? Also, stop drinking my fucking wine, you thief!"

"Of course I can. I just don't want to."

Daemon caught the slight twitch in Viserys' eye and smirked. How amusing.

"Stop being miserly. You are the king—you could bathe yourself in wine and turn pink if you so wished to." 

"M-miserly—" Viserys sputtered. "I am not miserly! And it's not about that, it's about the principle–"

"Fine, fine. Just pour yourself a cup and sit down."

Viserys harrumphed at him. Daemon snorted because he looked just like Rhaenyra when she was throwing a tantrum.

"It's good that you're here, I wanted to ask you something. You have visited a lot of places in Essos, correct?" 

"Kessa." 

Viserys coughed awkwardly. "Well, do you know if the Essosi have other means to prevent pregnancy? Moon tea can't be consumed frequently." 

Oh, I see. He wants to fuck his wife again. 

"Yes. Once, in Lys, I visited a pleasure house and told the whore to drink moon tea after we were done—as I always do, since I have no intention of siring bastards on common whores. She told me that they used a different tea, one taken before the fucking happens. Even if you finish inside, your seed won't take." 

"How come we don't use it in Westeros,  then? It appears to be better than moon tea." 

Daemon shrugged. "Because the maesters insist on remaining ignorant. Essos is far more advanced in matters of healing." 

Viserys nodded. "And what's needed to make this tea? Is it difficult to brew?" 

"Luckily for you, I asked her out of curiosity—figured it might be useful to me someday, considering my... habits. It's easy enough to brew, and the ingredients are commonly found in Westeros. I'll write it down for you before I leave. Now, onto more interesting matters–did you see the cunt's face at today's Small Council?" Daemon laughed loudly. "He looked ready to pass out, which I believe is an improvement from his usual constipated expression." 

Viserys snorted. "Yes, he couldn't be more obvious about his desire to see King's Landing rot. Why else would someone be so opposed to reopening the Good Queen's projects? Our grandmother did not earn her epithet by sitting on her arse. She was called 'good' and is still remembered fondly because she took care of the smallfolk. But, of course, Otto Hightower wouldn't want me to have a good reputation in my own city." 

"Watching him sputter and grit his teeth during meetings has become my new favorite pastime." He smirked. "But I would prefer to not see him at all. When are you finally going to kick that mutt out of King's Landing?" 

"I don't think I want him out of King's Landing." At Daemon's incredulous look, Viserys explained, "I would rather keep Otto where I can watch him. The thought of him back in Oldtown, scheming where we can’t see, is one that I dislike." 

"So what are you planning?" 

"First, we are going to find a good reason to dismiss him as Hand. I will do it cleanly and justly to prevent the other lords from whining about tyranny—Gods know they have a penchant for dramatics. I would wager that he already made moves to benefit House Hightower ever since he became Jaehaerys' Hand, seeing as the Old King was too weak at the end of his reign, it would not be difficult for him to succeed—maybe he did something like reducing their taxes. I just need time to go over the ledges with Lord Beesbury to confirm it. You were my Master of Coin ever since I got crowned, so it should've been impossible for him to continue to do so during my reign, but we know how slippery that snake is. With his authority as Hand and my former habit of letting him handle things, it would not be so difficult for Otto to do something like that right under your nose."

Viserys shot him a pointed look. "Not to say that you were exactly diligent at your job. It was a miracle to see you attend a meeting at all." 

Daemon took a long sip of his wine instead of answering. 

Viserys snorted. "Then, instead of exiling him, I’ll say something like, ‘In recognition of his service to my grandfather, he may remain at court.’ That way, we keep him close, where we can watch him. But if he becomes too troublesome—"

Daemon grinned, already opening his mouth, but Viserys cut him off.

"No, you can't feed him to Caraxes. It needs to be done discreetly. Something that won't look like an assassination," Viserys said seriously. "And stop pouting." 

Daemon huffed. "I am not pouting." 

"Of course, you're not."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. We’ll watch his movements, track his allies, and if things get out of hand—well, accidents happen."

“Exactly. Just make sure no one suspects us."

"Easy," Daemon smirked, refilling his cup.

"And how are things with the City Watch? Are they getting into shape yet?" 

Daemon snorted. "Not even close, but they will. I already sent Beesbury the budget request for everything I’ve planned—the old goat looked ready to pass out."

Viserys chuckled. "He’s a good man, but prying gold from his fingers is a challenge. That’s exactly why I made him Master of Coin."

For a while, A comfortable silence settled between them as they drank.

Then Daemon spoke. "Right. When are you and Aemma going to try and claim your dragons?" 

"We’re leaving for Dragonstone in a few days."

"Are you going to try and claim Vermithor? It would make a statement, the old man is well respected throughout the realm, even after his death. Maybe Aemma could claim Silverwing too." 

"Oh, it would make a statement, alright—but the wrong one."

Daemon tilted his head in question.

"Jaehaerys made history. His name will be remembered for generations. The Conciliator. He was able to appease lords throughout the Seven Kingdoms and even the Faith, stabilizing the realm after Maegor's reign of terror. But his legacy was made at the cost of his own family." 

Viserys took a slow breath before continuing. "I don't want to be that kind of king. I won't sacrifice my family for the good of the realm. In the ‘Dream,’ I spent my entire miserable life trying to be even half the king Jaehaerys was—desperate to follow in his footsteps. And the result?" His lips curled in distaste. "Catastrophic. So, no. I won’t be trying to claim Vermithor. I have no interest in being the next Conciliator."

Interesting. 

"So what’s your plan, then? Which dragon are you going to claim?" Daemon asked, undeniably curious.

"Vhagar."

Daemon lifted his eyebrow. 

"Our father’s mount. Queen Visenya’s dragon. The last living creature from Aegon’s Conquest. The one that helped forge the Seven Kingdoms. The oldest and largest dragon alive." Viserys smirked. “What better statement than that?”

Daemon threw his head back and laughed. "Damn right. You also claimed Balerion the Black Dread, Aegon the Conqueror's dragon, old and sick as he was. If you succeed in claiming Vhagar too, you’ll be the king who rode two of the three dragons that conquered Westeros."

A grin pulled at his lips.

It would be fucking incredible.

Viserys hummed. "And don’t forget—it would also prevent the Velaryons from getting their hands on the most powerful dragon alive. Corlys already has too much power and ambition as it is."

"That's right," Daemon murmured. "That little girl would have claimed Vhagar in the future." 

"Yes. And while I feel bad for little Laena, she’s a Velaryon first and foremost. We are Targaryens. The dragons should be under our protection—especially one as important as Vhagar." 

"I still find it absurd that there would come a time when the Velaryons—the seahorses—had more dragons than the Targaryens." Daemon scoffed. "Truly ridiculous." 

Viserys nodded thoughtfully. "I need to bring Rhaenys to our side. She's still bitter about the Grand Council, and I don't blame her. But we're still family. After the matter of claiming dragons is over, I'll focus on mending our bond." 

Daemon smirked "Good luck with that." 

Viserys looked at him, unimpressed.

"Moving on. I have some tasks for you." 

Daemon groaned. "As if I already don't have my hands full with that absolute disaster you call a City Watch." 

"Oh, stop whining, I am far busier than you, and you don't hear me complaining." 

Daemon let out a laugh. "Don't complain, my ass. You're always grumbling about your tight schedule. And I am not whining." 

"Right." Viserys smirked. "Anyway, I need you to handle a few things for me. First, use your vast knowledge of Flea Bottom and its inhabitants to find out how they are truly living—what they need, what they want, their grievances, all of it. We need that kind of information if our goal is to make their lives better. I want a detailed report." He took a sip of his wine. "Also, you have contacts all over Essos, don’t you? Ask around about trusted healers interested in working for us. I’m not putting our family’s health entirely in the hands of the maesters anymore."

Daemon gave him a lazy, exaggerated bow. "Is that all, Your Grace?"

"Ah, I almost forgot. You have a paramour named Mysaria, right?"

The prince's eyes narrowed slightly. "...Yes." 

What could Viserys possibly want with her? 

Viserys’ tone was calm, but firm. " She's not trustworthy. In the Dream, she sold information to Otto, yours included, and didn’t think twice before betraying you and Rhaenyra. I don’t care what you do about it, as long as you never trust her.”

...I see how it is. 

"Well," he flashed a sharp grin. "We both know exactly what I’ll do."

Viserys sighed. "Just don't let it look like you did anything. I don't need Otto buzzing in my ear about 'Maegor come again'. He really loves that phrase." 

Daemon laughed. "Don't worry, brother. I can be discreet when I want to."

"Good." 

Mysaria, Mysaria. Did no one ever teach you not to play with dragons? You're bound to get burned. 

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

They were set to leave for Dragonstone by boat in just a few hours, embarking on their quest to claim dragons of their own. Well, Viserys' quest now. In a rather surprising development, Aemma had already bonded with a dragon before they could even leave King’s Landing.

During one of their many visits to the Dragonpit—accompanying Rhaenyra, who could not bear to spend too much time away from her Golden Lady—Aemma expressed her desire to see Dreamfyre. 

"She's been here since Rhaena's passing in 73. It must be dreadfully lonely. If I am to bond with a dragon, then I would like to try with her first," his lovely wife had said. 

She was not wrong. Dreamfyre had made her lair in the Dragonpit for thirty years now, and Viserys believed her to be as close to melancholic as a dragon could get. There was an air of extreme loneliness surrounding the she-dragon, a lingering sorrow that spoke of unwavering loyalty to Princess Rhaena, as though she were still mourning to this day.

Dreamfyre was an outstanding dragon, hatched while the Conqueror was still king. Her regal, pale blue scales shimmered with silver markings—perhaps that was one of the things that attracted Aemma's attention, as the colors closely resembled those of House Arryn. Whatever the reason, they had bonded quite well. The dragon seemed to perk up at the queen's presence, even though they have yet to take their first flight together. 

And so, Viserys was now the only one in his family left without a dragon.

Not for long, I hope. 

Vhagar had yet to start wandering, perhaps because it had only been two years since her last rider's passing. She still nested somewhere inside the many caverns of the Dragonmont.

I just need to find out which one. 

Viserys had chosen to keep his decision to claim a dragon a secret—just in case. Even the fact that Aemma bonded with Dreamfyre was known only to their family and the dragonkeepers. Officially, the royal family was merely taking a few days of leisure at Dragonstone. Let it be a surprise. 

"Kepa!"

He turned around to see Rhaenyra sprinting towards him from the other end of the corridor.

"Oh, what do we have here? Who is this wild kitten running inside my keep?" he teased, scooping the girl up and flicking her nose, earning himself a burst of giggles.

"Kepa, can I go to Dragonstone with uncle Daemon? I do not wish to go by boat—I want to fly on Caraxes!" 

"Oh, I'm afraid Daemon already left, sweet girl."

Rhaenyra's mouth fell open in sheer disbelief.

"He left without me? And without saying goodbye?" she asked, looking positively betrayed, as though Daemon had committed the worst of treasons. 

"Don't be sad, little one. That brother of mine only does as he pleases—he probably couldn't wait to get away from his responsibilities. I'm sure it wasn't his intention to hurt you, and there's no need for goodbyes. We'll see him again in a matter of three days' time."

Rhaenyra did not look entirely convinced, but after a moment, she simply shrugged her small shoulders. "It matters naught. When we arrive at Dragonstone, I shall have his apologies." She pouted imperiously.

… She's spoiled, alright. 

But look at that pout. She was like an angry kitten trying to make itself look bigger by puffing up its fur. How could anyone resist that level of adorableness? I know I can't.

"Yes, he should apologize properly for such a transgression," Viserys agreed solemnly, nodding as he carried his little princess off to find Aemma so they could depart.

Fuck, I really hate boats. 

Viserys had spent the entire three-day voyage locked in a miserable battle with his own stomach, all his energy focused on not getting sick all over the deck. How utterly unkingly that would be, huh.

It was only after setting sail that he realized just how incompatible he was with traveling by sea. His sweet Aemma had been worried, while Rhaenyra had been insufferably smug— flaunting the fact that she hadn't felt sick at all.

He really hoped no one would tell Daemon about his shameful state, or else Viserys would never hear the end of it.

Gods, please let my body be better suited for flight than it is for sailing.

At least they were almost there, he could already smell the smoke and brimstone, hear the distant roars of the dragons who made the island their home.

When they arrived, Daemon was waiting for them at the docks, along with some of the castle’s inhabitants, who were clearly excited to see so many Targaryens back at Dragonstone after so long. Once at the keep, Daemon—with all the shamelessness in the world—welcomed them inside as if he were the rightful lord of the Targaryen ancestral seat.

"How was the journey?" The prince asked casually.

Viserys felt his spine go rigid with tension, sweat began to form on his temple. He gulped.

Please don't mention my seasickness.

P lease don't mention my seasickness.

Please don't mention my seasickn—

"Kepa was sick the entire time!"

Viserys barely had time to process the betrayal before Rhaenyra—his own flesh and blood—continued her enthusiastic retelling.

"He could barely walk around the ship and every time he ate something, he would run straight to this big bucket and retch! But I didn't get sick at all! Right, muña?"

She looked expectantly at Daemon, clearly waiting for him to praise her for not getting sick. 

…

…

…

Et tu, Brute?

My own daughter! Oh, how it hurts! 

At least she spoke in High Valyrian. Even in her betrayal, she was still careful enough not to humiliate her poor father where his subjects could hear.

Small mercies, I suppose. 

Daemon, of course, was already looking at him with that familiar glint in his eyes.

I'm done for.

"Oh, how regrettable," the rogue prince drawled, his voice dripping with insincerity. "It must have been terrible. It is not easy to be so… weak, after all. I do hope you recover soon, brother." 

Viserys clenched his jaw. And to make matters worse, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Aemma trying to hide a smile. Another addition to the growing list of betrayals.

I want to punch him so badly right now... but I doubt I'd get close enough before Dark Sister found itself a home inside my weak stomach. 

Regaining what little dignity he had left, he cleared his throat. "We are all fatigued from the journey. Let us rest in our chambers before supper."

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and power-walked towards the Sea Dragon Tower—away from Daemon’s inevitable mockery.

Viserys had just finished bathing and was about to sit down in front of the hearth when the door swung open.

Daemon stepped inside like he owned the place.

Ser Ryam had already given up on announcing the prince. Daemon always did whatever he pleased, and besides, Viserys didn't wish for that level of formality between his family. Unless he specifically ordered not to be bothered, Aemma, Rhaenyra and Daemon were free to enter his chambers without needing to be announced first. 

"So, I heard His Grace spent the entire voyage puking his royal guts out."

Viserys let out a long-suffering sigh. He was already exhausted.

"How come Balerion let you claim him? I often wonder about it." 

Viserys shot him a dry look. "Those two things are completely unrelated, brother." 

Daemon gave him a crooked smile and flopped into the chair next to him. 

"I've been observing Vhagar for the last three days. I think I know where her lair is. When do you plan on going?"

Viserys blinked.

…

Wait. That—That was actually incredibly considerate of him. Wow.

"You did?" He sat up straight, genuinely impressed. "That's incredible, brother! I was already dreading having to search the entire Dragonmont for her cave. You have my gratitude." 

No more blind searching! It's so good to have a younger brother!

Daemon waved him off like it was nothing, but Viserys swore he caught the faintest hint of a smile. 

Heh. 

"I will be going tomorrow, after breaking my fast." 

Before Daemon could reply, the door opened again.

A flash of silver-golden hair shot past them, and Rhaenyra ran straight to Daemon.

"Kepus, I want to go on a stroll before supper. Walk with me.".

"Sweetheart, you need to ask him if he wants to go with you," he gently corrected her.

Rhaenyra pouted, but relented. "Do you want to go on a stroll with me, Uncle Daemon?" She threw in her best puppy-dog eyes for good measure.

Daemon chuckled and looked fondly at her. "Why, I would love to. Please accompany me, my lady. I hear Aegon's Garden is a lovely place for a stroll." He offered his arm and Rhaenyra giggled as she took it. 

He and Aemma watched them go, smiles on their faces. 

——

Once the door shut behind them, Aemma slowly turned back to him, a familiar glint in her eye.

Viserys smirked and pulled her to his lap, kissing her lips sweetly. 

Bonding with Dreamfyre had done wonders for her confidence, and he loved the change.

"Are you feeling better, my love?" she murmured against his lips, her breath warm, her mouth glistening.

Viserys barely managed a hmm before diving in for another kiss—this one deeper, more urgent.

Aemma wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, moaning softly while rolling her hips just slightly—

Gods have mercy.

Viserys broke the kiss with a groan, resting his forehead against hers.

"You are going to be the end of me." He exhaled sharply. "We can't. Not until you drink the tea I told you about." It took everything in him to stop. 

Aemma huffed in frustration. "And when will that be? You already know what you need to brew it."

Viserys sighed. "Yes, but I don't trust the maesters at the Red Keep. I don't want anyone suspecting us of using methods to prevent pregnancy while there is no male heir."  

Aemma rolled her eyes. Cute. 

"But the maester here—Gerardys—he's trustworthy. I saw it in the Dream. I will speak to him before supper, ask him to brew the tea." Viserys waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

His wife laughed at his antics and kissed him again.

"I cannot wait, husband." She grinned mischievously.

I am the happiest man alive. 

After a lovely supper filled with laughter, light banter, and even a bit of gossip, Viserys and Aemma made their way to Rhaenyra’s chambers for their nightly tradition—reading her a bedtime story.

The princess had grown particularly fond of tales from Old Valyria, ancient poems and transcribed books filled with history, magic, and dragons. The collection had been gifted to her by none other than the rogue prince himself.

Despite her adamant insistence that she wasn’t tired at all, Rhaenyra barely lasted a few minutes before her eyes fluttered shut.

Viserys and Aemma shared a knowing smile.

Each placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before quietly slipping out of the room, hand in hand, back to Viserys’s chambers.

He told Ser Ryam that they were not to be disturbed and locked the doors. 

On a small table near the hearth sat a glass vial filled with the tea he asked Gerardys to prepare. The maester had proven his loyalty by not asking any questions about the concoction, especially because the look on his face when reading the ingredients told Viserys he knew exactly what it was for. Gerardys was an intelligent man—one who understood that the royal couple was not trying for a child.

Gerardys was always more knowledgeable than other maesters because he never limited his world views. I need someone like him next to us in the Red Keep, not wasting away at a currently unoccupied castle. 

Aemma curiously approached the table and took the vial in her hands, uncorked it and smelled its contents. "That's surprising. I expected the smell to be unbearable." Without hesitation, she brought it to her lips and drank.

"The taste isn't so bad either," she mused.

Viserys smirked, stepping toward her before effortlessly lifting her into his arms. Aemma let out a delighted giggle, wrapping her arms and legs around him.

Because the original Viserys didn't do any kind of exercise and had the habit of indulging in too many feasts, his body was out of shape. He used to tire from simply walking up and down the stairs of the Red Keep during the first days after he arrived in this new world.

But, still, Viserys was a tall and young Valyrian man—and his Aemma was so light it worried him sometimes. Carrying his sweet wife around was not a difficult task for him. Especially since he started taking strolls through the Royal Gardens everyday. 

He carried Aemma to the bed, placing her down gently. Their eyes met and he caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers.

Aemma sighed, closing her eyes as if savoring the touch. How could he resist? He leaned down and captured her lips in a tender kiss.

So lovely.

His fingers found the ties of her silken robe, loosening it with ease. The fabric slipped away, revealing the pale blue nightgown beneath. He took his time, letting his hands and lips roam as he undressed her further. Kisses trailed from her collarbone to her breasts, where he paused to marvel.

Two handfuls of soft, supple flesh, crowned with beautiful pink nipples that were already standing at attention. 

Aemma's breath hitched as he took one into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the hardened bud, he gently sucked it while looking at her. Aemma's face was flushed and contorted in pleasure, the queen wasn't able to hold eye contact for long, so she decided to close them. Her hands threaded through his hair, and her quiet moans sent a thrill down his spine. He used one hand to fondle her neglected breast, rolling the stiffened peak between his fingers. Meanwhile, his free hand ventured downwards, seeking out the sensitive little nub nestled between her thighs that would bring her the most pleasure. 

The moment he touched it, Aemma gasped, arching her back.

There it is.

He collected the wetness seeping from her core, using it to make his movements smoother. His fingers moved in slow circles, sometimes adding a teasing pressure, building her up with deliberate precision.

Aemma’s moans—that were like music to his ears—turned breathless, her thighs trembling. It wasn’t long before she reached her peak—her back arching, fingers gripping the sheets, lips parted in a strangled cry, until she collapsed on the bed again, panting. 

The first one. 

Viserys gave her a moment to catch her breath, pressing soft kisses against her lips.

"How do you feel?" he asked,  caressing her head and running his fingers through her silky hair.

Aemma gazed up at him, eyes dazed, and traced the shape of his mouth with her fingertips. "Happy."

She smiled so sweetly, and his heart swelled with love.

"Good," he murmured, a mischievous smile creeping onto his lips. "Then let’s see if I can make you even happier."

He slid down the bed, settling his face between her parted thighs.

Viserys looked at her glistening folds, protected by pale blonde hair and licked his lips.

"Gevie." 

He started by slightly biting and kissing the inside of her thighs, causing her skin to erupt in goosebumps. Then he got close enough to her core that he was sure his breathing was tickling her. 

Aemma looked at him, eyes confused and slightly out of focus. "Viserys? What are you doing?"

"Me? I am going to taste you, of course." He smirked. His wife's eyes became comically wide at the admission. 

"T-taste? What are yo—"

Before she could finish, he spread her folds with his fingers and pressed his mouth to her dripping core, his tongue licking it in a slow and sensual pace.

Aemma cried out, her hands flying to his hair, body writhing beneath his tongue. Her taste was intoxicating, her sounds even more so. He slipped a finger inside her, curling it just right as his tongue worked her clit.

After some time, her moans grew louder, more desperate. She was close again.

He added a second finger, increasing the pace, his free hand teasing her breast as he brought her to the edge for the second time that night.

Aemma let out a choked sob that echoed in the chamber, he felt her walls fluttering around his fingers. Viserys stopped licking her clit to avoid overstimulation, but kept slowly pumping his digits in and out for a while.

She lay panting, her skin flushed, eyes wide with shock

"V-Viserys, what—what was that?" she breathed.

He smirked, his lips glistening with her wetness. "That was me pleasuring my gorgeous wife with my mouth. You dislike it?"

She shook her head so fast it was almost comical.

Adorable.

"Good," he chuckled, kissing the inside of her thigh. "Because I plan to make it a habit from now on. I quite enjoyed the taste of you on my tongue." He licked his lips, making her face turn even redder, if that was possible.

He brushed her hair out of her face. "Do you wish to continue?"

Despite her obvious exhaustion, with sweat sliding down her forehead, Aemma nodded eagerly, making his chest ache with fondness.

Viserys removed his clothing, his cock painfully hard and throbbing with need, a drop of precum on his tip. He coated it in her arousal before positioning himself at her entrance.

"May I?"

At her soft confirmation, he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried inside her warmth.

"Gods, Aemma," he groaned, forehead resting against hers. "You feel perfect."

She whimpered, wrapping her arms around him, and he had to use all of his self control not to finish things before they could even get started. 

Viserys began to move, slow and deep—one hand gripping her hips and the other gently holding the back of her neck—savoring every second. He took her lips in his own, tongue darting inside her mouth, exploring. Their sounds of pleasure being muffled by the passionate kiss. 

"You are so good, my love. You feel so good, so warm." He murmured while caressing her hair.

Viserys bite slightly at her neck, suckling the skin there, a primitive part of himself wanting to leave a mark, so everyone would know she belonged to him. 

After a few minutes his pace was already faster, their moans louder, the sounds of flesh slapping together reverberating throughout the chamber—and for a brief second, he felt bad for whatever kingsguards were on duty now, but the thought soon left him and his mind was full of Aemma once again. 

He could see the telltale signs and knew she was close, so he reached between them and rubbed her sensitive bud while rolling his hips. 

Aemma twitched, her mouth open in a silent scream, her walls quivering around Viserys, trying to coax his seed out of him. 

Fuck. I'm getting close.

He wanted to make the moment last just a little longer, so he pulled out and shifted their position. Now behind Aemma, both of them lying on their sides, he lifted one of her legs and eased himself back in. 

She let out a hoarse moan, his name spilling from her lips in breathless whimpers, her mind too clouded with pleasure to form coherent words. He set a steady rhythm, the slap of his skin against her cute butt filling the room, driving him closer to the edge.

After a few minutes, Viserys knew he wouldn't last much longer, so he reached between her legs, fingers finding that special spot. He circled it with practiced precision, coaxing her towards one final release.

Aemma let out a strangled cry, her walls spasming and contracting around his cock. Viserys turned her face towards him, his voice rough with need. "Open your eyes," he groaned. "I want you to look at me when you reach your peak."

She obeyed instantly, her gaze locking onto his, her eyes hazy with bliss as the pleasure overtook her completely.

Fuck.

He pulled out at the last moment, spilling his seed over her folds, painting her in white.

I still don't know how effective the tea is. Better not to risk it. 

For a moment, they simply lay there, catching their breath.

He turned his head to look at Aemma. She was limp, skin heated up, eyes closed, panting and still twitching slightly from the aftershock. 

"Magnificent," he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from her face.

Aemma laughed, weakly swatting his chest. "I am completely disheveled."

"Magnificent either way," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead before getting up to find something to clean up the mess they made. 

He came back with a wet cloth and started to gently clean Aemma, who only smiled lovingly at him. 

After he was done, Viserys settled besides her, pulling her into his arms. She hummed contentedly, nuzzling into his chest.

"You did not spill your seed inside," she murmured. "I thought the tea was meant to prevent it from taking root."

"It is," he admitted. "But I have no knowledge of how effective it truly is. I'd rather be cautious." He hesitated, then asked, "Would you prefer if I spilled inside?"

Aemma hesitated for a beat before nodding, face burning. "I… I think I like the feeling. Of your seed inside, I mean." 

Oh.

His stomach tightened at the admission.

"I see," he said, kissing her temple. "Then let’s make a compromise. Sometimes, I will spill inside you—but not always. I refuse to put your body through pregnancy again."

Aemma smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone.

"Now," he hugged her from behind, and they adjusted themselves on the bed, "It is time to sleep." Viserys kissed the top of her head. "Sleep well, my love." 

And tomorrow, I'll finally be claiming a dragon.

Chapter Text

Aemma POV 

She awoke from her slumber to a still dark chamber. A frown creased her brow. Had she not slept for hours? Where was the morning light? But then, realization settled over her.

Ah, we are at Dragonstone.

The Targaryen ancestral seat was as formidable as it was gloomy—strong, ancient, and steeped in shadow. The ever-present storm clouds that loomed over the island as if it was their home, the obsidian-hued stone from which the keep was made, and the menacing carvings of dragons, basilisks, griffins, and wyverns lent the castle an eerie, almost otherworldly presence. It was an unsettling place for most people, but not for those with the blood of the dragon. 

For Aemma, however, while she did not find Dragonstone unsettling, it would never compare to the green valleys and towering peaks of the Vale.

I miss it. Now that Viserys has changed so much, perhaps he would allow me to visit the Eyrie. Oh, perhaps I could fly there on Dreamfyre...

A wistful smile touched her lips. Yes, she would love to stretch her wings after being confined to the Dragonpit for so long.

I wonder... will I finally fly like a true Targaryen?

She tried to shift, only to find herself unable to move. Glancing down, she smiled softly. Viserys' arm was wrapped securely around her waist, keeping her pressed against him.

Last night was… incredible. 

A warmth spread through her at the memory. She had never felt that way before. Viserys had been so tender, so passionate. Her cheeks burned at the thought.

I did not know marital duties could be so… pleasurable. It was never unpleasant, but nothing like last night. Perhaps… because we were not trying for a child this time?

Fingers ran gently through her hair, pulling her from her musings. She tilted her head up and met Viserys' gaze. He was watching her with a knowing smirk.

"What could you possibly be thinking about this early that made your face so flushed, dear wife?" 

She scowled at him playfully. "I was not–" she clamped her mouth shut immediately after realizing how hoarse her voice was. From all the screaming. Her mind supplied, unhelpfully.

Her face burned even hotter.

Viserys burst into laughter, a deep, rich sound that filled the chamber. He rolled out of bed and returned moments later with a cup of water, holding it to her lips as if she were a child.

"Drink," he ordered, amusement still lacing his voice.

Aemma huffed but obeyed, drinking until the cup was empty. "I am capable of doing it myself," she grumbled, though the queen was not unhappy at all.

"I know," he said easily, placing a kiss on the top of her head. "But I want to do it for you." 

She looked away, but a pleased smile tugged at her lips.

"I’ll have the servants prepare the bath," he continued. Then, with a teasing gleam in his eyes, he added, "Would you like to bathe together?"

"T-Together?" she stammered, her eyes wide.

"Yes," he chuckled. "The black stone bath is more than large enough for us both. And I’d very much like to spend a little more time with my lovely wife before I venture into the caves of the Dragonmont in search of the Old Grandma." His smile was bright, teasing, affectionate.

Aemma swallowed. "Well… I can hardly deny my husband such a simple request, can I?"

As Viserys leaned down to kiss her, she closed her eyes, feeling warmth settle deep within her chest.

If this is a dream, I never want to wake up.

Viserys POV 

Viserys and Aemma broke their fast alone in his chambers. Rhaenyra was still asleep, and Daemon… well, Daemon was off doing whatever it was that Daemon did. Viserys hadn’t seen him since the day before.

I thought he would show me the approximate location of Vhagar's lair, but I suppose you can never actually count on your siblings. 

Just as the thought crossed his mind, Daemon materialized seemingly out of nowhere in front of him. He stood before Viserys, arms crossed, wearing a smirk so self-satisfied it could only spell trouble. 

"Did you sleep well, lēkia?" Daemon asked casually. 

"Viserys eyed him warily. "Yes. I was tired from the journey, after all."

What are you up to now?

Daemon hummed thoughtfully. "Hm. Well, I unfortunately didn’t get much sleep last night. Nor did half the keep." He paused, his smirk deepening. "You see, there was so much… noise." His voice was solemn, but his eyes gleamed with unrestrained amusement.

Ah. I see. 

Viserys coughed awkwardly. "It must have been the wind. Dragonstone is known for its relentless climate—strong winds, powerful storms."

Daemon nodded along, feigning deep contemplation. "Yes. Curiously, the winds last night sounded an awful lot like moans and… well, let’s say cries of great satisfaction." He raised an eyebrow, his smirk damn near splitting his face. "I had no idea you had it in you to make a woman scream like that, my king."

Viserys lunged to swat his annoying brother upside the head, but Daemon had quick reflexes, so he simply ducked out of reach while cackling.

The prince then gave him a once-over, his sharp eyes narrowing. "I recognize those clothes." He gestured towards Viserys with his chin. "They were—"

"Our father’s," Viserys finished for him. "Yes. There are some old garments our family left behind here. A few from Jaehaerys, Alysanne, even Rhaena."

Daemon’s amusement faded into curiosity. "And why are you wearing them?"

Viserys straightened slightly. "I thought it might help me in my quest. Perhaps Vhagar will remember her last rider and be more amenable to me."

Daemon chuckled. "While dragons are not mere beasts, I don’t know if that plan will actually work. But there’s some merit in trying, at least."

They began to make their way towards the Dragonmont and walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes—until Daemon, being Daemon, ruined it.

"How did you even fit inside kepa’s clothes?" 

…This little...

Viserys exhaled through his nose. "Daemon, I am one joke away from sending you to the Wall."

Daemon only laughed, utterly unrepentant. "Hurry up, Your Grace. You have a dragon to claim." He shot Viserys a wicked grin. "Or are you too tired from your night of passion?"

Viserys grumbled but followed after the infuriating brat.

They stopped outside the entrance of a massive cave at the foot of the Dragonmont. The air was thick with the pungent scent of brimstone, smoke, and something else—something ancient and unmistakable.

Dragon.

"This must be it," Daemon said, his voice firm. "The size is right for a dragon like Vhagar, and the smell is strongest here. You have to continue alone now. Are you ready?"

Viserys exhaled slowly, his jaw set with determination. "I will claim Vhagar or die trying."

Daemon grinned, the torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. "Spoken like a true Targaryen."

Viserys stepped into the cave, carrying only a torch. The deeper he ventured, the hotter the air became, thick with volcanic heat that would have been unbearable to any other man.

I must be getting closer to the center of the volcano... Thank Gods Targaryens are good with heat, otherwise I would have passed out already. 

After walking for what seemed like days but could not be more than a few minutes he finally saw her. 

Or rather, she saw him first. 

Twin pools of molten green fixed on him from the darkness. Vhagar’s gaze was ancient and knowing, heavy with the weight of her age. A low growl rumbled through the cave, shaking the ground beneath his feet.

Viserys should have been afraid. He should have felt terror clawing at his gut. He was nothing but a speck before her—a mortal man standing before a living god of fire and fury.

But he wasn’t afraid.

He was mesmerized.

He took a step forward. Then another.

"Lykirī, Vhagar." His voice was steady, commanding.

The dragon’s roar split the air, so powerful that Viserys thought the cave itself might collapse. But he didn’t flinch.

"Lykirī!"

He stepped closer, undeterred. Vhagar lowered her enormous head until her snout was mere inches from him, her breath so hot it stung his skin. She growled, testing him, daring him.

"Dohaerās!"

Viserys commanded, unperturbed by the threatening sounds.

Something ancient stirred between them, something older than Valyria itself. It was in his blood. It was in hers.

Blood magic.

Viserys reached out, pressed his palm against the warm, leathery surface of her snout and closed his eyes. He could feel it coursing through his blood, searching. It was boiling and alive. A connection—something beyond words, beyond reason. He felt her, and she felt him.

"I am here," he murmured. "You have been lonely, Old Girl. Not anymore."

Vhagar let out a deep, rumbling sound—almost like a grumble. He chuckled. Grumpy old girl.

Climbing onto her back was an ordeal in itself, but the ropes from her old saddle were still there. He heaved himself up, securing his grip on the reins.

After fixing his position Viserys clutched the reins in his hands and took a deep breath. 

"Sōvēs."

The Queen of Dragons stirred.

She slightly stretched her colossal wings, shaking the dust from her body. Viserys had to grip the reins tightly as she moved, her sheer size and power unlike anything he had ever experienced.

Then she surged forward, heading towards the cave entrance at a pace that seemed impossible for something so massive.

She roared, and the world shook.

"Sōvēs, Vhagar!" 

She leapt into the sky.

Viserys felt the rush of air, the sudden lurch of weightlessness, the raw power beneath him.

I am flying. 

I am flying on a dragon. 

I am fucking flying on a fucking dragon! 

Laughter bubbled up from his chest, wild and exhilarated. He had never felt so right, like a missing piece of himself had finally been restored.

Vhagar was breathtaking, and somehow, impossibly, he could feel her—not just beneath him, but in his mind, in his blood, in his very soul.

The Queen of All Dragons.

He lost track of time and was brought back to reality by the shrill cry of the Blood Wyrm. Looking to his side, he saw Daemon on Caraxes, flying closely to him. 

The prince was flying besides him, grinning like a madman and saying something that he could not possibly hear because of the wind. But judging by his expression, it wasn't an insult for once.

They flew together for a while before Daemon gestured for him to follow, leading the newly bonded pair of rider and dragon to land near the castle. 

Viserys had not expected an audience.

Yet, as Vhagar descended, he saw that nearly everyone from the castle had gathered outside, along with some smallfolk from the island.

And at the front—

Aemma and Rhaenyra.

"Good job, Old girl." He patted Vhagar's snout after dismounting.

Before he could react, Daemon pulled him into a brief but firm embrace. Then, just as quickly, the prince pulled away and slapped him on the back.

"You did it," Daemon said, a rare note of pride in his voice.

Viserys blinked. Daemon Targaryen, showing affection? In public?

Then he realized that Vhagar’s enormous head was conveniently blocking them from view. 

He chuckled. "You doubted me, brother?"

"I was already preparing your funeral pyre," Daemon said dryly.

That's more like it. 

"Come on, there are people waiting to congratulate you."

As they approached the crowd, Rhaenyra was already running toward him. He caught her effortlessly, lifting her into his arms as she wrapped her small arms around his neck.

"Kepa, you did it! You claimed Vhagar! I saw you flying! When are you taking me riding? When can I mount Syrax? Are we going to fly together when I do?" The girl asked quickly, with a high-pitched voice.

"Rhaenyra, that is too many questions at once," Aemma chided, laughing. She turned to her husband, eyes bright. "Congratulations, my love."

Viserys grinned and stole a quick kiss.

"Viserys! We are outside!" Aemma scolded.

"Ew, do not do that!" Rhaenyra whined.

He laughed, utterly content.

Viserys noticed the dragonkeepers among the crowd, gazing at Vhagar in awe. He gave them instructions to see to her care.

After hearing countless words of praise and congratulations from the castle's staff, Viserys decided the occasion warranted a small celebration. He ordered the kitchens to prepare pastries and refreshments, ensuring that the triumph of claiming Vhagar was marked with something sweet. The atmosphere was lighthearted—Aemma stood nearby, laughing with Amanda Arryn and her ladies-in-waiting, while Rhaenyra, with all the subtlety of a dragon in a market stall, attempted to steal the sugary toppings from every lemon cake within her reach.

Seizing the moment, Viserys motioned for Daemon to follow him away from the revelry. The prince, ever perceptive, fell into step beside him, his usual smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Once they were out of earshot, Viserys spoke, his voice low but firm.

“There is a knight—Alfred Broome. A sullen man. He stood with the rest of the garrison to congratulate me.” His tone sharpened. “Kill him.”

Daemon’s brows lifted, more intrigued than surprised. Slowly, he nodded, awaiting an explanation.

“He despises the idea of a woman ruling the Seven Kingdoms,” Viserys continued, his voice edged with cold certainty. “In the Dream, he betrayed Rhaenyra. His actions led to her death.” He met his brother’s gaze, his expression unyielding. “I will not have such a man walking freely in my kingdom. I do not care how you do it, so long as it is discreet.”

Daemon’s smirk widened into something darker, his lilac eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Consider it done, lēkia.”

Viserys gave a single nod, then turned back towards the feast.

One enemy less.

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

They remained at Dragonstone for five more days, during which Viserys focused on strengthening his bond with Vhagar and taking flying lessons from Daemon. Though the original Viserys had once claimed a dragon, he had only flown with Balerion three times before the Black Dread perished. Because of that, his knowledge of dragon riding was limited, and he now had to learn everything from his younger brother, who was far more experienced in it. 

To Viserys’ mild amusement, Daemon was surprisingly enthusiastic about teaching him. It was endearing—though a small part of him suspected that the rogue prince simply enjoyed having the opportunity to order his older brother around. When it came to dragon riding, Daemon was the mentor, and Viserys his disciple.

Every morning, without fail, Daemon would wake him at dawn to begin their lessons, eager to push his brother further. On the third day, the prince declared him skilled enough to carry a second rider. To Rhaenyra’s absolute despair, he chose Aemma.

The couple took to the skies together, making it Aemma's first time ever flying on dragonback, the queen clutched onto Viserys as Vhagar carried them high above Dragonstone. Her reaction was nothing short of euphoric—Viserys had never heard her scream with such unrestrained joy, at least not outside of their chambers. Up in the sky, she was free from the burdens of the crown, the decorum expected of her as a queen and a mother. There, she was simply Aemma, a twenty one years old young woman, who had the right to express her happiness without the scrutiny of the court. 

Viserys watched her laugh against the wind, her eyes bright with exhilaration, and felt a deep sense of satisfaction settle within him. He could not wait to see her flying on Dreamfyre—after all, dragons should never be bound to the ground, and neither should their riders.

Of course, Rhaenyra did not take well to the grave insult of not being chosen first to ride with him on Vhagar. It took much coaxing—and an impressive number of lemon cakes—before she finally forgave him. Then, it was her time to get on the Old Girl's back. Even though Baelon took Rhaenyra flying with him on multiple occasions, she was too young to have any real memories of it. 

The princess was ecstatic to ride Queen Visenya’s legendary dragon, and Viserys quickly realized that he may have made a mistake—convincing her not to demand flights every single hour required all of his persuasive abilities.

When flying alongside Daemon, they made sure to pass directly above Dragonstone’s port and nearby villages, allowing the smallfolk to witness their king riding the greatest dragon in existence. As expected, word of his presence on the island—and, more importantly, his claim over Vhagar—spread quickly throughout the surrounding areas.

On the night of the third day, lords from houses sworn to Dragonstone arrived at the castle, eager to greet their king—and, undoubtedly, to collect new gossip.

Lords Celtigar, Sunglass, and Bar Emmon each took their turn congratulating Viserys, doing their best to monopolize his attention. He entertained them, as is expected in court politics, discussing the concerns of their lands and promising to bring their grievances to the Small Council. He then told them that his stay at Dragonstone would not be long, but extended an invitation for them to remain at the castle as long as they wished. The lords seemed pleased, and Viserys, though exhausted from the endless conversation, was satisfied with a job well done.

The fourth day brought unexpected commotion.

An unlucky knight ventured too close to Caraxes' cave and met his early demise. Viserys ensured that a proper funeral was arranged for the man, personally addressing the castle’s staff afterwards. He expressed his regret that such an incident had occurred but firmly reminded them that dragons were beings of immense power that must be respected. He reiterated that no one, save for the Targaryens and the dragonkeepers, should ever approach them.

His handling of the situation seemed to leave an impression on Dragonstone’s smallfolk and servants—his reputation among them grew, as they saw a king who cared for the death of a simple knight rather than dismissing it as an inconvenience.

When Viserys next saw Daemon, the prince wore a smug, self-satisfied expression.

Viserys clapped a hand against his brother’s back, saying his thanks for handling the traitor.

Daemon merely shrugged. "It was nothing."

But it was clear that it meant something to him. To be acknowledged. To be valued. To not be taken for granted.

He’s actually quite endearing… if you squint your eyes really hard.

Viserys was uncertain whether word had already spread through King’s Landing, but taking into consideration the small distance between the islands, there was no doubt that news of his claim over Vhagar had reached Driftmark. And yet, there was still no sign of Rhaenys.

Corlys was at the Red Keep, tending to his duties as a member of the Small Council, but his wife remained at High Tide with their two young children.

This relationship is too strained. I need Rhaenys on our side, especially since I cannot trust her husband. 

Determined to mend the strained relationship, Viserys decided to stop at Driftmark before returning to King’s Landing. Their household was sent ahead by ship, while he and his family took to the skies, flying over Blackwater Bay towards High Tide to visit his dear cousin. He rode with Aemma on Vhagar, while Daemon and Rhaenyra followed on Caraxes.

Now, it was quite impolite to appear uninvited and without warning. However, Viserys deemed it a necessary risk—better to deal with tensions early than allow wounds to fester.

As expected, their arrival did not go unnoticed.

By the time they landed outside High Tide, a small crowd had already gathered to greet them, with Rhaenys standing at the front.

I suppose Vhagar and Caraxes are rather difficult to miss from a distance.

As they approached, the Queen Who Never Was dipped into a slight curtsy.

"Welcome to High Tide, Your Grace—"

"There is no need for such formalities between the blood of the dragon, cousin," he interrupted smoothly.

Rhaenys pressed her lips into a thin line, but her expression remained politely blank otherwise. 

Ah. Perhaps cutting off the Queen Who Never Was mid-sentence was not my finest decision… Oh well.

He met her gaze and spoke with deliberate seriousness.

"I wish to begin by apologizing for the unexpected visit, but I must speak with you, cousin. I had a Dream—a warning."

For a moment, Rhaenys simply studied him, her deep mauve eyes unreadable. Then, at last, she gave a slow nod.

"If you would follow me," she said evenly, "my solar will be a suitable place for such a conversation."

Viserys and Daemon moved to follow her inside, while Rhaenyra had already darted off with Laenor, no doubt regaling him with tales of her Golden Lady. Aemma, meanwhile, wished to see little Laena, who was barely four years old, and absolutely adorable.

The servants departed after setting out refreshments, leaving the three of them alone. Viserys waited until the door closed before he spoke.

"Do you believe in Dreams, cousin? In the magic coursing through our veins?" he asked, his tone measured. Everything depended on her answer—on how much faith she placed in prophecies.

Rhaenys studied him intently before responding. "How could I not?"

Viserys nodded, satisfied.

"I had to be sure," he said, inclining his chin toward Daemon. "Since that one does not."

The prince merely scoffed, pouring himself a cup of wine. Rhaenys arched an eyebrow but refrained from commenting.

"I thought I had Dreamed before," Viserys continued. "I saw a son born to me, wearing Aegon's crown. But I was mistaken. I only realized the truth after experiencing a real Dream."

He took a steadying breath and locked eyes with Rhaenys.

"I would be the beginning of our House’s downfall, Rhaenys. My reign would fracture House Targaryen, shattering the realm so deeply that the consequences of my failures would still be clearly felt nearly two centuries after my death."

"Aegon's Dream," he said. "You were your father’s heir—I know he told you of it."

Rhaenys nodded slowly.

"I saw it, cousin. Death coming from beyond the Wall, devouring everything in its path. There was no hope for the living. Westeros was unprepared… and it was my fault."

Rhaenys frowned, perplexed. "How could this be, Viserys?"

He exhaled slowly, his expression darkening.

"It is a long and tragic tale," he warned. "And it involves you and your family—your children. Do you wish to hear it still?"

Rhaenys squared her shoulders, resolve gleaming in her mauve eyes.

"Tell me," she said firmly.

And so, Viserys began his tale.

Silence stretched between them after Viserys finished his grim story.

I know, Rhaenys. It’s pretty bad.

Daemon chose that moment to open his damn mouth. "It really is outstanding how much he was able to fuck everything up, huh? But he's doing better now, cousin. You have my word."

Right. As if Lord Flea Bottom's word is worth much. Viserys snickered to himself.

"My children will die? The dragons will cease to exist? House Targaryen, the realm—" Rhaenys struggled to process everything.

"No." Viserys cut through her spiraling thoughts with firm conviction. "Laenor and Laena will not die, nor will the dragons. House Targaryen will continue to rule the kingdoms we conquered through Fire and Blood for centuries.The realm will be ready when the time comes—because I will make sure of it. We will make sure of it. That is why I need your help, Rhaenys. Our family must stay together. United."

She stared at him, countless emotions flickering in her mauve eyes. Yet, her posture remained regal, her expression composed.

A queen indeed.

"You have every right to be angry," Viserys continued. "To feel betrayed. To want distance from your family. You were passed over—twice. I, meanwhile, only put my claim as heir forward out of vanity. I was never outstanding. The son of Baelon the Brave and Alyssa the Wild, yet I was no warrior. I had no talent with a sword, nor was I brilliant with books like Uncle Vaegon. I was dragonless. My younger brother was knighted at six and ten and gifted Dark Sister by Jaehaerys himself. I envied him. I wanted to be better. To be something. That is why I did it—even knowing I would never be as prepared for ruling as you were."

Daemon blinked, clearly shocked by the admission. The rogue prince had never thought he had anything for his older brother to envy.

"It was wrong, Rhaenys," Viserys admitted. "But there’s no undoing it. The past is already written; the ink is dry. The future, however… That is something we can still change. And it needs to change, I'm determined to do it. I will not allow our family and legacy to be destroyed by anyone. And that includes your husband."

Rhaenys' eyes sharpened at that. "Corlys is ambitious, yes, but he is not a threat to House Targaryen." Her voice was unwavering—but the flicker of doubt in her gaze betrayed her.

Viserys sighed. "Cousin, please. Your lord husband desires his blood on the Iron Throne. That is his final goal in his pursuit of legacy. And he would sacrifice your children for it. I know you love him, and I am not asking you to make an enemy of your husband. I only ask that you stand with us when his ambitions grow too dangerous. You are the backbone of House Velaryon. While Corlys chases adventure and gold at sea, you are the one who keeps Driftmark running. You multiply the riches he brings home. You are as responsible for House Velaryon’s wealth as Corlys himself."

He met her gaze, voice steady. "What I ask of you, is to not blindly give your support to a man who only wants to elevate his own house, even at the cost of yours. You may have married a Velaryon—but you are a Targaryen. A Princess of the Blood. No matter where we go, we never stop being Targaryens. You are Fire and Blood, Rhaenys. Not salt and sea."

Her eyes grew misty, and Viserys felt a pang of pity for the situation she found herself in. Torn between loyalty to her House and to her husband.

The silence stretched.

For a moment, he feared he had failed.

Then, Rhaenys finally spoke.

"Fine," she said, her voice firm. "You have my support. The strength of our family is essential to the survival of the realm. This is bigger than me and you—and definitely bigger than Corlys’ desire for legacy." She pursed her lips, clearly displeased at the last part.

Viserys couldn’t help himself—he pulled her into a tight embrace.

Rhaenys stiffened, momentarily frozen, before awkwardly returning the hug.

"Could you two be any more sentimental?" Daemon drawled as he approached, his voice dripping with feigned disgust.

Viserys laughed and yanked him into the hug as well.

Daemon made a show of acting disturbed, but no one was fooled.

Rhaenys rolled her eyes.

"So," Daemon smirked, "I guess it’s us together again, huh? Just like when we were children. The terrors of the Red Keep."

"You were the only terror, cousin," Rhaenys shot back dryly.

Daemon threw his head back and laughed.

Just as they were preparing to depart for King’s Landing, Rhaenys pulled Viserys aside. She looked disconcerted, which immediately piqued his curiosity.

The Queen Who Never Was is not the type to feel embarrassed.

"Cousin, I have a question. About your Dream."

He nodded for her to continue. She hesitated, then pressed on.

"The boys. The dragonseeds. The ones who would become Corlys’ heirs. You said they were recognized as Laenor’s… but he and Rhaenyra were unable to have children of their own."

Oh, shit.

After a brief pause, she continued, her voice measured. "They were Corlys’, weren’t they? His bastards."

For a moment, Viserys considered lying. Hiding the painful truth.

But Rhaenys deserved to know.

"Yes."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 

"I see. Thank you for telling me. I assume they have not been born yet."

He nodded awkwardly.

"Good." Her tone turned colder. "I will make sure it never happens, then."

Viserys must have looked alarmed, because Rhaenys chuckled. "Do not look at me like that, cousin. I will not murder their mother. Marilda, was it?" She waved a hand dismissively. "No. I will simply ensure that Corlys never finds the opportunity—or even thinks about putting not one, but two babes inside another woman’s body."

She smiled then—a slow, dangerous curve of the lips that reminded him so much of Daemon it was uncanny.

Fire and Blood indeed.

"I do not doubt you at all," he smirked. "And speaking of family matters, you and your children are invited to Court. Rhaenyra needs friends—ones who aren’t Otto’s daughter. And we need to present a united front before the lords of the realm. I also believe my Aemma would benefit from your presence—a strong woman to help her gain more confidence in herself."

Rhaenys considered, then smiled.

"Finally," he added, "King’s Landing and Driftmark are not far from each other. With a dragon—especially one as fast as Meleys—it will be easy to travel back and forth should you be needed here."

"We will be there," she assured him. "I will need time to put things in order here, but we will come."

"Thank you, cousin. I truly appreciate you and Daemon."

He bid her farewell, then turned to mount Vhagar. 

"Let’s go, Old Girl," he murmured to his dragon. "Time to face the snakes."

Otto POV 

It must be a misunderstanding. A blatant falsehood.

For the past two days, rumors have been spreading—absurd whispers about Viserys claiming a new dragon. And not just any dragon, but that monstrous Vhagar.

The last of the beasts that invaded and conquered our lands.

It cannot be true.

Viserys never once spoke to Otto about any intention of claiming another dragon, nor sought his counsel. He would have, surely—he should have. Naturally, Otto would have strongly advised against it. More than that, he simply did not believe the man capable of such a thing.

The firstborn son of Baelon the Brave was perfectly suited to be king—weak-willed, eager to please, prone to avoiding confrontation, and, most importantly, he was a dragonless Targaryen.

That is why Otto approached Viserys and made himself indispensable as a friend and a counselor. Viserys was the only chance House Hightower—Otto—had at true power.

None of the other abominations would give him so much leeway to steer the realm as he pleased.

Daemon was a psychotic deviant. Rhaenys was a woman. And both of them misliked him.

That left Viserys. The perfect candidate. The perfect king. 

Not so much as of late.

The king's worrying behavior started less than a moon ago, but it was already giving Otto massive amounts of headaches. Viserys had been changing—making decisions without consulting him, brushing aside his advice. He annulled Lord Flea Bottom’s worthless marriage and allowed the prince to gather and train a small army of men loyal to him.

What is he trying to accomplish? Is that fool facilitating his own usurpation?

No. It was unthinkable. Unfathomable.

In the end, it did not matter how much Viserys had changed, he would never make a decision as monumental as claiming a dragon—claiming Vhagar—without speaking to him first.

Of that, Otto was certain.

•••

The Small Council was in session when a deafening roar echoed throughout the Red Keep.

Every lord in the room froze, faces drained of color. Then, in a moment of utterly undignified panic, they bolted for the balcony.

Otto ran with them, dignity be damned

From their vantage point, they saw two figures in the sky, approaching the castle grounds. One of them was massive—so large it blotted out the sun.

No.

No. No. NO!

It cannot be!

As if possessed, Otto sprinted towards the outer yard of the Red Keep, barely noticing the other lords following after him.

It must be a coincidence.

Yes. That was it. Daemon must have thought it wise—foolish and reckless as he was—to bring the monstrous creature to King’s Landing. He must be guiding it with his serpentine beast.

Yes. That must be it.

That dragon was riderless.

Viserys would not—could not—have claimed it.

Yes. A misunderstanding.

Otto arrived at the outer yard, breathless, only to find it already packed with curious nobles, guards, and even servants. Useless, stupid people, gawking instead of working. There would have to be a punishment for this behavior.

But that thought was lost to him the moment the dragons landed.

The ground shook beneath their weight, the very foundation of the castle trembling.

Otto craned his neck, almost hurting himself, gaze snapping upwards—and then his breath left him.

The dragon was not riderless.

No.

Otto felt himself on the brink of fainting. Atop the largest living beast in the world sat Viserys and Aemma, both smiling regally, waving to the growing crowd.

And the crowd—those fools—finally snapped out of their stupor and cheered.

They applauded. They screamed in joy for their monarchs.

As if this was something to be celebrated.

For the first time in his life, Otto wanted to scream, to curse, to throw all composure aside and simply rage.

But he could not. Not here.

So he ground his teeth until they ached—and clapped along with the rest.

Looking at Viserys, seated atop the largest dragon alive, smiling and waving with such dignity, acclaimed by nobles and servants alike, Otto felt a chill run down his spine.

A slow, creeping realization.

I am losing my grip on the crown.

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

"The expression on his face—absolutely hilarious."

Daemon nearly fell off his chair, laughing at Otto’s humiliation for the third time that night.

He and Viserys had made a habit of meeting almost every day—sometimes to drink, sometimes to talk, sometimes to plot, and occasionally to gossip like a pair of old ladies. Other times, they simply sat together, reading in comfortable silence.

Tonight, however, was a night for celebration.

Viserys chuckled, Daemon’s laughter too contagious to resist, and poured them both another cup of Dornish red.

"He was trying his best not to show his hatred and despair, but he failed miserably," Viserys said, smirking. "Luckily for him, the entire court was too distracted by me claiming Queen Visenya’s mount to pay attention to his ugly face."

"Do you reckon he’s throwing a fit in his chambers right now?" Daemon asked, eyes gleaming with mockery.

Viserys snorted. "Without a doubt. Otto is smart, I won’t deny him that. But he got comfortable with things going his way. I made it too easy for him. A few sweetened words here, some false platitudes there, and I’d nod along, a sheep to the slaughter. In the Dream, his schemes worked so well because he had the king’s ear. Not anymore."

Daemon huffed a humorless laugh. "Well, I know all about not having the king’s ear. Maybe I should try sympathizing with Otto’s current predicament?" He raised an eyebrow, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Viserys took his brother’s hand, gripping it firmly.

"Never again, valonqar." His voice was steady, certain. "I will never treat you like that again."

Daemon studied him, searching for any sign of falsehood. When he found none, he gave a small nod and pulled Viserys into a side hug, resting his head on his brother’s shoulder for a few seconds before pulling away, his breath stinking of alcohol.

You lovable drunk brat. 

"So," Daemon said, voice just a little rough as he clearly tried to shift topics towards something safer, less emotional, "what’s the next step?"

Fine, I'll let you off the hook this time. 

"Seeing as my subjects were quite pleased with me claiming Vhagar—most of them, at least—I thought a celebration was in order," Viserys said, pouring himself another drink. "Nothing extravagant. We’ll need a lot of coin to implement our projects for the smallfolk. A feast will suffice. And not just for the nobility—food and coin will be distributed to the people of King’s Landing as well."

Viserys paused, thoughtfully. "Our grandsire had many flaws, but thank the Gods he left the coffers full." He snorted.

"And Aemma?" Daemon asked. "She’ll be flying Dreamfyre soon. Are we throwing another feast for her, too?"

"No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary," Viserys mused. "After flying on Vhagar, she seemed quite impatient to take to the skies with her own mount. Tomorrow, we go to the Dragonpit. In truth, this feast will celebrate the both of us claiming our dragons." He smirked. "I wonder if Otto will survive the news."

Daemon’s smile turned wicked. "As much as I want the leech dead, it would be rather… anticlimactic if he just angered himself to death."

Viserys leaned back, twirling his cup. "No, I think it would be fitting." He took a slow sip before continuing. "An underwhelming end for an insignificant man. That’s what he deserves. I won’t let him paint himself as the great mastermind behind our House’s downfall. This time, he’ll be nothing—just an incompetent Hand who lost the king’s favor. A mere footnote in history books. No legacy for him whatsoever."

Daemon grinned. "Yes. I like your way of thinking."

Viserys finished his drink with finality. "Alright, I think we’ve drunk enough. I’ll have Gerardys prepare something for the headache we’re sure to have tomorrow. I’ll have it sent to your chambers."

Daemon looked skeptical. "Do you fully trust this grey rat?"

"Yes." Viserys met his brother’s gaze. "Gerardys is not like the other maesters. He’s loyal, and he actually knows what he’s doing. His interest in magic earned him a Valyrian steel link—and the contempt of some of his peers. I’ll speak to him about tutoring Rhaenyra as well. With him here, I can rest easier if any of us need treatment."

"Daemon exhaled through his nose. "Fine. If you trust him, then I trust him."

Viserys smirked. "Look at you, being such a good little brother. I’m so proud of you." He cooed.

"Fuck you, Viserys."

The king only laughed.

Aemma POV 

Aemma had thought she'd be nervous. The idea of flying with her own dragon for the first time should have left her stomach in knots, but all she felt was pure exhilaration. A longing, even. As if she had been waiting for this moment her entire life.

The symbol of my father's House is a falcon, and my mother's is a dragon. Maybe I was always meant to fly. 

She glanced around and smiled. Daemon was astride Caraxes, while Viserys and Rhaenyra sat atop Vhagar. Her family had insisted on being here, flying with her, guiding her through this moment. They had only returned from Dragonstone yesterday, but she couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to feel the skies again, to experience that feeling—this time, as a dragonrider.

Aemma ran her hand along Dreamfyre’s warm scales and gripped the reins. "Are you ready, my girl?"

The dragon let out a deep, contented rumble, her excitement mirroring Aemma’s own.

"Sōvēs." 

Dreamfyre spread her blue wings and soared. Aemma closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the rush of wind against her skin. A single tear slipped free.

She could feel Dreamfyre’s emotions as if they were her own. The dragon was at peace. After so long confined to the Dragonpit, she was finally stretching her wings again. She was free. And so was Aemma.

A roar split the air, followed by Caraxes’ telltale whistle. Aemma turned to see her family flying alongside her. The three dragons rumbled and chuffed to one another, a conversation in their own language.

Viserys and Daemon led the way over King’s Landing, flying low enough for the smallfolk to catch sight of them.

They’re showing off.

After a while, with matching grins on their faces, her husband and good-brother gestured for her to follow them towards the Red Keep. They circled it three times before descending into the outer yard, where a sizable crowd had already gathered. Just like yesterday.

Aemma dismounted, glancing at the assembled nobility and servants. She saw a maelstrom of emotions—awe, fear, reverence. And then, of course, there was Otto Hightower—looking positively green. She ignored him, not wanting to sour her good mood.

Viserys helped her down with a proud grin, and for a moment, she very much wanted to kiss him.

Later. 

"Muña! You looked so beautiful up there, like Queen Rhaenys!" Rhaenyra’s voice was high with excitement. "I want to fly with my Golden Lady too!"

Aemma laughed, smoothing a hand over her daughter’s silver-golden locks. "You will, my sweet girl. Soon enough. Then all four of us will fly together."

Viserys stepped forward, his voice carrying over the gathered crowd. "Today, your queen has claimed the formidable dragon Dreamfyre—once the mount of Princess Rhaena Targaryen, she hatched in the days when Aegon the Conqueror still sat the Iron Throne!"

Aemma lifted her chin, smiling as she waved. The applause was thunderous.

"In a sennight, there will be a feast to celebrate these joyous tidings."

And with that, they made their way back inside the keep, leaving behind the roar of the crowd.

Viserys POV 

Viserys could feel a headache coming.

And these fools would not stop whining.

He was in a meeting with his Small Council. The lords were currently going on and on about the dangers of letting the dragons roam freely. 

The day after Aemma claimed Dreamfyre, Viserys had ordered the dragonkeepers to stop chaining the dragons inside their caves. Not only did it stunt their growth, but it was also downright cruel.

His counselors had nearly fainted. Otto, in particular, had turned a rather amusing shade of purple. Now, they were desperately trying to make him change his mind.

Not gonna happen. 

"The dragons at Dragonstone fly freely across the island," Daemon drawled, slouched in his chair, bored out of his mind. 

"It is not the same!" Otto practically shrieked, his face red and spit flying. "King’s Landing is highly populated! The dragons will be a danger to the people! These creatures need to be chained for our own safety!"

"I agree with the Lord Hand," Grand Maester Mellos added.

Of course you do.

Lyonel Strong, ever the careful one, chose his words more delicately. "Your Grace, perhaps it would be wise to keep the dragons within the Dragonpit, as they have been. Why change it now?"

Daemon scoffed. "None of you know shit about dragons, so I don’t see why you think yourselves fit to discuss them."

"Prince Daemon! Please, mind your language!" Otto barked. "This is a place of decorum, of honored men!"

"Is that so?" Daemon grinned, all teeth. "Then why are you here, dear Otto?"

Viserys resisted the urge to rub his temples. Gods, give me patience.

"The dragons that are chained never grow to their full size. Dreamfyre is proof of this," Viserys said, his tone sharp. "She hatched before 32 AC—she’s older than Caraxes, Meleys, Vermithor, and Silverwing—but she’s almost the same size as them. Hells, Vermithor and Silverwing are larger than her. I will not keep our dragons locked up like criminals or common beasts any longer to appease the sensibilities of those who do not possess the blood of the dragon."

"But Your Grace, they will endanger the people. If they attack—"

"Dragons are not mindless beasts, Otto," Viserys cut him off. "They attack only when hungry, when threatened, or when commanded. I assure all of you that they will be fed, as always. They will still nest in the Dragonpit. Also, all of the dragons in King's Landing are bonded to a rider, they are not wild. And as for them being a danger? That won’t be an issue if people have the good sense to keep their distance and show them the respect they demand."

"Your Grace, I must insist—"

This man just doesn’t know when to quit.

"I will hear no more of this," Viserys said coolly. "The dragons belong to House Targaryen, let us worry about them and do as we see fit. We are the only ones able to understand them, after all."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Lords shifted uncomfortably. Corlys Velaryon, the only one who seemed unbothered, smirked.

"You are dismissed."

Viserys stood, sweeping from the room before he could give in to the urge to throw Otto out a window.

It was too early in the morning for this nonsense.

"Annoying pricks," Daemon muttered, falling into step besides him. "I rather prefer the company of the men from the City Watch. At least Beesbury approved the budget, I have already ordered their new equipment and the gold cloaks." 

"I know you’ll do a splendid job," Viserys said. "How are things progressing? Have you found Luthor Largent? He's loyal."

Daemon nodded. "They’re improving, as expected. My training is relentless, after all. And yes, I found Luthor. He’s got potential—he’ll be made a captain sooner rather than later."

"Good."

They walked in silence for a while before Viserys spoke again.

"Brother… what would you say to training me?"

Daemon arched a brow. "In swordsmanship?"

"Yes. I need to move more. Exercise is good for one’s health. But it would need to be in secret—I don’t want to embarrass myself. It’s something I should have learned as a boy, after all."

Daemon hummed, thoughtfully. "Father tried to teach you, but you were always more interested in books." Then he shrugged. "Fine. We can use your solar—it’s big enough to train the basics."

"That’s all I need. I have no ambition to become a great swordsman, only to strengthen my body."

Daemon wiggled his brows in an exaggerated fashion. "Trying to build strength and stamina, huh? Aemma will thank you for that."

"Fuck you."

Daemon roared with laughter.

I am one rude remark away from becoming a kinslayer. 

Viserys sat across from Archmaester Vaegon, resisting the urge to bash his own head against the nearest stone wall.

His dear uncle had arrived yesterday, exhausted from his long journey from Oldtown. Viserys, being the thoughtful king he was, had given him time to rest, bathe, and recover.

There wasn't an ounce of gratitude to be found in the Archmaester's face.

They had been talking for a while now, and Vaegon was as sour as a lemon and as prickly as a porcupine.

He had been trying to be polite and receptive with no success.

"Enough with your pointless small talk, boy. Why did I have to drag myself from the festering corpse of Oldtown to the rotting carcass of King’s Landing?" Vaegon’s tone was as sharp as Valyrian steel, his patience nonexistent.

...

Viserys sighed. Might as well get straight to it.

"Do you believe in the prophetic Dreams our family is blessed with, Uncle?"

It was a gamble. Vaegon could laugh in his face and march right back to Oldtown, spreading tales of a lunatic king.

But Viserys thought it was worth the risk. The man was still a Targaryen, after all, and their blood ran thick. The king felt that Vaegon had the right to know about his family's future, there were so few of them left now. If there was even a shred of loyalty left in him, perhaps he would listen.

Or maybe I just fucked this up completely.

Silence stretched between them. A long, uncomfortable silence.

Yeah, definitely fucked it up

Then Vaegon scoffed, his expression caught between disdain and exasperation.

"How dull-witted does a Targaryen need to be not to believe in Dreams? Or magic, for that matter? We have dragons, and we ourselves are living proof of it, haven't you ever looked in a mirror? Why are you asking stupid questions?"

…H eh. I wish Daemon was here. 

Viserys cleared his throat. "Well, as you are an Archmaester and the Citadel disapproves of such things, I thought—"

"Fools fear what they don’t understand, but I am not one of them," Vaegon cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "There are far more things in this world we cannot explain than those we can."

...

"It’s good that you believe, then, because I had a Dream," Viserys said, watching him closely. "One I refuse to let become reality. I have already started making changes, but your help would be invaluable."

Keep it short. He won’t have the patience for the whole story.

Vaegon’s gaze sharpened. "Tell me."

"Huh?" Viserys blinked.

"The Dream," Vaegon said, tone clipped. "Tell me everything you saw. Scholars are a curious bunch, don’t you know?"

Hah. I hope this is my last time telling this story.

"Alright then."

"I am ashamed to have you as a nephew."

That was the first thing his dear uncle said after Viserys finished explaining everything.

"Yes. I understand."

At this point, I don't even care anymore.

"Are you going to help us? I believe you’d make a great tutor for Rhaenyra. I want to prepare her for her role as early as possible, but it needs to be in secret for now."

Vaegon hummed, considering. "Hmm. Yes, why not? I was suffocating in the Citadel, surrounded by old men who think lifting their forks to eat counts as a day’s labor. At least here, there’s something worth my time. Though I pray the girl inherited her wits from someone other than you."

Lovely. Absolutely lovely.

"Since I will be staying here for the foreseeable future, I require better accommodations. I refuse to sleep in whatever rat-infested chamber you had in mind. Also, I want unrestricted access to the library at Dragonstone. And for the love of the gods, do something about this city’s stench. It got even worse than the last time I stepped foot in here. It’s a wonder you aren’t all dropping dead from inhaling it. Perhaps that was what caused your brain to rot."

... I am already regretting this.

Viserys clapped his hands together. "Oh, look at the time! I have other matters to attend to. Rest easy, new accommodations will be provided, and Dragonstone’s library is all yours. You can start tutoring Rhaenyra whenever you’re ready. See you later, Uncle."

Then, without waiting for a reply, he walked faster than he ever had in his life.

He had a feeling things would become more interesting in the Red Keep from now on. 

Aemma POV 

Aemma entered their chambers and found her husband sprawled across the bed, looking utterly spent. She approached with a curious tilt of her head.

"Why do you look so distressed, my love?"

"Aemma, help me," Viserys groaned, stretching an arm toward her like a dying man. "I am completely drained. Speaking with Uncle Vaegon is a mentally exhausting. I need you to make me feel better."

Before she could protest, he pulled her down onto him, his lips finding the delicate skin of her neck.

She laughed, lightly smacking his chest. "Oh, stop being dramatic. It can’t be as bad as you say."

Viserys pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his expression completely serious. "Believe me, it is worse."

His kisses grew more sensual as he trailed them from her neck down to her collarbone.

"Did you drink the tea today?" he murmured against her skin.

She gave a small nod, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

Viserys flipped them with ease, settling himself above her. With slow, deliberate movements, he slid her shift from her shoulders, exposing her breasts to the cool night air.

"You are a vision," he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

He took one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking gently, and she let out a breathless moan.

"A Valyrian goddess," he murmured before discarding the rest of her shift.

Positioning himself between her legs, he spread them with reverence, his breath warm against her most sensitive place.

"Let me worship you."

That was the only warning she got before his mouth was on her, his tongue flicking and teasing with sinful precision.

The way his tongue moved was absolutely sinful and Aemma could not help but think that she would willingly become a sinner for him.

She moaned loudly, uncaring about whoever may hear. The uptight noblewomen at court would criticize her for being wanton, but they're simply jealous of her. Her husband gave as much pleasure as he took, and she was the only one he laid with. 

Viserys slipped two fingers into her mouth, his purple gaze watching her intensely as she slicked them with her tongue.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice deep and husky.

The sound of it sent a shiver through her, her body responding with a desperate whimper.

His fingers left her mouth only to slide inside her, curling just right and touching something that turned her vision white.

Her scream tore through the room as pleasure crashed over her like a tidal wave. She trembled beneath him, her body utterly undone.

"That’s it, my love," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You are so beautiful like this, writhing in pleasure."

But she wasn’t satisfied. Not yet.

"More, Viserys. Please."

She was shameless.

She was wanton.

And she didn’t care.

Viserys smirked, dark and knowing. "Oh, my goddess… I am just getting started."

He shifted her, pressing her chest against the mattress while lifting her hips. His hands squeezed the soft flesh of her arse, making her moan.

Then she felt it—the hot, heavy tip of his cock teasing her entrance.

She wiggled her hips impatiently. "Viserys," she whined.

He chuckled, amused. "So eager, are you not, my queen?"

She nodded quickly, but before she could speak, his palm landed against her arse with a sharp slap.

Her eyes widened, a needy whimper escaping her lips.

"Answer me, my love. Are you eager?"

"Yes, yes, I am," she gasped. "Please, Viserys."

"What are you eager for, my sweet Aemma?" 

She tried to push her hips back against him, but his grip was firm. He was going to make her say it.

Damn you, Viserys.

"…Your cock," she whispered.

Another slap, firmer this time.

"I couldn’t hear you, my love."

She clenched her fists against the sheets. Damn you!

"Your cock!" she cried. "Please put your cock inside me, Viserys!"

She turned her head to look at him, her eyes pleading.

That was all it took.

"Seven hells," he groaned before slamming into her in one deep thrust.

Aemma moaned, her fingers gripping the sheets in a vice.

Viserys set a relentless pace, grunting against her ear as he moved inside her. Her body shivered, lost in the heat of it all. She matched his movements, rolling her hips in time with his thrusts.

"My goddess," he rasped, squeezing her arse before reaching between them to find her swollen nub. His fingers worked her with perfect precision, sending her spiraling toward bliss once more.

She was close. So was he—she could feel the way his cock twitched inside her, barely holding back.

Then he angled his hips just right, and her world shattered.

Her walls clenched around him, fluttering and tightening as her second climax took her.

Viserys groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic.

"Inside," she gasped. "I want you to spill your seed inside me, my king."

"Fuck, Aemma," he growled. 

His grip on her hips tightened, and with a few final thrusts, he came deep inside her, his release setting off another wave of pleasure in her own body.

Their moans filled the room, tangled together like their limbs.

When he pulled out, she felt his seed trickle down her thighs.

Viserys reached down, collecting some of it on his fingers before pressing them to her lips.

She should be embarrassed. She should be scandalized.

But she wasn’t.

She licked his fingers clean, sucking on them teasingly.

Viserys groaned, his eyes darkening. She glanced down, smirking when she saw his cock hardening once more.

"See?" he murmured, running his hands down her sides. "This is your fault. Are you going to take responsibility, my love?"

Aemma’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. "A good queen should always take responsibility for her actions."

Viserys let out a dangerous chuckle. "You know I won’t let you sleep tonight, right?"

She leaned in, lips brushing against his.

"I am counting on it, my king."

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

Three days. Uncle Vaegon had been here for a total of three days. And somehow, he had already managed to terrorize half of the Red Keep. 

No one was safe from him—servants, knights, noble ladies, lords, septas, maesters, even the king himself. 

Hells, the rats seem to scatter whenever they spot him. 

The last remaining son of Jaehaerys and Alysanne had proven to be a menace. The man thrived on the chaos he caused. He complained simply for the sake of complaining. His face was set in a perpetual frown, and his words were sharper than Valyrian steel. People had been terrified of speaking with him, and Viserys had realized—with no small amount of amusement—that some had even gone so far as to change their routines to avoid crossing paths with him in the corridors of the Red Keep.

His biggest victim had been none other than Otto Hightower himself. On his second day, Vaegon had asked to be present during a Small Council meeting to observe. He then made it painfully clear that he had absolutely no patience for Otto's false platitudes and hypocrisy. He had told Otto to 'stop talking softly and slowly in an effort to sound smart.' Then, the archmaester had proceeded to debunk every single one of Otto's arguments, proving that the Hand had been wrong about many things and declaring that 'as a man with such a high station, he knew less about what was good for the realm than the rats in the streets of King's Landing.'

Viserys had thought the Hightower was going to have a heart attack in front of everyone, given how crimson his face had turned, his breathing labored, and his eyes bloodshot. Not even Mellos, Otto's biggest ally on the council, had the guts to try and save him from Vaegon.

Daemon had never laughed so much during a meeting, and even the stoic Lord Strong had to hide a smile behind his cup. Lord Beesbury was flabbergasted, Corlys had remained quiet the whole time to avoid being targeted next, and Ser Ryam was snorting quietly throughout the whole thing.

But Vaegon had not been satisfied. Just earlier that day, he had made Lady Redwyne cry. The woman had had the brilliant idea of confronting him about his 'rude behavior,' to which Vaegon had responded by saying that if she had spent less time focused on how others behaved and more time tending to her own marriage, Lord Redwyne wouldn't have sired three bastards on his mistress in less than five years.

Gods knew how he had learned of such intimate details after being in King's Landing for less than a sennight. 

He is terrifying. 

Even Daemon, who was seldom intimidated by anyone, made an exception for Vaegon. Though the prince would rather swallow his tongue than admit it, he went out of his way to avoid the archmaester. Daemon would claim, with a shrug, that his duties as Commander of the City Watch simply left him no time for such interactions. But anyone who knew Daemon well could see the avoidance was personal.

There was, however, one person in the entire Red Keep who did not fear the grumpy archmaester at all.

Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Viserys' little girl was an unrelenting force of nature. Vaegon’s sharp words and sour demeanor had no effect on her. When he was rude, she was ruder. Her confidence was such that no matter how he criticized her, she brushed it off like the mildest inconvenience.

In fact, Rhaenyra had once gone as far as telling him that his parents had sent him to the Citadel because they could not bear the sight of their failure of a dragonless son.

Viserys had been genuinely shocked after hearing it. He hadn’t realized just how vicious his sweet princess could be when provoked—after all, she had always been so sweet with him.

He had worried that Vaegon would take offense and leave, but to his surprise, the archmaester had only given a small smile—a faint, almost imperceptible expression that looked entirely out of place on his usual sour face.

The unlikely duo had a weird dynamic that worked surprisingly well. Uncle Vaegon had some degree of respect for Rhaenyra, and had even gone as far as to say she was 'smarter than a child who came out of his loins had any right to be'. 

At this point it doesn't even hurt anymore. 

The secret tutoring sessions had already begun, and to everyone’s surprise, Rhaenyra had found the subjects, which most children would deem dreadfully boring, 'interesting' and even 'better than doing embroidery.' She was eager to learn more.

Viserys was relieved to see his daughter so engaged in her lessons, but he had warned Vaegon not to occupy too much of her time. She was still a child, after all, and it was important for her to play with others her age and have time to enjoy her childhood properly.

"How long do you plan on staying like that?" Daemon asked, his tone dripping with impatience. He stood across the room, arms crossed, watching his brother sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath.

Viserys had been training with Daemon in his solar, and to say he was reconsidering every decision he had ever made would be an understatement. Daemon was relentless, like a force of nature that wouldn't be denied.

"I think I was mistaken, brother," Viserys said, his voice coming out in short, labored breaths. "I don’t wish for you to train me anymore."

Daemon let out a chuckle, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"What? Tired already?" He mocked, his voice light and teasing. "We’ve only just begun. Get your kingly arse off the floor, Viserys."

Viserys narrowed his eyes, glaring up at him. "You’re torturing me, that’s what you’re doing. This is some sort of wicked vengeance against me for being a terrible older brother all these years."

Daemon smirked, clearly entertained. "I appreciate that you can recognize your flaws, my king. Now get up." He kicked Viserys' leg.

The gall of this brat!

"What more do you want from me?" Viserys groaned, struggling to lift his weary body. "I don’t even have the strength to stand!"

Daemon rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Viserys, we’re barely even warming up. I can’t believe you’re this weak. How do you manage in your marriage bed like this? Where’s your endurance?"

"Leave my marriage bed out of this!" Viserys snapped. "And what kind of warm-up is this, anyway? It’s not that I’m weak—you're just a monster!"

"Fucking hells, Viserys. I’m starting to regret this. Get up already. We don’t have all day."

Viserys, groaning with the effort, finally pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. 

"Good," Daemon said, his voice cold with determination. "Now we’re going to work on footwork. Get ready."

Viserys’ heart sank.

Someone, please, save me. I don’t want to get fit anymore.

"How are you doing, my Old Girl?" Viserys asked, his voice warm as he gently petted Vhagar’s massive head. The ancient dragon huffed, smoke curling from her nostrils in a lazy exhale.

Viserys chuckled, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You’re so grumpy, old lady. Maybe a few cows will sweeten your mood, hmm?"

Vhagar blinked, her great eyes narrowing as if considering the offer, and then she let out a low, almost approving sound that Viserys took as a confirmation.

He called out to the dragonkeepers, instructing them to bring the cows, and then he stood back, watching patiently as the dragon devoured her meal with a ferocity only a creature of her size could muster.

Once Vhagar had finally finished her feast, Viserys approached her once more. "Now that you’re full, what do you say about a little flight?"

Vhagar let out another huff, a sound that could only be described as resigned, and Viserys couldn’t help but laugh.

You lazy thing. You’re lucky I like you.

"A dragon that prefers the ground to the sky,” Viserys mused, shaking his head. "You really are something else, my girl.”

With practiced ease, Viserys climbed onto Vhagar’s back, settling into the familiar saddle. He took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of smoke and dragon.

"Sōvēs." 

In an instant, they were in the sky, the wind rushing past him so swiftly that his hair was whipped around his face, tangling into a mess. I always forget to braid it. Now I’m being slapped in the face and eating my own hair, he thought with a grimace, but the thrill of flight quickly replaced his irritation.

Viserys steered Vhagar over King's Landing, low enough to make out the bustling people below. From this height, they looked no bigger than ants, scurrying about their daily lives. When they spotted the dragon above, they paused in their work, looking up to wave and cheer, their faces filled with awe.

Viserys decided to give them a show.

"Dracarys."

Vhagar raised her head high, opening her massive jaws, and unleashed a torrent of bluish-bronze flame that lit up the sky. The heat and power of the flames cascaded down toward the people below, and Viserys could hear their excited shouts and see them jumping in joy, as if they were celebrating some grand spectacle.

My work here is done.

With a satisfied grin, Viserys guided Vhagar back towards the Dragonpit after a few more minutes of flying.

"Let’s go back, Big Girl."

•••

Today was the feast to celebrate both him and Aemma claiming dragons. It was a monumental day, and Rhaenys had arrived earlier with her two children. Together, they would show the realm that the dragonriders were united, that the strength of House Targaryen stood solidly behind his reign.

Food and coin had already been generously distributed throughout King’s Landing, and Daemon had reported that the atmosphere in the streets was lively and festive. The people were elated to see that their new monarchs had claimed dragons, just as King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had done so many years ago.

The Godswood was brimming with nobles talking and walking around with their colorful and expensive silks and extravagant jewelry. The air was thick with murmurs of excitement and speculation

His Aemma was breathtaking. Unlike her usual attire of soft Arryn blues, today she wore a deep red gown, a striking reminder of her Targaryen heritage. As if claiming a dragon hadn’t been enough to proclaim her lineage already. Alysanne's golden crown rested proudly on her head, and she stood tall at his side, her chin raised in regal grace, exuding quiet strength.

Rhaenyra, too, had abandoned her usual gentle shades of pinks, blues, and purples, instead donning a rich red gown. Her hair was adorned with small rubies, glinting under the light as she smiled. She stood by a table laden with desserts, accompanied by Laenor, Alicent, and the Strong sisters, Rosamund and Beatrice. The princess had wanted to bring little Laena with her, declaring the girl 'adorable as a doll'. Viserys had explained that Laena was too young for such gatherings, and though she had pouted, Rhaenyra moved on quickly, her spirits unshaken.

Unsurprisingly, Daemon wore his customary black, Dark Sister was strapped to his hip, a reminder to all that the prince was always ready for a fight. Over his shoulders was the gold cloak, soon to become the symbol of the City Watch. With a cup in his hand, Daemon paced around the Godswood slowly, his movements predatory, as though stalking something—or someone.

Uncle Vaegon was clad in his Archmaester’s robes, but he had fastened a dragon-shaped pin to his chest. He was currently antagonizing Otto again, judging by the man's suffering face and how he was desperately trying to slip away from what was probably a nightmarish conversation

Heh.

However, there was one thing that truly surprised Viserys today—Rhaenys. She wasn't using the teal colors of House Velaryon. His cousin appeared in a regal black and red gown, adorned with dragon motifs. The moment she entered, nobles whispered feverishly among themselves. It was clear: the Queen Who Never Was had made a statement. Despite being Lady Velaryon and losing the crown in 101 AC, she was still, without question, a Targaryen. Rhaenys and her dragon were behind the king. The family remained united.

Corlys looked mildly uncomfortable. Viserys couldn't help but think it had more to do with Rhaenys' cold behavior towards him than her choice of attire. It seemed his cousin held a grudge for the infidelity that did not happen yet. 

I would say I'm sorry for Corlys,  but that would be a lie. 

Viserys cleared his throat and called for attention. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him.

"We are gathered here to celebrate!" His voice rang out, and the crowd erupted into applause.

"Your King and Queen have claimed dragons!" He gestured to Aemma, who smiled warmly beside him.

"My Queen’s dragon, Dreamfyre, hatched during Aegon the Conqueror’s reign and is one of the oldest dragons alive. No one else could be more deserving of such a magnificent mount than you, my love." He kissed Aemma’s hand gently, making her beam with pride.

"As for myself," Viserys continued, his tone growing more powerful, "I had the honor of being the last rider of Balerion the Black Dread, King Aegon’s own dragon. And now, I have claimed Vhagar, Queen Visenya’s mount. I have been blessed by the Gods with the opportunity to ride two of the three dragons that conquered this realm and forged it into what we see today." The crowd’s cheers grew louder, their enthusiasm impossible to contain.

"Let it be known to all our enemies: House Targaryen remains strong and proud. We have ruled these lands for a hundred years, and we will continue to do so for another hundred more. And for any who are foolish enough to rise against us—know this: punishment will be meted out with Fire and Blood, as is our House’s way."

The applause that followed was deafening. The roar of the crowd filled his ears.

At that precise moment, as if on cue, Vhagar soared above the Godswood, blotting out the sun and plunging the grounds into shadow. The sound of her mighty wings beating against the air sent a thrill down Viserys’ spine. Her roar was so loud and fierce that it startled anyone not born with the blood of the dragon.

His gaze locked with Daemon’s. His brother stood with a proud smirk, his eyes filled with approval.

Then, Viserys’ eyes shifted to Otto, whose face had turned ashen. The man’s fists were clenched at his sides, his body rigid with barely concealed rage and fear.

Viserys couldn’t help but smirk. Soon enough, ravens would be sent, and the words spoken today would reach every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

Good. Let them know. Long gone is your weak king.

This was the dawn of a new era for House Targaryen.

Chapter Text

Daemon POV

After spending what felt like an eternity searching for him, Daemon finally found his brother hiding behind a massive tapestry in a dim, deserted corner of the keep.

"What in the bloody hells are you doing, Viserys?" Daemon asked, utterly perplexed.

"Shhh! Stop being so loud! Can’t you see I’m trying to hide?" Viserys hissed, eyes darting nervously.

Daemon rolled his eyes but obeyed, lowering his voice. "What are you doing?"

"I'm hiding from Uncle Vaegon," his brother replied, his face as deadpan and serious

"...You’re hiding?" Daemon repeated, blinking twice to make sure he’d heard that correctly. "Like... a grown man, hiding?"

"Yes."

"Brother, you do realize that those two Kingsguards standing at the end of the corridor sort of... give your location away, right? They’re not exactly known for their ability to blend into the shadows."

Viserys’ eyes widened comically, and for a split second, Daemon could almost hear the gears grinding in his brother’s head.

"Shit," Viserys muttered, turning to glance at the Kingsguards with a mix of guilt and surprise. "I forgot about Ryam and Harrold. They're so quiet, It’s easy to forget they’re trailing me like a pair of well-armored shadows."

"So, let me see if I understood this correctly," Daemon drawled, crossing his arms. "You were walking through the corredors of your own keep, then you spotted the old archmaester and, for some absurd reason, decided to run away from him and hide behind a tapestry, like a mischievous child trying to avoid punishment? While your kingsguards saw every second of it?"

Daemon blinked, eyes narrowing. "Are you trying to shame House Targaryen?"

Viserys glared at him. "Don’t look at me like that. And I didn’t run! I just... quickened my pace. It’s not the same."

Daemon shot him a dry, unimpressed look. "Right, of course

Viserys sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You don't understand, I had no choice. Uncle Vaegon’s been pestering me for weeks to take him to Dragonstone so he can visit that cursed library."

Daemon raised an eyebrow. "Why would he need you to accompany him to Dragonstone?" 

"He wants me to take him there on dragonback. I’m the king, yet he treats me like his personal coachman. Can you believe it?" Viserys shook his head in disbelief. "Not only am I busy, but the thought of being trapped in the sky with Uncle Vaegon for hours, with no escape, is enough to make me want to jump off Vhagar mid-flight. I simply cannot do it."

Daemon let out an exasperated sigh. "Tell him to take a ship, then. He can travel by sea anytime he likes."

"I already did," Viserys replied, "but he said he hates traveling by boat."

…This family is a joke.

"Viserys," Daemon gave his brother a dry look, "you are the fucking king. Just say no to him. Stop embarrassing yourself."

"Saying no? To Uncle Vaegon? Ha! You try it," Viserys scoffed. 

Daemon smirked. "Well, I'm not the one he asked, but if I were, I would simply tell him no. I’m not afraid of a weak scholar. You, on the other hand, are a craven." 

Just then, they heard the unmistakable sound of Vaegon’s voice growing closer, his steps echoing through the stone corridor.

"Viserys. I know you're here; I can see your Kingsguards."

"Shit." Viserys panicked. 

"Hey, Viserys, make some room for me. There’s enough space for the both of us," he said hurriedly. 

"Oh, so now you want to hide?" Viserys mocked him, "I thought you weren’t afraid of a weak scholar."

"I’m not fucking afraid," Daemon snapped, "I just don’t have the patience to deal with him, and I have no intention of becoming a kinslayer."

"Yeah, right." Viserys snorted, unable to hide his amusement.

Before Daemon could respond, that dreadful creature they call uncle appeared in front of the tapestry, looking at them with an expression of pure disdain.

"Are the both of you really trying to hide behind this tapestry?" 

"No." They both blurted in unison, immediately trying to appear casual, but their eyes betrayed their unease. Vaegon looked at them with contempt. 

"Pathetic."

"Uncle, we were merely admiring this masterpiece," Viserys began, trying to salvage the situation, but Vaegon cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Spare me the indignity of your subpar excuse, Viserys." The Archmaester shook his head, "When are we traveling to Dragonstone? Rhaenyra is really interested in anything related to Old Valyria and Dragonstone's library is home for thousands of ancient scrolls and books that came from the Freehold." 

Viserys looked around wildly, searching for an escape. Then, his eyes found Daemon's, and a strange glint that could only spell trouble appeared in them. 

No, you wouldn't dare. 

"Uncle," Viserys said, feigning regret as he drew a deep breath. "I'm afraid I am terribly busy at the moment and won't be able to take you. But I'm certain Daemon would be delighted to take you there on Caraxes. After all, the two of you never really had a chance to bond, and this would be the perfect opportunity. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have important matters to attend to."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, his Kingsguards following closely behind.

You fucking traitor! 

Daemon stood frozen, utterly stunned by the betrayal. He barely had time to process it before Vaegon was already tugging at his arm, pulling him out of his stupor.

"What are you standing around for? Come along," Vaegon urged, his grip firm. "Tell me, will that ugly dragon of yours be able to carry me as well? That thing's far too skinny, and don't even get me started on that absurdly long neck. How does it even manage to fly? Life is full of mysteries, indeed."

Daemon could only nod, his mind still numb from the shock of his brother’s cunning betrayal.

"It's fortunate we'll have some time to talk, young man," Vaegon continued, his voice brimming with self-satisfaction. "I've heard about your absolutely shameful reputation. You need to stop sticking your prick in every hole you find down in the Street of Silk unless you want to lose it. Are you aware of the diseases you can catch living such a depraved lifestyle? We see all sorts of cases at the Citadel, and believe me, you do not want to end up like those men."

… I fucking hate you, Viserys.

Rhaenyra POV 

"Kepus, you’re finally here!" Rhaenyra exclaimed, her excitement barely contained. "Did you bring the books I asked for from Dragonstone?"

Vaegon sighed, clearly irritated, but his expression softened slightly. "I brought them, but you're mistaken about the reason. I didn't go there because you wanted to read these books, Rhaenyra. Do not be so ridiculous, it's unbecoming of a princess."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, not even bothering to hide her amusement. "If believing that makes you feel better, then you're welcome to it, Uncle."

"Little pest," he muttered under his breath, but Rhaenyra caught it, grinning cheekily.

"I heard you went on dragonback with Uncle Daemon," she continued, her curiosity piqued. "Why was that? We have plenty of ships to make that journey, after all."

Vaegon's answer came quickly, almost too quickly. "I terribly mislike traveling by ship."

Rhaenyra tilted her head, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Hmm. I thought it was because you really wanted to fly, Uncle."

Vaegon let out a scoffing laugh. "Hah! How absurd, princess. And to think I thought you were less slow-witted than the rest of this family. Even I can be wrong sometimes, I suppose."

Rhaenyra giggled, her eyes lighting up with playful defiance. "Well, I say it because I've noticed how you look at us whenever we go flying, Uncle. As if you're longing for it."

For a split second, Vaegon's eyes widened, but he quickly schooled his expression, the brief flicker of discomfort masked. "Do not be ridiculous. I've never wanted to claim a dragon before. Nothing has changed."

Rhaenyra's smile remained as she tilted her head, her voice taking on a teasing edge. "Oh, Uncle, it's not that you didn't want to claim a dragon. No Targaryen could possibly not want to. You just couldn't. ‘Vaegon the Dragonless,’ they called you. I've heard the whispers. But that can change now, can't it? You just need to talk to Kepa. I'm sure he won't mind. After all, you're family." Her smile was bright.

Vaegon blinked for a moment, his expression faltering as he seemed to consider her words, but then he shook his head, quickly dismissing the thought. "Less talking and more reading, little princess. Today, you’re going to finish this entire chapter. I'll be asking questions, so don't think of fooling me."

Do not worry, kepus. I will talk with father. You won't stay dragonless for much longer. 

She was reading under the heart tree in the Godswood when Daemon approached, a smile spreading across his face.

"Uncle! I missed you!" she exclaimed, leaping into his arms and hugging his neck tightly.

"We saw each other just the day before yesterday, zaldrītsos," he chuckled.

"That's far too long! I couldn't find you anywhere," she pouted.

"I was patrolling the streets of King's Landing. Your kepus is a very busy man, don't you know?" he teased, his voice warm with affection.

"Even if you are busy, you still need to make time for me, uncle," she insisted, looking up at him with a mock serious expression.

"Oh, and who says so?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I say so," she replied, lifting her chin in defiance. Daemon laughed, his deep voice rumbling.

"Well, if that's how it is, then I suppose I have no choice but to comply," he said, his tone playful.

She frowned slightly. "I'd prefer if you spent time with me because you actually want to, not just because I told you to."

Daemon's expression softened, and he gently patted her head. "You're mistaken, zaldrītsos. I do enjoy spending time with you. You are my favorite niece."

"Uncle!" she huffed indignantly. "I'm your only niece!" Daemon's laughter rang out, loud and carefree.

"Don't laugh! I'm mad at you." she pouted dramatically, her arms crossed and back turned to him.

He was sure to do something for her if she pouted long enough. 

"How about I take you flying with me, then? Will that win your forgiveness?" he suggested, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

It always works, she smiled to herself before turning to face him again.

"...Maybe," she said, still pretending to be upset, though her lips tugged at the corners.

"Come on, then. I've got some time right now." Daemon grinned and gestured for her to follow. 

•••

They arrived at the Dragonpit, and as Daemon made preparations to saddle Caraxes, she seized the moment to visit her beloved dragon.

"Hello, my little Lady. How are you today?" she asked softly, stroking Syrax’s golden scales. Her dragon responded with a low, rumbling purr, the sound almost like a contented cat.

"I can't wait for us to claim the skies together. Then I'll fly side by side with Father, Mother, and Uncle Daemon. How beautiful it will be!" she whispered, her heart filled with anticipation.

Syrax let out a soft croon, as if agreeing with her words.

"Zaldrītsos, we are ready," her uncle's voice called out to her.

"See you later, Syrax," she whispered, giving the dragon's head a final hug before turning to join Daemon. She paused only long enough to tell the dragonkeepers to feed her Lady a fat sheep before running to her uncle's side.

While Daemon was helping her onto the back of the Blood Wyrm, Rhaenyra asked a question that had been lingering in her mind.

"Kepus, are you going to marry again?" she asked, her voice quiet with apprehension.

Daemon's eyes widened ever so slightly. "Hm? Why do you ask?"

"I overheard some ladies gossiping about it," she said, her brow furrowing. "They said that since your marriage to Lady Rhea is annulled, you'll have to marry again. And it seemed like all of them wanted to be the bride."

Daemon chuckled lightly. "I have no intention of marrying anytime soon."

Her face brightened at that. "Well, what about in the future?"

He smiled at her, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Yes, maybe in the future."

She absentmindedly twirled a ring on her finger, her mind drifting. "I'll grow up one day, and when I'm an adult, I'll have to marry too."

"Yes, you will," he replied with a soft chuckle.

"So, how about we marry each other?" she said quickly, eyes darting over his face to observe his reaction.

Daemon flicked her nose gently, his smile mischievous. "Are you asking for my hand in marriage, zaldrītsos?"

He doesn't take me seriously, she sighed.

"Yes, I am. Why can't I?" she replied, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin in defiance.

"Because you're a tiny little child, that's why," he teased, his tone warm and affectionate.

"I won't be a child forever!" she huffed, crossing her arms in determination.

"You're right. You'll grow. And when you do, if your mind hasn't changed, we can talk about it again," Daemon said, his smile softening. "But until then, focus on your studies and playing with your friends. Enjoy your childhood—it'll pass quicker than you think."

Rhaenyra pouted but knew he was right. "Fine. But I'm telling you now, uncle, it is better if you do not get married before I grow up. Or I'll tell Syrax to burn your bride." She flashed him a sweet, innocent smile.

Daemon let out a hearty laugh and shook his head.

"The blood of the dragon runs thick in you, zaldrītsos," he said, still chuckling. "Now, let's go flying. Caraxes is getting impatient already."

Viserys POV 

"What an exasperating man," Rhaenys said with a knowing shake of her head. "No wonder you can't stand him, Daemon."

They were lounging in his solar, sipping wine and sharing their usual round of gossip.

"That cunt can't shut his mouth for more than a moment. He loves the sound of his own voice," Daemon scoffed, clearly irritated.

Rhaenys had taken a seat on the Small Council as an advisor not long ago. It had already been two moons, but Otto still hadn't stopped grumbling about it. He acted as though having Rhaenys there was some affront to the Gods themselves.

Of course, the Queen Who Never Was had put him in his place more than once—with sharp words that left him sputtering, his face turning purple in the process. But Otto's resilience seemed never-ending.

I, too, had told him that my decision was final, yet he still found ways to sneak in a complaint here and there.

"When are you going to strip him of his pin, cousin?" Rhaenys asked, leaning forward slightly. "The man is utterly incompetent. The only thing he's good at is scheming to benefit his own family."

"Probably at the next council meeting," Viserys replied. "I've been going over letters and accounts from his time as Hand under Jaehaerys, and already I have proof that he used his position to cut House Hightower's taxes by more than half. Grandsire was too old and weak to notice, and I… well, I was too busy being me."

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "And what about the Master of Coin? Both from Jaehaerys' reign and yours?" She cast Daemon a knowing look.

"All done behind their backs. Otto used his authority as Hand—second only to the King himself—to hide his little scheme. His seal is on everything."

"He really is a leech," Daemon muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "And to think the man walks around preaching righteousness."

"He was incredibly bold," Rhaenys said thoughtfully, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "No fear of getting caught."

"Well, he was confident in my incompetence," Viserys said with a derisive smile. "And he wouldn't be entirely wrong if it weren't for the Dream."

"At least that bastard won't be parading around with that pin anymore," Daemon grumbled.

"Right, but like I said before, he's still going to stay at court," Viserys explained. "I prefer to keep Otto close, where we can keep an eye on him. And if we're lucky, Uncle Vaegon might just find a way to anger him to death."

Daemon groaned. "I'm still pissed that you forced me to bring him to Dragonstone that time. My ears almost fell off."

Rhaenys laughed. "I know to keep my distance from Uncle Vaegon. I'm sure he has plenty to say that I won't like hearing."

"He always does," Viserys said with a resigned sigh. "Oh, speaking of Uncle Vaegon, Rhaenyra told me he wants to claim a dragon but is too stubborn to ask."

Daemon raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. I don't see why not. It'll only strengthen our House. There's Vermithor, Silverwing... and, of course, the wild dragons. Not counting the Cannibal, of course."

"I agree," Rhaenys nodded in approval.

Yes, I've decided to let him try to claim a dragon for himself," Viserys said, smiling. "We'll make a trip to Dragonstone once things settle down a bit." Viserys took a sip from his wine.

"Returning to the subject of Otto's demotion. I plan to have Lyonel as my new Hand, which will leave the position of Master of Laws empty. What do you say, cousin?"

Rhaenys blinked, taken aback. "You are considering me for it?" 

Viserys gave a slight nod. "But understand this—when I offer you this position, cousin, it's for you and you alone. House Velaryon already holds too much power. Do you understand?"

Rhaenys straightened, meeting his gaze. "Of course, cousin. I'll be impartial. Corlys will surely try to use this to benefit his House, but I won't let him."

Viserys smiled. "Good. Then prepare yourself. You'll be taking your new position soon enough."

Daemon, bored already, drawled, "I can already hear the complaints. A woman as Mistress of Laws? Some people will be foaming at the mouth."

"Oh, they will," Viserys agreed, a playful glint in his eye. "Now, which will shock the court more? Otto's demotion, or Rhaenys' new position?"

"Care for a bet?" Daemon smirked.

All three of them laughed, the sound echoing through the room.

Court is about to get very interesting.

Chapter Text

Otto POV 

Otto felt as though he stood on the precipice, teetering at the edge, on the brink of collapsing at any moment. These past moons had tested him like never before, as if the Gods themselves had conspired against him.

But no, that could not be

He was a pious and honorable man, steadfast in his devotion to the Seven Who Are One. His house, the staunchest ally of the Faith, had donated generous amounts of coin to the High Septons since time immemorial. Surely, the Gods would not turn their backs on their most faithful servant.

No, this was not the work of divine forces.

This was the work of men. The Targaryens.

Those damned barbarians. Accursed invaders with their fire-breathing monstrosities, their unnatural features, their queer customs and their false Gods. Heathens, all of them. Curse them all to the deepest pits of the seven hells! 

The Gods had seen fit to strike down the Valyrian Freehold, to put an end to those arrogant, heretical fools who thought themselves superior. The Doom had swallowed them whole, their grotesque beasts and their cursed sorceries reduced to ruin.

But this wretched family—this damned bloodline—escaped.

They made use of black arts and fled to their miserable island, slinking away with their beasts and a handful of lesser Valyrian houses, clinging to their dying ways. That should have been the end of them. But no. That was never enough.

Not content with staying there anymore, three debauched heathens decided to turn their unnatural eyes onto our land. Andal land. Holy land. Rightfully taken by our ancestors, consecrated by their blood and faith.

And they came with their monsters.

Three. Just three dragons—and that was all it took. Entire kingdoms razed, keeps destroyed and ancient dynasties wiped from existence as if they were nothing. They forced proud men to kneel, or face dragonfire.

The Field of Fire.

The only battle where all three dragons took flight together. The result was devastating—thousands upon thousands of men burned alive, an army infinitely bigger than that of the invaders, reduced to nothing in the face of three beasts. The Gardeners extinct, the Lannisters bending the knee. 

Even now, more than a hundred years later, every child in the Reach was told about it as a cautionary tale. The wound was still raw, the fear still real.

In the end, the monsters won.

They took our lands. Made them their own. And faithful, righteous men were made to bow, to smile through gritted teeth, because the price of defiance was too high. No man of sound mind wished to burn.

The Targaryens were feared. Rightfully so.

But I thought Viserys was different.

Viserys Targaryen. A weak, pitiful excuse for a man.

He hadn't inherited a single good trace from his ancestors. None of the Conqueror’s might, nor the Conciliator’s cunning. Even Maegor the Cruel—monstrous as he was—had willpower, conviction.

But Viserys? Hah.

He had no strength, no vision. The only thing marking him as a Targaryen was his unnatural appearance. He had once claimed Balerion, but the beast was ancient, decrepit, and perished soon after, leaving him dragonless once more.

Yes, Viserys was pathetic. And that was perfect.

Otto would reign through him. He would move the pieces as he saw fit, shaping the board for a new era. Slowly but surely sapping the power from the Targaryens' hands, diluting their wretched blood and erasing their corrupt influence. It was all falling into place.

For divine providence, the queen was a failure of a woman. No hale sons. No heir to secure the line of succession. Some say it was because she was bedded too young, but it didn't matter. Otto saw it as the Gods showing him their favor and encouragement. He was on the right path. 

Otto had everything perfectly orchestrated in his mind. Decades in the future, there would be Hightower blood on the Iron Throne. His blood. And with it, the cleansing would begin. 

So how?

How could everything go so wrong in such little time?

It was crumbling down, all of his plans. The future he envisioned for his house, himself and the realm, turning to ashes right in front of his eyes.

And there is nothing I can do.

He had never felt so powerless before, this feeling, he hated it.

It happened without warning—sudden, inexplicable, and impossible to predict. On one ordinary morning, Viserys simply woke up… changed.

He made decisions no sane man would have considered. He freed his depraved brother from that worthless marriage, handed him an army of men who could grow fiercely loyal to him, and, worst of all, he stopped listening to Otto's counsel.

At the time, he believed those things were the worst mistakes he could make. Oh, how naive I was.

But then, the king claimed a dragon. No, not just any dragon—the dragon—the remaining beast that once cast its shadow over our lands, a monster of fire and fury, now bent to the will of Viserys Targaryen.

But the nightmare did not end there. Oh, no.

His barren queen, so long without purpose, found one in the sky. She, too, took a dragon—an old, terrible creature. And so, the royal family now boasts three fully grown dragons, three dragonriders.

And soon, the little spoiled chit will mount her yellow beast.

Then they will have four.

Four dragons. Four riders. The abominations multiplying like a plague upon Westeros. And he was forced to witness it. Forced to endure it.

There was also the maester—the one the king dragged from Dragonstone. Mellos had whispered his grievances, his pathetic complaints ringing in Otto’s ears—he said this Gerardys had usurped him, taken his place in tending to the royal family’s health, and when Mellos tried to remind Viserys that, as Grand Maester, those were his duties, the king merely dismissed him. 

Otto did not know what Mellos expected him to do about it. Did he think Otto had any sway left? That he could restore order? That he could whisper in the king’s ear as he once had?

Fool.

Afterwards, as if the Gods were punishing him, Viserys brought true evil to the Red Keep—Vaegon Targaryen, prince turned archmaester. The most revolting, insufferable, infuriating creature Otto had ever had the displeasure of knowing.

He makes Lord Flea Bottom look pleasing and polite. 

Vaegon took to tormenting him as a fish takes to water, as if it were his very purpose. Much like Daemon himself, but unlike the Rogue Prince, Vaegon wielded knowledge like a blade, cutting Otto down with ease.

Every meeting, every encounter was an exercise in humiliation. He corrected Otto at every turn, opposed his every word and tore his arguments apart before the entire Small Council. And it was clear that Vaegon enjoyed every second of it too. Gods, the man truly enjoyed it.

The moons spent in the presence of that demon were excruciating. The stress gnawed at Otto’s body, hollowing him out from within.  His hair had thinned considerably and  became full of white strands, more than ever before. His reflection in the mirror was a stranger’s face—gaunt, sunken, dark circles beneath his tired eyes. A man aged beyond his years.

And the pain.

The headaches, so many of them, pounded against his skull relentlessly. Sometimes, they were so unbearable he considered slamming his head against the nearest stone wall just to make it stop. The sharp pain in his chest was worse, unpredictable and terrifying. It came and went like a specter, lingering just long enough to remind him of his mortality.

And when he thought his suffering had reached its peak—she returned.

Rhaenys.

The woman who should have been the king's most bitter enemy. The woman who should still seethe over the Great Council, resentful, spitting venom at the throne that denied her.

But no.

Instead, she flaunted her support for Viserys, paraded her children through court, and—most maddening of all—claimed a seat on the Small Council.

A woman.

Preposterous! Blasphemous! This goes against the laws of Gods and men!

Today the king had called the court and the members of the Small Council to the Throne Room, something about an important announcement. Another grand proclamation. Another ridiculous decision. One that he was not privy to, as was the custom as of late.

He huffed.

What absurdity would Viserys unleash upon us this time?

Otto felt exhausted already. His bones ached, his mind reeled. He walked slowly to the Throne Room, dragging himself forward, dreading whatever the king had to say. 

•••

Viserys stood before the throne, Blackfyre in hand, his crown gleaming under the candlelight. The Great Hall was filled with nobles, courtiers, and members of the Small Council, all waiting with bated breath.

"I called all of you here today for a matter of great importance," the king began. "Each and every one of you who serve in my council, my court, and my keep bears the responsibility of working for the betterment of the realm. That is your duty. The temptation to use your station to elevate your own house beyond what it deserves is considerable, but it must be resisted. Those who serve must serve the realm—not themselves. Regrettably, not everyone is capable of such honor and duty."

A murmur rippled through the hall. Otto's heartbeat quickened and he looked around frantically. What is happening? What is Viserys speaking of?

The king’s gaze swept across the room, his expression unreadable. "I, together with the Master of Coin, Lord Beesbury, have been reviewing our financial records—some dating back to my grandsire's reign. And what we uncovered cannot be ignored, nor can it remain unpunished."

No.

Otto felt his stomach drop. He knows. He knows.

"Regrettably, Ser Otto Hightower, the current Hand of the King, has been misusing his power and authority to enrich his own house."

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. 

Gasps filled the hall. All eyes turned to Otto. His face drained of color, his mind spinning.

"I discovered that the taxes paid by House Hightower have been cut by more than half since 101 AC, when Otto assumed his position as Hand after my father’s passing."

The Great Hall erupted in chaos. Outrage, shock, whispers of scandal. Otto remained frozen in place, a man turned to stone, his face as white as the snow in the North.

This is just a nightmare. Yes, I am still asleep. I just need to wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Please.

"Silence!" Viserys' voice rang out, and the hall obeyed. "This transgression will not go unpunished. Every noble house in Westeros must contribute to the kingdom's prosperity. Even the smallfolk pay their dues. But a house as wealthy as House Hightower thought itself exempt, robbing from its king. They thought themselves above other noble families—above all of you who are here today—using the position of power one of them occupied to their own benefit. They are no better than common thieves."

The nobles cheered at the declaration. Otto's ears rang.

"They grew richer while draining the realm's coffers. So they will repay what they have taken—with interest."

This is not happening. This is not happening.

"Send word to Lord Hobert Hightower. He is to pay the crown seven hundred thousand golden dragons before the end of 104 AC. After that, House Hightower's taxes will be raised for the next ten years. Surely, given their vast wealth, this will not be an issue."

Viserys smiled, the picture of serenity.

Wake up, Otto. Wake up! 

"Know that this is a light punishment, given the severity of the crime. I act out of the goodness of my heart and respect for the ancient lineage of House Hightower."

Otto could not think. He could not speak. He could scarcely breathe. His vision blurred at the edges.

"As for Otto Hightower—he is no longer Hand of the King. Remove his pin."

Ser Ryam stepped forward and stripped Otto of his most prized possession, the only thing that belonged to him, not Hobert. The thing that allowed him to be more than a second son with nothing to inherit.

He didn't move. He couldn't.

"Otto," Viserys continued, his tone steady, "though you did not commit a crime as grave as murder, I consider your actions a betrayal of your duty. I was tempted to call it treason and have you spend the rest of your days in the Black Cells, but I have chosen mercy. Once again, out of respect for your house, and for whatever friendship we once had. You may remain at court—since I doubt your brother will have you back at Oldtown after this disgrace. I had considered granting you a seat on the Small Council as an advisor, but no—your advice has never been for the good of the realm, only for the good of yourself. This is your last chance, Ser Otto. Use it wisely."

He wanted to scream, to shout, to explain, to beg. But he could do none of it. He was paralyzed, his vision getting darker by the minute. 

"With Otto Hightower removed from his position, I require a new Hand of the King. Lord Lyonel, step forward."

Lyonel Strong approached, shock written across his face. Viserys took the Hand's pin from Ser Ryam and fastened it onto Lyonel's cloak. "Serve me well."

"Your Grace, I am honored beyond words."

"And with Lord Lyonel's ascension, the position of Master of Laws must be filled. Princess Rhaenys, step forward."

The Queen Who Never Was strode forth, chin lifted high, poise impeccable.

"Princess Rhaenys, the new Mistress of Laws."

The court exploded in disapproval.

"Silence!" Viserys commanded. "Princess Rhaenys learned at the knees of Jaehaerys and Alyssane themselves, she's more than qualified for the position. And, as my family, she will have a seat at my council. My decision is final. Question it, and you may lose your tongue."

A hush fell over the hall at once.

"With these matters resolved, you are dismissed."

That was the last thing Otto heard before darkness overtook him, and he collapsed, face-first, onto the cold stone floor of the Great Hall.

Viserys POV 

"He fucking fainted!" Daemon roared with laughter, pure delight radiating from him.

Viserys shook his head, grinning at his brother's unrestrained joy. "You really enjoyed that, didn't you?"

"How could I not?" Daemon gasped between fits of laughter. "Otto Hightower, humiliated before the entire court, stripped of his position as Hand, and then fucking collapsing like some frail old woman! Gods, it was perfect."

Viserys chuckled at the memory, but the more he thought about it, the harder it became to hold back. Soon, both brothers were howling with laughter, clutching at each other just to remain standing, completely drunk and lost in their shared amusement.

Rhaenys watched them with a smirk before turning to the queen. "I do not understand how you put up with those two, dear Aemma."

She giggled. "Oh, cousin, they aren't always this bad. Usually."

The women burst into laughter, openly mocking the two drunkards.

"Well," Rhaenys admitted, swirling her wine lazily, "I can’t say Otto's fall from grace doesn't bring me immense satisfaction."

Aemma snorted, setting down her goblet. "I lost count of how many times he 'subtly' reminded me of my 'duty' to produce a prince." She rolled her eyes.

"That man never knew his place." Rhaenys scoffed. Then, her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Dear Aemma, do you have any free time tomorrow? I was thinking of flying with Meleys for a bit. Perhaps a race to Dragonstone and back? Maybe if you try really hard, you might stand a chance this time."

Aemma playfully smacked Rhaenys' arm. "Oh, please. How is it fair when you ride the fastest dragon in the realm?" She huffed dramatically before continuing, "Tomorrow, I'll be taking Rhaenyra to visit the orphanages in the morning. I should be free before supper."

Viserys, finally successful at prying Daemon off him, plopped his wasted brother into a chair and turned to his wife. "Speaking of that, how are the visits going, my love?"

Aemma sighed, her expression softening. "It is bittersweet. I'm glad we're doing something for those poor children, but seeing how terrible their conditions were before… it was heartbreaking. Even Rhaenyra was affected. She never truly understood what it meant to lack something until now. But I think it changed her for the better—she's become more compassionate."

Viserys nodded thoughtfully. "I understand. Once Queen Alysanne's projects are fully reimplemented, things will improve. I've also been planning to build new orphanages and almshouses on Visenya's Hill. Even with the Grand Sept, there's still plenty of space. And thanks to House Hightower's punishment, coin won't be a problem." He smirked deviously.

Daemon perked up at that, eyes gleaming. "Good! Take all of their coin! Bleed those bastards dry! Leave them poorer than a Flea Bottom rat!"

Viserys sighed, shaking his head in amusement. "I think it's time for you to retire, brother. Come, I'll take you."

Daemon, swaying slightly, pointed a wobbly finger at Viserys. "You're a good man, lēkia. A very good man. A cunning bastard, but good."

Viserys chuckled, hauling his wasted sibling to his feet. "Yes, yes, now let's get you to bed before you start singing."

Aemma and Rhaenys exchanged a knowing look before bursting into laughter again.

They were laying tangled in bed, warm skin against warm skin, the lingering heat of their lovemaking still in the air. Viserys traced lazy patterns on Aemma's back, his fingers moving in soothing circles.

She sighed, nestling closer. "I received a raven from little Jeyne today. She's just entered her ninth nameday—so young, and already burdened with the title of Defender of the Vale. Her cousin, Ser Arnold, has been a thorn in her side ever since her father and brothers died. He constantly contests her claim. I just wish I could do more for her than exchange letters with words of comfort."

Viserys hummed thoughtfully, his hand never stopping its slow ministrations. "Hmm. I recently had to deal with her regent, Lord Yorbert Royce—Rhea's father. His daughter was all too eager to free herself from my dear brother, but the Lord of Runestone was far less pleased about losing a royal marriage, unfruitful as it was. Stubborn old man." He huffed in annoyance, and Aemma laughed softly.

"As for helping Jeyne, well, you are the Queen, my love. And now that you have Dreamfyre, what do you say about flying to the Vale and paying the little Lady of the Eyrie a visit? I know how much you miss it."

Aemma lifted her head quickly, eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Really? You think I should?"

Viserys smiled. "Of course, if that's what you want. You could see the Vale again after so many years. And just by being there, you would help her. Imagine it—the Queen, with her dragon, openly supporting Jeyne's claim? Her cousin will surely think twice before stirring trouble again for a long time."

A bright, eager smile spread across Aemma's face. "And maybe I could take Rhaenyra with me! She should see the place where I was born, where I spent so much of my childhood. She and Jeyne are close in age—it would be good for them to bond."

Viserys chuckled. "Yes, I think our little girl will love it. She'll treat it as a grand adventure." His expression turned wistful. "I wish I could go with you, but there's too much work to be done here."

Aemma sighed but nodded in understanding. "I still have some things to finish before we leave..." She mused. "Oh, Amanda will be so happy to return to the Eyrie too! I can't wait to tell her."

Viserys gazed at her fondly, unable to resist the warmth in her eyes. He leaned in and stole a kiss.

"Alright, alright," he murmured against her lips. "Tomorrow, you can make all the arrangements. But for now, it is time to sleep."

Aemma pulled back just enough to pout at him. "Oh, but I'm not tired."

Viserys raised a brow, feigning offense. "Not tired? You wound me! Here I thought I'd done a good enough job of tiring you out. Perhaps I wasn't thorough enough." He hummed thoughtfully before rolling her onto her back, his hands already sliding up her shift.

Aemma's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Do your best, husband."

Viserys grinned wickedly, positioning himself over her. "I'll make you regret those words, wife."

The noises coming out of the king's chambers that night were enough to torment even the rats scurrying throughout the keep. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV 

"Dracarys!"

At Laenor's command, Seasmoke let out a pitifully small burst of bluish flame. The silver-grey dragon, still young and only the size of a pony, hatched in 99 AC and had much growing to do.

"Oh, he is so small and lovely! Nothing like Rhaenyra's yellow beast!" Beatrice Strong cooed at Seasmoke before shooting the princess a teasing look.

Rhaenyra gasped in mock offense. "How dare you! My Golden Lady is absolutely lovely and not a beast at all! She's also quite small—have you not seen Vhagar?"

Beatrice huffed. "Anything is tiny compared to the king's mount, but your Syrax is already a little bigger than a horse, she's not small at all. Seasmoke is way cuter, like a pony!"

"I wholeheartedly agree!" Laenor chirped, looking utterly pleased with himself.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at the duo. "Of course you do."

"Both of you are the same age, are you not? So why are your dragons so different in size?" Johanna Westerling asked curiously.

"That's because the princess's dragon hatched in her cradle while Laenor's did not," Rosamund Strong replied, as serious and solemn as her father.

"How do you know that, Rose?" Elenda Caron tilted her head in question.

"It’s always prudent to be well-informed." "Because she’s a gossip!" Rosamund and Beatrice both spoke at the same time. The older girl shot the younger one an unimpressed look. 

Rhaenyra giggled at the Strong sisters' bickering. They were complete opposites—Rosamund was serious and composed, while Beatrice was lively and full of energy.

Their playful chatter was interrupted as Syrax landed nearby, drawing the group's attention. Rhaenyra smiled and beckoned her closer. The other children, with the exception of Laenor, took several cautious steps back.

The princess had been doing her best to help her new friends overcome their fear of dragons. Majestic and powerful, they were an intrinsic part of her life, and anyone close to her should not be easily frightened by them—at least, that was what her father said. Fear was natural, expected, but it should never overshadow respect.

Alicent, however, had never shared that sentiment. She had always disliked accompanying Rhaenyra to the Dragonpit, even when she remained safely tucked away inside the carriage the entire time, as if merely being near the dragons was unbearable. Rhaenyra had noticed that it wasn't just fear that Alicent felt—it was something colder, more dismissive. Most people, even those without the blood of the dragon, harbored a degree of awe alongside their apprehension. But in Alicent's eyes, Rhaenyra had never seen admiration, only unease and distaste.

She took a glance at the girls and saw that her efforts had paid off, at least a little bit. They were now far more comfortable around dragons, though she suspected Seasmoke's small and amicable nature had helped immensely. Her Lady, on the other hand, was a little spoiled and could be moody at times.

Syrax leaned her head against Rhaenyra, letting out soft sounds—as soft as a dragon could manage. The princess lovingly petted her golden scales.

"Are you not tired from flying so much? You're always following Caraxes around every time he goes out. He's going to get mad at you," she chided gently.

Syrax let out an annoyed huff, blowing hot air all over Rhaenyra's face. The princess laughed at her dragon's antics.

"She's grown so much," Laenor observed, studying Syrax carefully.

"Yes, Uncle Daemon says she's almost ready to be saddled. As soon as she's big enough, I'm going to fly with her," Rhaenyra declared proudly.

"What? But you're still too young!" Laenor's eyes widened in alarm.

She gave him a dry look. "We are the same age."

"Yes, but my mother would never let me fly Seasmoke this soon, even if he were big enough. And neither would your parents, I imagine."

"Well, they'll certainly say no if I ask. But I don't plan on asking at all," she said, raising her chin with a mischievous smile.

"I feel obligated to inform Their Majesties about this plan of yours, princess." Rosamund remarked, her voice as calm as ever.

"You are such a killjoy, Rose!" Beatrice accused.

"The only one who's going to end up getting killed is the princess if she goes through with her plan," Rosamund countered smoothly.

"I agree with Rosamund. It's far too dangerous," Elenda added, looking at Rhaenyra seriously.

Johanna chuckled. "She's a Targaryen—flying dragons is in their blood. How can it be dangerous?"

"It's not about flying, per se. It's about her age. She's only six namedays old," Rosamund replied, almost bored.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. How dramatic. And I'm almost seven!

"Fine, fine, let's move on from this topic before all of you end up giving me a headache. You're acting like a bunch of mother hens." She strode towards their picnic table near the heart tree and picked up a lemon cake.

"Is Alicent really not going to join us again today?" Elenda questioned.

"If the Gods are good, she won't!" Beatrice exclaimed.

"Beatrice!" Elenda chided, while Johanna and Laenor laughed. Rosamund only rolled her eyes.

"What? She's so annoying! She complains about everything, lectures us on the 'proper' way to behave, and never stops talking about the Gods—like a damn septa!"

"Language," Rosamund corrected serenely.

Johanna smirked. "It's funny hearing her preach about propriety, considering what her own father did."

"Exactly! How is it that you're No-Tooth Otto's daughter and yet keep talking about decorum?" Beatrice chimed in, making everyone laugh. Even Rosamund chuckled slightly.

No-Tooth Otto—that was the court's new nickname for Alicent's father. After his dismissal as Hand of the King, he had fainted in the Throne Room and fallen face-first onto the steps of the Iron Throne. The impact broke his nose and loosened one of his front teeth. While the maesters managed to fix his nose, nothing could be done about the tooth, which eventually fell out days later. Now, he was the laughingstock of the entire court. Both he and Alicent had taken to appearing as little as possible, choosing to remain in their chambers even after more than a moon had passed.

Rhaenyra had once been close to Alicent, but in thinking back, she suspected their bond had existed more out of necessity than genuine compatibility. The Hightower girl had been her only consistent companion, yet they had little in common. What Rhaenyra enjoyed—spirited conversations, dragons, and the stories from Old Valyria—Alicent deemed improper. At the same time, what Alicent preferred—needlework, courtly decorum, and dutiful piety—Rhaenyra found mind-numbingly dull. Their differences, once overlooked in the absence of other friendships, now seemed blatantly obvious.

With her new friends by her side, Rhaenyra hardly gave Alicent's absence much thought. If anything, she found it a relief sometimes. Her current companions were far more engaging, their wit sharper, their company livelier. Compared to them, Alicent's presence had been little more than a stifling obligation on the older girl's part. 

She realized that her former best—only—friend had never truly understood Rhaenyra, or what it meant to be a Targaryen. Never cared to.

"Oh, children. So many of them. How… lovely."

Her uncle's voice drifted from behind her, laced with dry amusement. When she turned, she found him observing the group with a small grimace on his face.

"Kepus! You're finally back!" Rhaenyra wasted no time rushing toward him, throwing her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug.

"Zaldrītsos, I was gone for less than three days," Daemon said with a chuckle, clearly amused by her excitement.

She huffed, crossing her arms in mock annoyance. "I just don't see the need for you to spend so much time at the barracks."

"I am the Commander of the City Watch, little niece. I have responsibilities." He flicked her nose, earning a playful scowl from her.

"Prince Daemon," her friends greeted in unison, their voices respectful but hesitant.

They're more afraid of him than they are of the dragons, Rhaenyra mused, hiding her amusement.

But the one who truly terrifies them is Uncle Vaegon.

"Children," Daemon acknowledged with a careless nod.

Above them, Caraxes soared over the Godswood, letting out a distinctive whistle—his own way of greeting his rider. Syrax wasted no time taking flight after him, her golden form darting after the Blood Wyrm like a shadow chasing the sun.

"How shameless! She's always flying after him these days," Rhaenyra grumbled, hands on her hips.

"Exactly like her princess," Beatrice murmured, her voice just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Laughter erupted—Daemon's rich and unrestrained, Laenor's bright with amusement, while the other girls giggled at Rhaenyra's expense. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

"Beatrice! Come here this instant! I'm feeding you to Syrax!"

She bolted after her grinning friend, who yelped and took off running, her laughter trailing behind her like a victory banner.

"You won't be able to do it, my princess," Beatrice called over her shoulder. "Your Lady is currently too busy following the Blood Wyrm around!"

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed as she picked up her pace.

I'm going to kill her!

Viserys POV 

"What about your new squires? How are they faring?" Viserys asked, seizing the opportunity to take a brief—very brief—respite from their training.

In truth, he was desperately trying to distract Daemon. His entire body screamed in protest from the absurdly brutal exercises his brother had been putting him through. Each session felt less like training and more like an elaborate assassination attempt.

I think he's actually trying to murder me in a subtle way.

That being said, he couldn't deny the results. His body was already showing signs of improvement—his muscles were starting to become more defined, he had more stamina, and he no longer felt winded just from climbing a flight of stairs. The training was gruesome, but undeniably effective.

Daemon, however, was a relentless teacher. He had no sympathy for his students, no mercy for their exhaustion, and certainly no patience for complaints. It made Viserys feel a bit guilty towards the poor boys, considering this whole squire business had been his idea in the first place.

A moon ago, he had suggested that Daemon take on a few noble sons as squires. Naturally, his brother hated the idea, dismissing it with a scoff and a pointed, "I have no need for any spoiled greenboy trailing after me everywhere."

But Viserys had insisted. Fostering goodwill among noble houses was crucial, and it would strengthen Rhaenyra's claim in the long run. Begrudgingly, Daemon had agreed—but only on the condition that he would take no more than three.

The first was Harwin Strong, a natural choice. The lad was already fiercely loyal and highly capable. The boy and his family didn't need to be coaxed, but Viserys wanted to keep him close. He was determined to ensure that the Strong heir lived this time.

The second was Elmo Tully, grandson of Lord Grover. His grandsire was a stubborn and old-fashioned man, but the lad had potential. The Riverlands were extremely important and it was smart to have the next Lord Paramount of the Trident on their side.

And lastly—Borros Baratheon.

Daemon hated that choice. He knew exactly what kind of man the future Lord of Storm's End would become. Arrogant, brash, and disloyal. But that was precisely why Viserys had chosen him. A few years under Daemon's grueling discipline might do him some good. There was no guarantee Borros would become a better person—but at the very least, he would suffer for a while.

"They're improving," Daemon said, his smirk equal parts cruel and satisfied. "Harwin was already skilled, Elmo's grown more confident, and Dumb Borros is far more docile now."

Viserys nearly pitied the boy. Nearly.

When Borros had first arrived, he had been full of himself—haughty, stubborn, and convinced of his own importance. That attitude hadn't lasted long. Daemon had put him in his place with swift and brutal efficiency. The proud stag had no choice but to bow before the dragon. And from the look on his brother's face, Daemon had thoroughly enjoyed the process.

Scary man.

"That's good," Viserys said, shifting slightly in an attempt to ease the ache in his limbs. "Their families are pleased. It is a great honor to squire for a prince of the blood, after all—especially one as skilled as you."

"Hm." Daemon didn't look convinced. "No amount of flattery will get you out of the rest of the training." His smirk widened. "Now get up and pick up your sword."

Viserys groaned internally.

Fucking brat.

It had been a sennight since Aemma and Rhaenyra departed for the Vale, their entourage trailing behind them, with Dreamfyre and Syrax soaring overhead. To Rhaenyra’s great dismay, Aemma had refused to travel on dragonback, citing her inexperience and the long journey ahead.

Originally, they had planned to leave Syrax behind, but Rhaenyra had been adamant about bringing her Golden Lady along. Something about separating the dragon from Caraxes for a while. She had claimed that Syrax was obsessed with the Blood Wyrm and that it was unhealthy.

Viserys had to try very, very hard not to point out that she wasn’t much different from her dragon.

He sighed. I already miss them so much

Now, with his wife and daughter gone, he found himself restless. Lyonel's efficiency as Hand had reduced the king’s workload, leaving him with some idle time that he'd usually spend with his two lovely ladies. Fortunately, Rhaenyra had unknowingly provided him with one opportunity to distract himself and do something good.

Before leaving, she had mentioned the Archmaester's hidden desire to become a dragonrider. 

Viserys smiled to himself.

Let's find that grumpy man a dragon.

His uncle hadn't protested when asked to accompany him to Dragonstone. Vaegon never turned down an opportunity to visit the island's library.

Daemon, however, had invited himself along. He claimed it was important to support their uncle in his search for a dragon, but Viserys strongly suspected that his brother simply wanted an excuse to shirk his duties for a day.

As if reading his thoughts, Daemon materialized beside him out of nowhere, making Viserys jump slightly.

"Everything ready?"

"Yes. Uncle Vaegon is probably already waiting for us near the carriage."

To Viserys' utter despair, Archmaester Vaegon had insisted on riding with him on Vhagar. He had claimed that Daemon flew like a madman—going too fast, executing unnecessary maneuvers, and generally behaving like a menace.

Judging by Daemon's smug smirk, it had all been completely intentional.

This little shit.

A few hours later, they arrived at Dragonstone. Instead of landing near the castle, they descended beside the caves of the Dragonmont, where the unclaimed dragons resided.

Vaegon, ever sharp, narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Why are we landing here?"

Viserys turned to face him. "Uncle, I know that by going to the Citadel and taking your vows, you set aside your House name. But we are the blood of the dragon. That blood runs thick, and to us, you will always be family. You are Vaegon Targaryen, and Targaryens need their dragons." His voice was firm, unwavering.

Vaegon exhaled, already shaking his head. "Viserys, I do not wish—"

"Yes, you do," Viserys cut him off. "Of course, you do. It's a part of us. It's who we are." He met his uncle's gaze steadily. "I know grandsire didn't want all of his children claiming dragons. But I am king now, and I am not the Conciliator. I will not deny you your birthright, but I will not force you either. The choice is yours. Just—" he softened his tone slightly, "—don't lie to yourself. You're smarter than that."

Vaegon POV 

He was ashamed to admit it, but his heart was pounding—wild, erratic—his mind a storm of emotions, all clamoring for his attention.

He did not want a dragon.

He did not need a dragon.

He did not deserve a dragon.

Vaegon had always been different from his family. An outcast in his own home. His words were too sharp, too venomous, his temper too severe. He enraged some of his siblings and deeply wounded others. His parents had lost any hope for him

He wanted to turn around and leave. To escape from the place that suffocated him with its crowds, yet left him unbearably alone. They all spoke different languages, they could never understand each other.

But books—books had been his salvation. He could escape from his surroundings while reading and studying, it grounded and liberated him at the same time. It made him feel as if he could fly. So, he left.

Left his home.

Left his parents.

Left his siblings.

And then, one by one, they began to die.

Vaegon wanted to return. Gods, he did. But shame held him back, and besides—what difference would it have made? What could he have done? Nothing.

He had no right to mourn them. Not when he had never been there. Not when he had never made the effort to be present in their lives.

He had no right.

The news that Daella was gone—his sweet, innocent and foolish sister—affected him a lot.

She was the one he had hurt the most.

He should have apologized. Should have told her he never meant those cruel words. That he had been angry at everything and everyone for reasons he couldn't even comprehend. But none of it had been her fault. Never her fault.

He wanted to apologize.

But he didn't.

And then, he couldn't.

One by one, they fell. Until there was almost no one left.

Only him and Saera, a sister across the Narrow Sea who had no love for him—not that he had ever given her reason to.

He had thought that was it. That he would die alone, haunted by demons and regrets, his apologies forever left unsaid, the ties of blood left broken.

Then came the raven.

Viserys I Targaryen had summoned him back to the Red Keep—the home that had never felt like home. The place where his family had lived and died. Had laughed and suffered. Had found love and mourned. While he had stood apart, a distant observer.

"Right," he had thought. "There is still family left. The next generation I never bothered to know. I am not completely alone yet."

So he returned, after so many years.

The Red Keep was still the same.

No. Not the same.

Empty.

Not enough silver-haired children running through the halls. Not enough voices—laughing, bickering, weeping, screaming. No father to correct them sternly. No mother to soothe them with a gentle hand.

They aren't here anymore, he thought. He had known that, of course. But seeing it—feeling it—made it real.

On his first night back, he locked the doors to his childhood chambers—untouched, undisturbed—and for the first time in years, he wept.

He mourned.

Finally, he mourned.

The next day, he demanded Viserys to change his accomodations, saying that he wanted better ones. But the truth was, he couldn't bear to stay in those chambers. Not when the surface of the heavy wooden doors still bore the jagged marks from the day Alyssa had furiously slashed at them with her sword during one of their many quarrels.

He didn't want to look at it, didn't want to remember his fiery and wild sister, who spent an entire year suffering before finally passing.

He didn't want to think about how he never went to see her, how he never said goodbye.

Surprisingly, despite everything, Vaegon found himself slipping into his family's  dynamic with ease. The sons, daughters and granddaughter of his siblings were not so bad. 

He fit.

His temper was still terrible, his tongue still sharp as Valyrian steel, but they embraced him as he was.

The little girl—the future queen—became his favorite. Like the daughter he never had. Not that he would ever admit it. Her ego was already too big for someone so small. 

And now, his troublesome nephews had dragged him here—to Dragonstone.

To claim a dragon.

To offer him a chance to mend the cracks in his soul. To give him the bond that was older than memory, more sacred than any vow. The kind of connection that defied explanation.

A dragon.

He didn’t want one.

…Right?

...

He did.

He really, truly did.

He needed it. Desperately.

To feel that connection. To be a Targaryen. A whole one.

Finally, he nodded.

Daemon and Viserys cheered at his decision. Clapped, even.

Stupid boys.

Vaegon rolled his eyes, but when they weren't looking—he smiled.

Vaegon felt it.

Something inside this cave was calling to him—to his blood, his soul, to everything that made him who he was.

He walked forward, drawn by an invisible force, almost as if in a trance.

And then he saw him.

A young dragon, twice the size of Rhaenyra's Syrax, watching him with cautious amber eyes. His scales, a breathtaking mix of grey and white, shimmered faintly in the dim light. Vaegon could feel the apprehension rolling off the creature—fear, uncertainty, skepticism... but also, buried beneath it all, a fragile flicker of hope.

We really are alike, huh.

He moved carefully, each step measured and deliberate. This was a wild dragon, one who had never known a rider. But Vaegon already knew his name.

Grey Ghost.

The dragon tensed but did not retreat. He only watched, wary yet unmoving, allowing Vaegon to draw closer.

So he did.

Slowly, he extended his hand and waited.

Grey Ghost sniffed at it, much like a cautious cat, before—after a long, silent moment—leaning his head into his palm.

"You've been lonely, haven't you?" Vaegon murmured, his voice quiet as his fingers traced the dragon's rough scales.

"I know because I have been lonely too. And afraid. For so long."

Grey Ghost let out a soft, almost mournful sound.

"Let us fly together. Let us be free."

The dragon stilled. Then, slowly, he lowered himself, offering Vaegon the unspoken invitation.

There was no saddle—only the ridged spikes along Grey Ghost's neck for him to hold on to. But it didn't matter.

"Take us to the sky, my friend."

The dragon went to the cave's entrance, the blinding sunlight forcing Vaegon to squint. But in this moment, he did not care.

"Sōves."

And just like that, they flew.

The wind against his face, the feeling of freedom, the sheer joy bursting in his chest—he felt something inside him click into place.

So this… this is what was missing.

A chorus of roars broke through his thoughts.

On either side, his insufferable nephews flanked him, their dragons flying in tandem with Grey Ghost.

The young dragon tensed, uneasy at their proximity.

Vaegon ran a soothing hand over his scales.

"It's alright," he said softly. "They're family."

A pause.

"You have a family now."

His lips twitched into a small, almost imperceptible smile.

"They're stupid and troublesome—but they're precious. You'll see."

A promise, whispered into the wind.

"You're not alone anymore."

We are not alone anymore.

Chapter Text

Aemma POV 

"Dracarys, Syrax!"

Rhaenyra commanded eagerly. Her young dragon obeyed at once, unleashing a torrent of golden flames that engulfed the deer's cold body. Once Syrax deemed her meal sufficiently cooked, she wasted no time, tearing into the roasted flesh and devouring it in just a few bites. 

A chorus of delighted applause followed. Jeyne, Jessamyn, and several other noble children from the Vale clapped enthusiastically, their eyes wide with wonder. Rhaenyra, standing tall, looked utterly pleased with herself—pride practically radiating from her small body.

It had been five days since their arrival at the Eyrie, and already, her daughter had managed to charm half the Vale. The moniker she had earned at the tender age of four—The Realm's Delight—was no exaggeration, nor was it mere flattery.

Little Jeyne had been wary at first, treating them with the same rigid formality she used in her ravens, so much so that no one would have believed they were kin.

But her behavior was understandable. She had lost her father and brothers at just three years old and had carried a crushing weight ever since—especially with those who dared to question her right to rule as the rightful Lady of the Vale. 

Aemma had sent letters, exchanged ravens with her over the years, but she had never done more to truly show her support. She had never met the girl in person.

I was either pregnant or too weak to visit her… but I still feel guilty about it.

Yet, as always, Rhaenyra had a way of melting the ice around even the most guarded hearts. She had managed to bridge the gap, to coax Jeyne out of her shell, encouraging her to act less like a ruler burdened by duty and more like the child she still was.

Her daughter had also befriended Jessamyn Redford, one of Jeyne's closest companions, along with several other noble children. Now, wherever Rhaenyra went, a small entourage trailed after her like a gaggle of ducklings, eager to bask in her presence. The little princess, naturally, loved the situation.

The Eyrie was teeming with Vale bannermen, all drawn by the news of the royal visit. Nobles from various houses had flocked to the castle, eager to meet their Queen and Princess.

And, of course, to see for themselves whether the rumors of me claiming Dreamfyre were true or not. 

Even Arnold Arryn, Jeyne's first cousin and the man who had contested her inheritance, had come to pay his respects.

Aemma had seized the opportunity. During a grand feast held in her and Rhaenyra's honor, she had openly referred to Jeyne as the rightful heir of her maiden house, showing her support. The reaction had been subtle yet unmistakable—nobles exchanging careful glances, whispers threading through the hall. She could feel the power balance shifting in Jeyne's favor.

But she hadn't stopped there.

The next day, she had taken Jeyne on a flight atop Dreamfyre. Every soul in the Eyrie—nobles and servants alike—had poured outside to witness the spectacle, their faces turned skywards in awe.

Jeyne had been hesitant, fear flickering in her eyes. But once again, Rhaenyra had worked her magic, persuading her with unwavering confidence and a reassuring smile.

Aemma had watched with quiet pride as her daughter's voice, steady and sure, chipped away at Jeyne's reluctance. Even at such a young age, Rhaenyra wielded persuasion like a blade.

It was something Aemma had only recently begun to fully notice. Now that she was free from the endless cycle of pregnancies, miscarriages and recoveries, she finally had the time and clarity to truly see her daughter.

Rhaenyra could be sweet and playful, a girl of just six namedays who laughed freely in the presence of some—Aemma, Viserys, and Daemon most of all. But beneath that childlike charm was something... more. 

She had witnessed it a few times now, moments were Rhaenyra showed signs of a sharper mind, different from how she normally presents herself to her mother, father and uncle. 

There was a quiet ruthlessness to her, a cunning that surfaced when necessary. And now, another skill had revealed itself—persuasion. Aemma had no doubt that, given time, Rhaenyra would learn to wield all these traits with the ease of a true ruler.

She will be a magnificent Queen. 

Aemma had circled the Eyrie, soaring high above the castle before she commanded Dreamfyre to unleash her bluish flames. Gasps and awed murmurs rippled through the crowd. Arnold Arryn had gone visibly pale, while even the ever-stoic Lord Yorbert Royce, Jeyne's regent, seemed to regard the queen with newfound respect.

The sound of excited voices drew her attention back to the courtyard. She turned to see Rhaenyra effortlessly playing with a ball, her movements precise and graceful. The other children watched her with open admiration, as if she had hung the moon and stars in the sky.

Aemma chuckled, shaking her head fondly.

Such a charmer.

Aemma sighed, setting aside her embroidery for a moment.

I miss Viserys.

She sat in her childhood chambers in the Eyrie, the space filled with the quiet murmurs and soft laughter of her ladies-in-waiting as they worked on their own needlework.

The past moon had been a whirlwind of social interactions as she immersed herself in the affairs of the Vale—forging and strengthening connections with its nobles, listening to their grievances (of which there were many), and promising to bring them to her husband's attention so they could be addressed in the Small Council.

But her efforts hadn't been limited to the nobility. Determined to understand the struggles of all her people, she had taken to the skies on Dreamfyre, visiting various villages and townships throughout the Vale, her Kingsguards insisting on always following her on horseback—as if the giant, fire-breathing creature, with razor-sharp teeth and talons behind her wasn't protection enough.

The concerns of the smallfolk often differed vastly from those of their lords, and she had wanted to hear them firsthand.

At first, they had been hesitant, wary of speaking too freely in front of a queen. But once they realized she truly wished to listen, they clung to the opportunity, pouring out their worries—some of which, to her satisfaction, she had been able to resolve on her own.

What she hadn't expected was the effect her actions would have on the Vale's lords. Seeing their queen's interest and how she actively worked to improve the lives of the people living in their lands had spurred them into action—not out of benevolence, but out of a desire to remain in her good graces. Aemma was under no illusions about their motivations.

Matters not, as long as they do something to help.

She was already considering speaking to Viserys about expanding this initiative beyond the Vale. A Royal Progress across the Seven Kingdoms, with the three of them—king, queen, and princess—visiting every corner of Westeros, ensuring the voices of all their people were heard and everyone saw the ones who ruled them—as well as their dragons. 

Rhaenyra had occasionally accompanied her on these visits to see the smallfolk when she wasn't preoccupied with her newfound obsession—falconry. Jeyne, having learned the art from Lord Yorbert Royce, had taken it upon herself to teach Rhaenyra, much to the princess's delight.

Now, Rhaenyra had her own falcon, a gift from Lord Yorbert, and she never tired of talking about how she needed a new instructor in King's Landing to become the best falconer in all of Westeros. She had even declared her intention to teach her friends—and, most amusingly, her father and uncles—so that they would have to call her 'Master Rhaenyra'.

Aemma chuckled at the memory of her daughter's antics.

Yet, as much as she had enjoyed her time in the Vale, there was no denying it—she missed her husband. Desperately.

She sighed again, earning a sharp look from Amanda, who raised a brow at her.

"What is it that has you sighing so much, My Queen?"

Aemma smiled wistfully. "I just miss my husband."

Amanda scoffed. "Miss your husband, or your husband's cock?" she asked with casual bluntness.

Lucinda Celtigar and Jennis Tully giggled behind their hands, while Aemma gasped, feigning scandalized offense. "Amanda! What kind of question is that?"

Then, with a mischievous grin, she added, "Of course, the answer is both."

Amanda huffed. "You have no idea how much trouble your appetite has caused us. Especially poor Lucinda, who had to commission an entire wardrobe of high-necked gowns and long sleeves to cover the marks the king insists upon leaving on you."

Lucinda giggled harder. "The tailor looked at me as if I had lost my mind! Who asks for such gowns in the middle of summer?"

Jennis, still laughing, leaned in conspiratorially. "I overheard some of the ladies whispering about how the queen dresses like a septa by day because she spends her nights being absolutely wanton with the king."

Aemma placed a hand over her chest in mock outrage. "The audacity! Gossiping about their queen like that!"

"Most of them aren't being malicious. They're just envious of your warm marriage bed." Amanda told her.

Lucinda smirked. "Right now, every noblewoman in Westeros is seething with jealousy over your marriage, My Queen. Your husband is a king, the rider of the largest dragon in the world, treats you with nothing but love and respect, does not entertain other women—and, of course, pleases you thoroughly in bed."

Aemma tilted her head, amused. "And how, exactly, are they so sure he pleases me?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "The two of you aren't exactly quiet at night, and you only need one servant to overhear for the entire Red Keep to know."

Jennis nodded in agreement. "At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if word of your animated marriage bed has spread beyond the Red Keep's walls."

Aemma groaned, pressing a hand to her face. How embarrassing.

But… be that as it may, she had made up her mind.

"Our stay in the Vale has come to an end, it's time to go home," she announced, standing with renewed determination.

Aemma smiled slyly.

"I miss Viserys."

And his cock.

Viserys POV 

"He's doing it again?" 

Viserys and Daemon stood on the balcony of his solar—where they had been training for the past two hours—and watched a pale grey-white shadow streak across the sky beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

Daemon snickered. "For someone who didn't want a dragon, he sure flies a fucking lot."

Ever since Uncle Vaegon had claimed Grey Ghost, not a single day had passed without him taking to the skies over King's Landing. He was completely and utterly obsessed.

The once-reclusive wild dragon had struggled at first, unused to being surrounded by others of his kind. But with plenty of reassurance—and an absurd number of sheep—he had slowly been coaxed into tolerating the presence of the other dragons.

Now, he was more relaxed, no longer so skittish, and even occasionally joined the others in flight.

As for Uncle Vaegon, he was reveling in his newfound freedom. His new favorite pastime was flying dangerously close to the section of the keep where Otto Hightower's new chambers were located—often commanding Grey Ghost to roar or let out a burst of flame as he passed.

The man really did enjoy tormenting Otto.

The former Hand had not known a moment of peace in a long while now. First, he had spent days confined to his chambers, nursing his injuries after his humiliating fall. Then, shame had kept him hidden away, as the court gleefully gossiped about his disgrace. His demotion had been a scandal, but his missing front tooth had turned him into the latest joke of King's Landing

Nothing entertained the nobility more than watching a powerful man fall from grace. And Otto Hightower had fallen hard.

Viserys had no doubt that Otto would rather be anywhere else. Unfortunately for him, his own brother had made it painfully clear that he was unwelcome at the Hightower—for now, at least. With no keep of his own, Otto was left stranded in King's Landing, forced to endure the mockery, scorn, and disdain of the court.

Just as Rhaenyra once had.

When Otto had finally gathered the courage to leave his chambers, he had been met with whispers about Vaegon claiming a dragon.

If the rumors were to be believed, upon hearing the news, Otto had let out a pathetic squeak and actually ran back to his rooms.

Did he truly think Uncle Vaegon would feed him to his dragon? That seemed… well, in fact, Viserys wouldn't put it past the dear archmaester.

Viserys felt no sympathy for Otto, but his children were another matter. They were still young, still innocent. And he was not a monster to punish them for their father's failures.

Which was why he had arranged for Gwayne, now twelve, to squire for the Celtigars. Perhaps, away from Otto's influence, the boy could carve out a future of his own.

Alicent, however, was a more complicated matter. She was too young to be sent elsewhere, and unlike her brother, she was a girl—Viserys couldn't simply place her in another household. And with House Hightower closing its doors to Otto's family for the time being, she was effectively stuck with her snake of a father for now.

The best he could do for now was allow her to continue her education under the same maesters and septas who had once taught Rhaenyra. At the very least, it would improve her prospects for the future.

Daemon's voice pulled him back to the present, announcing the end of today's training.

Viserys silently thanked the gods and peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin in the most unpleasant way.

"You've improved a lot, lēkia. My good-sister will definitely approve." Daemon smirked.

Viserys glanced down at his arms, now noticeably more toned, and the newly defined lines of his abdomen. His body had changed significantly—not just in appearance but in how he felt overall. Stronger. Healthier. He had no doubt that claiming a dragon had played a part in that too.

He had no idea how this Viserys was fated to die. Would it be like in the books, probably a heart attack? Or like in the show, that horrifying, flesh-rotting illness? In any case, he wasn't about to find out.

Viserys was taking every precaution—abandoning his once-sedentary lifestyle, claiming a dragon to strengthen himself, and being extra careful every time he sat on the damn throne. He always wore gloves and a thick cloak, making sure his hands and back were protected. 

I am definitely not dying young. Again. 

"I miss Aemma. I miss Rhaenyra. I miss them so much. I already regret telling Aemma to visit the Vale," he sighed while looking at the sky.

"Don’t be dramatic," Daemon scoffed. "They're probably on their way back right now. But… I do admit, the keep feels empty without the little one."

Viserys nodded. "And once they're back, they'll be busy. Rhaenyra with her studies, and Aemma with overseeing Alysanne's projects—if she accepts the responsibility."

"She will," Daemon said with certainty. "Our dear cousin loves helping others, and it's good for her to take on a more proactive role in ruling."

Viserys smirked. "At least we'll have plenty of funds for Alysanne's projects, thanks to the gold the Hightowers are about to hand over so willingly."

Daemon snickered. "I still can't believe Lord Hightower had the audacity to ask for leniency, claiming the fine was too ‘abusive' and that the Crown was being cruel." 

Not long ago, Hobert Hightower had come to the Red Keep to plead with him, practically groveling. He had called the demanded sum ‘exorbitant.’

Viserys had calmly informed him that, given the crimes committed against the Crown, he could have seized all of House Hightower's wealth. And if Hobert insisted on whining about his punishment, Viserys would be more than happy to double the amount.

The man had paled instantly, tripping over his own words as he apologized profusely. Then, as if the conversation had never happened, he began praising Viserys for his mercy before hurrying back to Oldtown, swearing the fine would be paid before the deadline.

Viserys snorted. "That family is truly shameless. It must run in their blood."

A thunderous roar echoed through the sky, quickly followed by a smaller one. Viserys and Daemon turned towards the balcony just in time to spot two distant figures soaring through the clouds—Dreamfyre and Syrax.

"They've arrived!" Viserys exclaimed, his face lighting up with joy.

Daemon chuckled at his enthusiasm. "Well, I'd better sleep in the barracks tonight," he said, far too seriously.

Viserys frowned. "What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?"

"Considering how long the king and queen have been apart," Daemon said, raising an eyebrow, "it's safe to assume no one in the Red Keep will be getting any sleep tonight. You two are pretty loud."

This little shit.

"Get out of here! Don't you have anything better to do? Go patrol the city with your Gold Cloaks or something—just leave me alone."

His brother laughed, thoroughly amused. "I'm going to greet my favorite niece first. If I don't, she'll probably feed me to her Lady Syrax." And with that, he strolled off without a care in the world.

Daemon is absolutely ridiculous.

…

But he wasn't wrong.

Viserys fully intended to welcome his queen home, thoroughly

Chapter Text

Aemma POV 

Aemma and Viserys were on each other before they'd even fully crossed the threshold of their chambers, all pretense of decorum forgotten, utterly indifferent to who might glimpse the King and Queen in such a scandalous state.

Behind them, the loyal kingsguards silently closed the doors. Not a word was spoken as they took their positions, standing like stoic sentinels before the royal bedchambers.

She clung to him as though her life depended on it, arms wrapped tightly around his neck as they kissed with the fervor of long-denied lovers.

A surprised sound escaped her lips when Viserys lifted her effortlessly, but she recovered quickly, locking her legs around his waist while his hands—firm beneath her thighs—held her up with ease.

She moaned when he squeezed her rear and trailed kisses down her neck. In response, she tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged hard enough to make him grunt against her skin. Viserys retaliated with a playful bite, sending shivers down her spine and goosebumps rippling over her skin.

"I missed you so much, my love," he murmured between kisses.

"My trip to the Vale was productive, but not a single day passed that I didn't think of you."

His eyes met hers, and she was undone by the sheer adoration in his gaze. Her heart swelled with so much love, it was almost unbearable.

He carried her to the bed and lowered her onto the mattress with care. The moment her back touched the sheets, he was already working on her gown.

It was an intricate design, the sort meant to take ages to remove—but Viserys made quick work of it, tossing the luxurious fabric to the floor with the confidence of a man well-practiced.

He's gotten quite good at this, she thought with a smirk. Practice makes perfect, after all.

Viserys slid the silky shift off her body and paused, just for a moment, to take her in. His eyes roamed her bare form with reverence, making her blush a shade so deep it could rival the red roses on the Royal Gardens.

"Gevie," he whispered in awe, his voice thick with emotion.

In that moment, she felt treasured—worshipped. A feeling so many women went their whole lives without ever knowing.

"I'm lucky," she murmured, overwhelmed.

"No, my love," he replied instantly, brushing a kiss to her cheek. "I'm the lucky one. The luckiest man alive."

He knelt between her legs, placing a soft kiss just above her entrance. Then he looked up at her, eyes ablaze with need and devotion.

"I am but your humble servant, my Valyrian goddess. Let me worship you in the temple that is your body."

She could only nod, struck speechless by the intensity of his desire.

He began slow, reverent—his tongue and fingers moving in perfect tandem, teasing and coaxing, worshipping her as promised. Her body arched into his touch, her breaths coming faster as the pleasure built.

She reached out with one foot and pressed it against the bulge in his trousers, feeling his hardness beneath the fabric. He groaned, and the sound thrilled her, emboldened her. Her foot stroked him slowly, deliberately.

Viserys responded with urgency, quickening his pace. His fingers pumped faster, his tongue relentless in its pursuit of her undoing.

The wave came crashing over her, pleasure so intense she couldn't contain it. Her back arched, and she cried out—a scream of ecstasy echoing through the chambers.

When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her with a glint of smug delight, his face glistening. He licked his lips like a mischievous child who had stolen a honeycake from the kitchen.

"Undress," she ordered, breathless. "I want to see you. To touch you."

"As my Queen commands."

She gasped as he removed his shirt, revealing a body more sculpted than she remembered. Defined muscles rippled where there had once been a softer belly.

She scrambled upright, hands immediately exploring his abdomen.

"Oh… it's so hard," she whispered in awe. Her fingers moved to his chest and she gasped again. "Here too."

She was utterly captivated, her fingers roaming with abandon until Viserys laughed.

"Like it?" he asked, grinning like a rogue. "It took hours of Daemon's brutal training to get here. But your reaction made every ache and bruise worth it."

She barely nodded, too enraptured to speak, hands still exploring with wonder.

He caught one of her hands in his and guided it lower—down, down—until it rested over the obvious bulge in his trousers.

He leaned in close, his breath hot in her ear. "As much as I'm enjoying your enthusiasm over my new form… there's something else that's hard and demanding your attention, dear wife."

Her eyes darkened. She licked her lips.

Gods have mercy on me.

"After, I decided to mount Dreamfyre and visit various territories—seeing, with my own eyes, how the smallfolk lived and what burdens weighed upon their shoulders. Every time I was able to help someone, even in the smallest way, I felt a deep, quiet pride. That's what gave me the idea of all of us doing it together—across the entire realm—a royal progress. I believe it would mean the world to our people to see us, especially Rhaenyra." 

They were nestled together after a particularly delightful reunion, the kind that left their limbs tangled and hearts full. Aemma was animatedly recounting her time in the Vale, her head resting against Viserys's chest while he listened, rapt and attentive.

He wasn't merely nodding along, waiting for his turn to speak—no, he asked thoughtful questions, followed her train of thought, and encouraged her to share more. It filled her with joy. There was something profoundly intimate about being truly heard by the man you love.

"That's a wonderful idea, my love," Viserys said warmly. "We are the ruling house of Westeros, but for many, especially those far from King's Landing and removed from courtly life, we're little more than distant figures. A concept. Showing ourselves—our dragons—to both lords and smallfolk, reminds them exactly why House Targaryen is the one who sits the Iron Throne."

Aemma beamed, thrilled that he agreed with her.

It still amazed her—how often he sought her opinion, valued her counsel. A single afternoon in the company of court ladies would reveal how rare such a thing was. Most husbands didn't consult their wives. They decided, decreed, and expected compliance.

But not her husband. Not her Viserys.

"And it'll be an invaluable experience for Rhaenyra," she added. "Even if they don't know it yet, she is their future Queen. She must be seen, heard, and—most importantly—she must understand how her people live. Still… she's young. Perhaps we should wait a little longer before we go?"

"I agree, my love," he said, gently touching her cheek. "Let's wait a bit. We've yet to tell her about her role as queen regnant, after all. Once she's more mature, we'll go."

Aemma nodded, content, his fingers combing through her hair—gently working through the knots that had formed during their earlier…enthusiasm. She closed her eyes, purring in bliss.

"I have a proposal for you, dear wife," he said, voice teasing but affectionate.

She opened her eyes, curiosity sparking. "Oh?"

"We're finally ready to revive Queen Alysanne's old projects. And I was thinking… what if you led them?"

Her eyes widened. Me? Being put in charge of the late Queen Alysanne's legacy?

It was an honor beyond anything she'd imagined.

"You truly think I'm suited for that?"

"There's not a doubt in my mind," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And if you need advice, you'll have no shortage of wise counselors—Lord Beesbury, Uncle Vaegon, Rhaenys, Lyonel Strong... and, of course, me." Viserys kissed the top of her head tenderly. "You've always had a heart for helping others, Aemma. This is your chance to do so in a way that echoes through generations."

She paused, thoughtful. And then her lips curled in a smile.

"Yes. I want to do it. I already had a few ideas while visiting the orphanages in King's Landing. There's so much we can improve."

They stayed up for hours, exchanging thoughts, sketching ideas and dreams in whispers and laughter, until sleep claimed them both.

Otto POV 

I am cursed. 

There was no other explanation. Some godless, heretical magic had been cast on him—nothing else could explain the sheer collapse of everything he had built for so long. His life was turning to ash right in front of his eyes.

Daemon Targaryen would be the obvious suspect. Lord Flea Bottom. A savage in prince's clothes, always drunk on violence and lust. He never tried to hide his fascination with Valyrian culture, he could've tried his hands on the forgotten dark arts his ancestors were known for.

However, Daemon was no schemer. He was a weapon—blunt, noisy, and proud. If he wanted Otto gone, Dark Sister would've done the job with none of this slow, humiliating unraveling.

No. It was someone subtler. Sharper. Crueler.

Vaegon Targaryen.

A name Otto now loathed more than death itself. 

It could only be him. That demon. The personification of everything that was evil in the world, the plague sent from the pits of the seven hells to torment honorable and pious men. 

Yes. That maleficent being must have used his time at the Citadel to acquire forbidden knowledge right under their noses. Masquerading as a proud member of the order of maesters while plotting and scheming against the good of the realm.

Vaegon must have known of Otto's plans, his quest of liberating Westeros from the sickness and rot that was the Targaryen family. To light the way and bathe the realm in the Gods' blessings once again. To get rid of their dirty blood.

That was why he came to the Red Keep, to stop Otto. 

That snake had poisoned the king's mind. That's what had happened. Viserys, once Otto's most loyal puppet, had turned on him like a mad dog. Publicly. Without mercy.

It wasn't natural. It wasn't human. It was witchcraft.

Otto had spent years molding the Viserys—shaping him, tempering him, even before he became king. The man had listened more to Otto than to his own blood. And now? He'd exiled him from power, fined House Hightower into financial agony, and left Otto to rot in court like some joke no one wanted to hear anymore.

He was supposed to be the one to bring a new era to Westeros. 

Now, he was a ghost in the Red Keep. A cautionary tale.

Worse still, Vaegon had claimed a dragon. As if his tongue wasn't venomous enough, now he had a weapon of mass destruction. A winged, fire-breathing monstrosity.

A beast riding another beast. 

Otto saw it every day—circling the castle, roaring through the sky, belching fire just overhead. And always—always—flying too close to his chambers.

It was deliberate. A message.

"You're the prey now."

Otto Hightower, once a feared predator inside the walls of the Red Keep, now watched the skies like a frightened rabbit.

He hated it.

Otto's thoughts often wandered to his brother, Hobert. That insufferable lump of self-righteousness had snapped after the fine was levied. Screamed in his face. Banned him from Oldtown and the Hightower. Cut him off as if he was nothing. 

He had the misfortune of being born after his incompetent brother, and because of that, he was destined to always stay in the shadows. To have nothing, while Hobert got everything—not by merit, but by sheer luck of being the firstborn son. 

Otto was better suited for lordship. He was smart, persuasive, determined, everything his brother wasn't. Nevertheless, Hobert was the Voice of Oldtown, the Beacon of the South, the Defender of the Citadel, while everything Otto had was his position as Hand of the King.

And even that they took from me.

He was at his brother's mercy now, more than ever before. Without his title, without a position on the Small Council, and with no lands or keep of his own, he had nothing. 

Hobert was furious. He came to the Red Keep to plead for mercy, ask the king to lower the amount of coin he had to pay. It did not go well.

Otto tried to talk with him, but his brother ended up screaming in his face about how much Otto ruined their House. 

He didn't think like that when I first started cutting down the taxes he had to pay. Ungrateful cunt. 

But Hobert would come around. He always did. Otto just had to outlast the storm. He had gold stashed away, enough to keep him afloat while the rest of the realm feasted on his shame.

He still had plans. He always had plans.

Otto wanted to guide his son, Gwayne. The boy was no genius—handsome, yes, but with more brawn than brains and the attention span of a gnat. Still, with proper direction, Gwayne could grow close to that spoiled little princess. Viserys doted on the chit like she was the Maiden made flesh. If Gwayne could charm her, win her favor, marry her—then, perhaps, the Hightower name could worm its way back into power through the girl. She could gift their House with dragons, those terrible but useful beasts.

But no, the king—in all his boundless generosity—had shipped Gwayne off to squire for the Celtigars.

More Valyrian scum.

Still, there was Alicent.

She was young now, still fresh-faced and quiet, but she would grow. And if the barren Arryn Queen  died—perhaps during yet another failed attempt to birth a son—then Alicent could take her place. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Mother to a true heir, one with Hightower blood. His blood.

It would be difficult, yes—especially now that he no longer had Viserys' ears and Vaegon Targaryen slithered through the corridors of the Red Keep—but still, Otto could manage it.

If only the Arryn woman became heavy with child again...

She had always been quick to become pregnant before, but it had been several moons now, and there was no sign of a baby whatsoever.

Damn it all to the seven hells. Nothing was going as it should. Nothing.

Otto needed air. Needed space. He saw Vaegon and his beast soaring towards Dragonstone that morning. With the demon absent, he could slip out, walk the gardens, clear his head.

He didn't want to. Every inch of the Red Keep now felt hostile, foreign, cruel. But staying trapped in his chambers only made the shame fester.

Perhaps a stroll would spark some new scheme. Something clever. Something sharp.

But the gods weren't done mocking him, it seemed.

As he wandered the gardens, his solitude was shattered by the low hum of laughter and hushed gossip. He looked up—and there they were. A dozen nobles in silks and jewels, the very same parasites who once bowed low and begged for his favor. Now they watched him like carrion birds circling a dying predator.

His worst hurdle at the moment was the court. The whisperers. The smirking snakes with sharp tongues and shallow loyalty. He had become a joke.  

He met the gaze of a cluster of lords who dared to snicker behind their hands—grown men, all of them, behaving like children in a brothel.

"Why the long face, Lord Otto?" one of them called out, voice thick with mockery. "It's such a beautiful day. You should smile more."

The group burst into laughter, raucous and cruel.

Another added, "No, no, my lord. You mustn't call him that. Ser Otto is no lord, after all."

More laughter. Ugly. Echoing.

Otto's face burned scarlet. His hands trembled at his sides.

Damn all of you, he thought. Sons of whores. Bastards. Every last one of you.

He turned on his heel, jaw clenched, rage boiling in his veins, and stormed back to his chambers—each mocking chuckle behind him like a knife in his spine.

Viserys POV 

"And how is your network of spies progressing?" Viserys asked his brother, brushing soot from his sleeves as they dismounted.

He and Daemon had just returned from a flight—well, more accurately, a race. The king, in a rare bout of youthful foolishness, had challenged Daemon to a dash from King's Landing to Dragonstone and back. Predictably, he had lost.

Vhagar, for all her sheer size and battlefield terror, was not built for speed. She was a flying fortress, not a racer. In the sky, she ruled through power and dread, not agility.

Daemon, on the other hand, rode Caraxes—the lean, serpentine Blood Wyrm.

"It's going quite well," Daemon replied, trying to comb the knots off his hair with his hands. "Luthor is in charge of recruiting little street urchins for the job. You'd be surprised how much information those children can put their little grubby hands on. Gold cloaks I trust will also keep their ears open while patrolling. Anything useful gets passed straight to me.”

Viserys had asked Daemon to establish a spy network, something akin to Mysaria’s own.  But they would be more generous with the children. 

The little spies would be fed, clothed, and given shelter. Their families too, if they had them. Viserys also intended to have them taught a craft—tailoring, baking, scribing—so they'd have a future beyond whispers and shadowplay if they so wanted. Some might even find work within the Red Keep itself.

He had felt a little bad about using those kids, so he decided to do his best to help them while getting something in return. 

"Good," the king said with a nod. "We need eyes and ears in every corner of King's Landing—and throughout the entire realm in the future. Say, brother, what do you think of taking another seat on the Small Council? Our new... Master of Whisperers?”

Daemon scoffed. "Do you want to work me into the grave? I already have too many responsibilities and too little time to enjoy myself. I used to wish you'd trust me with something important—now I regret every second of that wish. Please, Your Grace, stop trusting me so I can go back to my hedonistic lifestyle."

He let out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing his forehead in mock exhaustion.

"Do you even realize how long I've been away from the Street of Silk? At this rate, rumors will start flying that the Rogue Prince has lost his appetite. A scandal, truly."

Viserys snorted, amused. "Oh, how pitiful. My poor, tortured little brother."

"Fuck you, Viserys," Daemon muttered, though there was no real venom behind the words.

"Well," Viserys said, grin still tugging at his lips, "perhaps it's a good thing your reputation is beginning to shift. If Rhaenyra agrees to marry you one day—which is highly likely—you'll be her consort. It wouldn't do to have your name so quickly tied to the Street of Silk in people's minds."

Daemon groaned like a man already burdened with a hundred chains. "And the little princess is already possessive at such a young age. Gods know what she'll do once she's old enough to understand the rumors. She might burn the whole Street of Silk down with Syrax just to make a point."

Viserys laughed loudly, giving Daemon a playful side hug. The prince rolled his eyes but didn't pull away.

"I'd go as far as saying she'd probably burn you too," he chuckled. "Good luck, bother. You'll need it."

Shaking his head, Daemon changed the subject. "Speaking of your little dragon, how are the preparations for her seventh nameday coming along? I was thinking of taking a short trip to Essos—pick out some gifts that'll outshine yours, of course."

"You spoil her far too much," Viserys said with a sigh. "But everything is on schedule. Rhaenyra personally asked for food and coin to be distributed to the poor. Her visits to the orphanages with Aemma seem to have left quite an impression. She thinks of the smallfolk more often now."

Daemon tilted his head, a touch of admiration in his expression. "They love her. The people. They adore Aemma too, but Rhaenyra… she has something else. That spark. That ability to make others care. She was already the Realm's Delight from behind the Red Keep's gates, but now that they can see her, hear her speak—it's like she's become a divine figure to them."

Viserys smiled, a quiet sort of pride glowing in his chest.

"That's how it was always supposed to be," he said softly.

You were born to be loved, Rhaenyra. Kepa will make sure this never changes. 

Chapter Text

Year 109 AC, King's Landing 

Viserys POV 

"And what of the Kingsroad? Is the paving progressing as planned?"

"Yes, Your Grace," replied Lord Manderly, the newly appointed Master of Structures. "There were some delays due to the weather, but the section near Castle Black is nearly complete. I estimate no more than four moons until the entire project is finished."

The position of Master of Structures had been created not long after the start of 104 AC—Viserys' own idea, born from necessity. With the sheer number of construction projects and repairs he envisioned across Westeros, especially within King's Landing, he needed a dedicated official to oversee the monumental workload.

The Master of Structures was tasked with handling all matters relating to royal construction: drafting budgets, hiring laborers, acquiring materials, resolving issues as they arose, and ensuring that the king's ambitious visions were brought to life without delay.

Viserys had grand designs to improve the lives of his subjects. But as always, dreams needed coin—and a lot of it. Fortunately, the staggering fine imposed on House Hightower after Otto's disgrace, paired with the raised taxes on their lands, had given the royal coffers a generous infusion.

Still, it wasn't quite enough yet.

That's when inspiration struck him. In 104 AC, he founded 'The Dragon's Wings'—a crown-run charitable organization, placed under the watchful guidance of Queen Aemma Arryn.

Charity had traditionally been under the domain of the Faith. Nobles would donate to the Sept, and the money would supposedly trickle down to the poor. Supposedly. In reality, most of that coin never made it past the septons' pockets—or the High Septon's, for that matter.

Viserys had seen enough. If charity was to be done, it would be done right. But he also knew he couldn't rely on the nobles' good hearts alone. Thus, he created 'The Book of Benevolence'.

A massive tome bound in gold and kept in the Red Keep, it recorded the names of every noble house that donated to The Dragon's Wings—along with the names of their lords, their ladies, their children, the year, and the amount donated. Each entry was penned by the King himself.

At the end of every year, the royal family hosted a grand ball in honor of the most generous house. Their name was praised before the court, their selflessness immortalized in song and speech. At the end of the ball, the king would present the lord of that house with a small statuette of a dragon carved from dragonglass—'frozen fire,' as the smallfolk called it. A rare and valuable material, with Dragonstone being the only known source in Westeros.

What began as a clever incentive quickly turned into a full-blown competition. Noble families scrambled to out-donate each other, desperate to have a ball thrown in their honor and to earn a place in the Book and one of the prized dragonglass dragons. It became a symbol of status, prestige—and ego.

At present, the Lannisters, Velaryons, and Tyrells had each received such honors. And the competition was only growing more cutthroat.

Nothing easier than messing with a proud man's ego. 

Meanwhile, Viserys made excellent use of Daemon's and his aunt Saera's connections in Essos.

Saera, well-established across the Narrow Sea, agreed to receive Daemon as the Crown's envoy and found herself rather fond of her charming, reckless nephew. Because of that, she even decided to lend a hand to her long forgotten family.

When Viserys invited her to return to the Red Keep, she politely refused. Westeros, she said, had not been her home in a long time—and she preferred it that way. Still, she was willing to help her family from afar when she felt like it. 

Thanks to her influence and Daemon's persuasive flair, new trade agreements were forged, and Westerosi commerce surged. So much coin began flowing into the royal coffers that another vault had to be built to keep it. The treasury had never been this full, and Lord Beesbury could often be seen smiling like a madman.

But not everyone was thrilled with the changes Viserys was making—particularly the Faith.

The High Septon, predictably displeased with the founding of The Dragon's Wings, bombarded the Red Keep with ravens. And even went as far as to go to King's Landing himself.

Viserys, to his credit, received him with courtesy. He sat through the old man's rant, patiently listening as the High Septon protested the Crown's interference in what had long been the Faith's sacred duty.

When the old man finally paused for breath, Viserys replied coolly.

"You say the Faith provides for the poor," he said. "Yet people die every day in Flea Bottom—of hunger, of illness, of neglect. Meanwhile, you ride through the city in a gilded carriage wearing robes worth more than a cobbler earns in a lifetime."

The High Septon sputtered, tried to deflect, but insisted nonetheless that the responsibility was the Faith's and the Faith's alone.

That was when Viserys' patience thinned.

"I am the king," he said, "and I will do what is best for my people. Change is not a crime, nor is it a sin, especially when it does no harm."

He clarified that the Faith was not being prohibited from continuing its charitable efforts. Rather, the Crown was now offering a second path—one that, so far, had proven far more effective. More food, more medicine, more shelters. More hope for those who needed.

He ended the conversation with a question the High Septon had no clever answer for:

"Tell me, why is it a problem that the starving now have more than one way to be saved?"

The High Septon left unsatisfied, but there was little he could do. The king had logic, gold, and a nation behind him—not to mention the largest dragon in the world. The Faith had lost its militant order long ago. All it had now were sermons.

And sermons didn't scare dragons.

After securing more than enough funds, Viserys had began to plan. King's Landing was a cesspit—riddled with poverty, disease, crime, and shit. Literal shit. The kind that squelches under your boots and makes you question every life decision that brought you there. There was much to be done.

His first target was Flea Bottom. The slum was a festering wound in the heart of the capital, overflowing with crime and destitution. The living conditions were nothing short of inhumane, and Viserys could no longer turn a blind eye.

The first step was the hiring of builders. Skilled laborers were brought in, some even from Essos. Then, the Crown hired every able-bodied soul in Flea Bottom who wanted a shot at earning honest coin—men, and even a number of women desperate to feed their children and willing to work for it.

The experienced builders were instructed to teach the Flea Bottom locals their trade. Together, they raised a large Learning Center—a place where smallfolk could be taught a craft for free, courtesy of the Crown—and several multi-storey residential buildings on the wide, vacant stretch of Visenya's Hill—a place that, until then, held only a grand sept and the Alchemists' Guildhall.

I ordered the residential buildings to be made with the modern apartments in mind. A place where many families could live, each one with their own living quarters. They were space-efficient, but still comfortable enough to provide dignity

A census of King's Landing was then conducted to determine how many lived on the streets. The results were as heartbreaking as they were infuriating.

Prioritizing families and women, those homeless people were moved into the new residential buildings on Visenya's Hill—free of charge. Orphans were taken to newly established orphanages under the Crown's care

The Council, of course, was less than thrilled. Giving away buildings to people who paid no taxes and had no jobs? Scandalous! They grumbled that the poor contributed nothing to the Crown.

But Viserys held firm. The realm had coin to spare, and no matter how poor, those people were still his subjects—his responsibility.

Besides, they wouldn't stay idle for long. One of the conditions to be given a place in the residential buildings was to attend the Learning Center and learn a trade. 

The Crown hired bakers, woodworkers, stonemasons, weavers, shoemakers, tanners, cooks, blacksmiths, shipwrights, farmers, fishermen, butchers, and midwives to serve as instructors and teach the people how to earn a living in a clean way.

The lords remained skeptical—until the doors to the Learning Center opened officially. A flood of eager people poured in, desperate to learn a skill that would lift them out of misery and into self-sufficiency. It was a resounding success.

Over time, the Learning Center transformed the forgotten people of Flea Bottom into skilled laborers. They began to find work, earn wages, and become the very taxpayers the Council had moaned about.

Next, with Daemon and his Gold Cloaks leading the charge, Flea Bottom was purged of its filthiest corners. Gambling dens, rat pits, fighting pits, and whorehouses that used children as entertainment—each was shut down, their disgusting activities halted forever. The owners and participants were condemned, prosecuted, and very publicly shamed. 

The buildings that had once housed those establishments—those still in decent condition—were given a new purpose. Two more Learning Centers were opened in their place, along with something entirely new for the capital: the first Healing House of King's Landing.

And oh, did that ruffle feathers in Oldtown.

The Citadel was deeply angered. Healing had always been the sacred domain of the maesters in Westeros—or so they claimed. The problem was, maesters didn't treat the poor. They treated lords and ladies, not the butcher's son coughing blood in an alley or the washerwoman with infected wounds. Maesters were expensive, and worse, they were proud.

But sickness didn't care about social rank—and Viserys refused to let that injustice stand.

So the Healing House was created: a place where anyone in King's Landing, regardless of coin or title, could seek treatment. The Crown hired healers from Essos—men and women with strange names and even stranger methods. Their services were free to those who couldn't pay anything at all, and dirt cheap for those who could, making treatments affordable for the common people.

Grand Maester Mellos made his opposition about such a development well known. He railed against the idea at every council meeting, refusing to drop the subject no matter how many times he was waved off.

Eventually, Viserys snapped.

He had turned to Mellos and, in front of the entire Small Council, calmly informed him that if he was so determined to oppose a royal decision—one that clearly brought no harm and only benefit for King's Landing's people—then he had no place advising the Crown.

Mellos had the audacity to reply that only the Conclave could remove a Grand Maester. Viserys laughed at that—a loud, humorless sound that silenced the entire chamber.

Then came the calm fury.

"Am I not the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men? Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm? Rider of Vhagar? Don't I sit the Iron Throne?" he had asked, voice low, deliberate.

Right on cue, Vhagar let out a bone-rattling roar, a sound so thunderous it made the walls tremble—and Mellos with them.

She always did have excellent timing. 

"The Conclave makes such decisions because it is allowed to do so, by the Crown. By the one who rules these lands. Your order is required to pay obeisance to House Targaryen, as everyone else in Westeros. Because we conquered you, and that is the order of things. And now I, as your King, am telling you that you are dismissed from your post as Grand Maester. But do not worry, the Citadel will still have their representative in my Council. Maester Gerardys will be the new Grand Maester. Do you have anything to say against my decision?"

Mellos could only shake his head weakly, still trembling, and was escorted outside the chambers by Ser Ryam. 

The demotion of the Grand Maester made the court talk for days. Some whispered that the king's wrath was so potent that even Vhagar roared in solidarity. And for once, the gossip wasn't exaggerating.

A few weeks later, a raven arrived from the Conclave. It apologized for Mellos' behavior, acknowledged the king's authority, and expressed their delight that a maester still held a seat on the Small Council.

Not so brave when there's a gigantic, fire-breathing creature behind the throne, are they?

As for the Healing Houses—some maesters, the more altruistic sort, began to volunteer. They worked side by side with the Essosi healers, learning new techniques, humbling themselves, and serving the people. Eventually, six such healing houses sprang up across King's Landing.

Viserys' next step was paving the streets of Flea Bottom and, most importantly, solving the issue of human waste that flowed down the pipes from Aegon and Rhaenys’ Hills, all the way to the bottom—and worst—part of the slum.

It was a complicated and ambitious project. Experts from both Westeros and Essos were hired to analyze the situation and devise a viable solution.

After several moons of careful planning, they finally found an answer, and construction of a new sewage system for King's Landing began.

It took two years to complete, but once it was finished, waste was no longer dumped into Flea Bottom. Instead, it was redirected into Blackwater Bay.

Not the perfect solution, but between having the waste in the middle of the capital city or in the sea... I did the best I could. 

With the streets finally free of human waste, the air in the capital—especially in Flea Bottom—improved drastically. The stench that had plagued the district for generations was almost completely gone, and for the first time in living memory, the air was breathable.

Viserys then ordered the demolition of several ramshackle buildings that were on the verge of collapse. Their inhabitants were temporarily relocated while new, sturdier, and safer houses were built in their place. Once construction was completed, the original residents were brought back and asked to pay only a small symbolic fee to the crown—after they had secured employment. This helped Flea Bottom appear less neglected and more like a proper district of the capital.

Another significant improvement came with the creation of a large public garden, established in the heart of Flea Bottom, where a massive fighting pit once stood.

The garden was designed not only as a leisure space but also to help with the remaining odors caused by nearby pigsties and tanner's sheds. Even without the constant flow of human waste, the slum still had its fair share of unpleasant smells.

Hundreds of fragrant flowers were planted, alongside fruit trees that provided shade. Benches and swings were added for the children, and at the center stood a beautiful fountain crowned with a dragon-shaped statue.

Viserys named the place "The Realm's Delight", in honor of his dear daughter. The garden quickly became one of the most beloved spots in the city, cherished by the residents of King's Landing.

After so many improvements, the people decided that Flea Bottom no longer suited the place. In an act of gratitude, they gave it a new name: Viserys' Heart—a tribute to the king who had cared enough to change their lives for the better.

Viserys shook off his thoughts about the changes he'd made over the years and returned his focus to the present—the Small Council meeting.

"I see. Good work, Lord Manderly. I know this is a massive and difficult project, considering the sheer length of the Kingsroad. But the fact that there weren't nearly as many obstacles as expected is a testament to your competence."

The Master of Structures gave a respectful nod, grateful for the king's praise.

"Now, about the aqueduct—has the pipe system that will connect it to the city's fountains been completed?"

This was another one of Viserys' long-term projects. The aqueduct had been modeled after the one in Braavos. It channeled water from the Wendwater River in the Kingswood to the newly constructed fountains, alongside those built by Queen Alysanne, providing the people with a new, free, and reliable source of drinkable water.

"That'll be finished within a sennight, Your Grace. Do you wish to be present for the official opening?"

"Yes. The Queen and Rhaenyra will attend as well. What about you, brother? Care to join us?"

Daemon shook his head. "I'm too busy with the new recruits. Enjoy yourselves."

"Speaking of which—your report, Commander of the City Watch?"

The prince straightened in his seat. "The Watch currently has four thousand guards, with eight hundred new recruits in training. The new barracks have been completed, so now we have enough space to house them all."

Daemon's Gold Cloaks had become a force to be reckoned with. Before him, the City Watch was a joke: poorly trained, disorganized, poorly equipped, underpaid and corrupt.  Now, even noble-born men sought to join. Second and third sons, with no inheritance of their own, signed up in search of glory. Serving under Daemon Targaryen, earning a decent wage, and carving their own place in the world was a tempting offer. Many smallfolk also joined, hoping to support their families.

"Excellent. You've done a marvelous job, brother. I couldn't have chosen a better commander."

Daemon gave a small smile, trying—and failing—to hide how much he appreciated the praise.

"My Queen, your report?"

Aemma had occupied a seat at the council table for years now, as she was the head of the Dragon's Wings charity besides his consort.

"The renovation of the building we purchased on the Street of Flour has been completed. The third Food House will open in a few days. Almost all the workers hired are people who studied at the Learning Centers. The Food House will serve two meals a day, every day. Also, none of the orphanages in King's Landing are currently overcrowded."

"That's amazing, my dear. Well done." Viserys reached out to touch her hand fondly, and she rewarded him with a warm, beautiful smile.

"Moving on—anything else that needs to be brought up today?"

Just then, the chamber doors slammed open and in stormed an irate Corlys Velaryon. All eyes turned to him.

"The damned Triarchy thinks I'm a fool! They've gone from clearing the Stepstones of pirates to attacking my ships! I just received word from Driftmark—this man, Craghas Drahar, seized three of my vessels while they were sailing under my banner. Three!"

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow at her husband's dramatic entrance, amused.

Ah, yes—the fucking Stepstones. Of course this mess was going to come knocking eventually.

Viserys had almost forgotten about them, too consumed with his improvements plans.

He took a deep breath and signaled to Rhaenyra for a refill. She'd served as his cupbearer for three years now. Vaegon had told her to pay close attention to council meetings, so they could discuss them later on their lessons. He often asked her to come up with solutions to the problems presented by the lords. 

The princess was so caught up in Corlys' outburst that she didn't notice his signal at first—but soon enough, she was pouring wine into his goblet.

"Thank you, my darling," he said with a soft smile.

"The Three Sisters attacked your ships, my lord?" Lyonel Strong asked, brows furrowed.

"That's exactly what I said, Lord Hand! I doubt Craghas Drahar is acting alone. Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh are undoubtedly backing him. I suspect my ships weren't the only ones they've targeted. First, they claimed the Stepstones and slapped us with absurd tolls. Now they're outright attacking Westerosi vessels. This cannot go unanswered, Your Grace!"

Lord Beesbury, cautious as ever, spoke up. "My lord, in all our history, Westeros has never gone to open war with the Free Cities…"

Corlys shot him a murderous look. "They attacked first. This is a test. They want to see how far they can push us before we retaliate."

He turned to Viserys. "The Stepstones control crucial shipping lanes. We can't allow them to stay in the hands of the Triarchy—not when they're openly hostile towards us."

"What are you proposing, Lord Corlys?" Lyonel asked, wary.

But before the Lord of the Tides could answer, Viserys spoke.

"We need to take the Stepstones. Those islands should be under the Crown's authority."

Sorry, Corlys, he thought, but this time, those shipping lanes will belong to House Targaryen—not the Velaryons.

The council chamber fell into stunned silence. Everyone—except his family—looked at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. Corlys' jaw hung open, his expression absolutely priceless.

Heh.

"Daemon, you and your dragon will lead this war. Craghas and his pirates are likely holed up on Bloodstone. It's the largest of the Stepstones' islands and full of interconnected caves—a perfect place to stash men and treasure. A labyrinth. When they see your dragon, they'll run and hide in those caves, so be prepared."

The room remained silent, his advisors still processing the king's bold declaration.

"I'm certain you'll have the full support of the Velaryon fleet—right, Lord Corlys?"

The Sea Snake could only nod, dumbstruck.

"Excellent. The Royal Fleet is yours as well. As for foot soldiers, we'll need to recruit them—I'll leave that to you. The Crown will cover all expenses."

He took a slow sip of his wine. "How much time will you need to prepare?"

Viserys had recently expanded the Royal Fleet, commissioning thirty new ships. It now numbered two hundred vessels. Many of the shipwrights hired for the task had trained at the Learning Centers.

"I'd say at least six moons," Daemon replied. "Most of the men who'll enlist will be poor and untrained, joining for the coin. They'll need at least basic training if they're to survive. I'll also bring some Gold Cloaks. I assume I can count on Velaryon men as well, right Corlys?"

"I—yes. Yes, of course," the Lord of the Tides stammered, clearly overwhelmed.

"Good. That concludes today's meeting. We'll discuss the Stepstones again soon, and regularly, until the campaign begins. You're dismissed."

Viserys stood and left the chamber, leaving his stunned councilors behind.

Chapter Text

Daemon POV 

He swirled the wine in his cup, watching as it danced in slow, hypnotic circles. The deep red glimmered in the candlelight, like blood. His gaze drifted to where Viserys sat, buried in a stack of raven scrolls, performing the tedious duties of kingship.

Sometimes, I'm grateful I wasn't born first.

He glanced at Viserys again. Even though Daemon had long accepted his brother's words about the Dream as truth, it still startled him whenever Viserys' predictions came to pass. The Stepstones war was no exception.

The same war that scarred him—body and mind—according to dear Viserys. Years spent battling on those cursed rocks, being crowned king, only to abandon the title and the islands without thinking twice when boredom crept in. He chuckled quietly.

That does sound like something I'd have done back then… the restless prince, starved for attention, desperate for recognition—especially from the one man whose approval I craved the most ever since Baelon the Brave died.

"We both know this war could be ended before it even begins," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet. "You could fly there with Vhagar. Her flames are strong enough to melt the bloody rocks themselves. They wouldn't stand a chance, even if they scurried into their caves."

Viserys looked up, thoughtful. He seemed to weigh his response for a while, careful, measured.

"You're right," he said slowly. "I could do that. End it in a day. Save resources. Spare lives. But—" he hesitated, eyes flicking back to Daemon. "But it's not mine."

Daemon tilted his head, silently asking for him to continue.

"This war… it isn't mine to fight. It was yours, Daemon. Your war. Your way of proving to your idiot of a brother—and maybe even to yourself—that you were capable. And even though I know your worth now and you don't have to prove anything to me anymore—not after everything I saw—it is still your war."

A lump began to form in Daemon's throat, but he willed it down.

Viserys reached across the table and clasped his hands in his own, giving them a warm, grounding squeeze.

"I would've dismissed it, this war. Would've ignored the importance of those shipping lanes and let things fester. Blind as I was. The only reason I act now is because the Gods themselves forced my hand. But you—you saw it. For your own selfish reasons, perhaps, but you went anyway. You fought, bled, even burned. With no support from your king. From your brother. Nobles mocked you and Corlys, claimed you dragged them into a pointless conflict. But you went. And you won—out of sheer spite, stubbornness, and the need to prove a point. And that, Daemon... that's fucking impressive."

Daemon couldn't hold it in. He laughed—loud and unrestrained—and Viserys joined him, their shared amusement washing away the weight of the moment for just a heartbeat.

"So no," Viserys continued, catching his breath, "I can't take it from you. But this time, you'll have my blessing. My support. You'll lead the men. They'll look to you. Songs will be sung of the Prince of the City, who fought valiantly in the Stepstones and won a vital victory for the realm. The glory will be yours—as it should."

Viserys looked down at their joined hands and let out a weary sigh. "And I know it makes me a terrible person, because if I just ended the war myself, I'd save thousands of lives. But I still want to be selfish in this. What a great king I am, huh?" He gave a bitter laugh.

This time, Daemon was the one to squeeze his brother's hands slightly.

"Then, unless you tell me otherwise, this war is yours," Viserys said softly. "You'll win it, and you'll be crowned King of the Narrow Sea again. But this time, it'll mean something. We'll build fortifications, a keep in Bloodstone—your keep. A seat to pass down to your second-born."

Daemon raised an eyebrow, amused. "My second born?"

Viserys huffed. "If things go as I expect them to, your firstborn will be king. Or queen."

Daemon chuckled at that, but then his tone softened just a bit. "You're not a terrible person, Viserys. You're a great king. The people love you. And I know you care about them, deeply. Don't worry—this time it won't take years or needless deaths. I'll train the men properly, use real strategy instead of blind charges. I'll do everything I can to keep casualties low. Just… trust me."

Viserys looked at him, seriously. "I do. With my life."

Daemon's vision suddenly blurred, and he cursed himself for it.

Viserys reached up and wiped the single tear that fell onto the prince's cheek.

"It's alright, valonqar. You can cry."

And that, of course, made it a hundred times more difficult to keep the damn feelings in check. All Daemon could manage was a growled, "Fuck you, Viserys."

When he'd finally calmed, shame burning in his chest, he cleared his throat and leaned back, feigning nonchalance. There was still something gnawing at him, a question that lingered in the back of his mind—one he couldn't quite shake.

"You seemed... hesitant earlier," he said, eyeing Viserys closely. "When I asked why you wouldn't simply go to the Stepstones yourself, you hesitated before explaining. Why the caution?"

Viserys exhaled heavily. "I was afraid of bruising that great, swollen ego of yours," he admitted with a wry smile. "I thought you might take it as me handing you scraps. A pity mission, charity. Like I was throwing you a bone because I felt sorry for you. And, well... you have to admit, that wasn't an entirely irrational concern on my part."

Daemon smirked, one brow lifting in mild amusement. "You're not wrong. My mind almost went down that path. But your sincerity pulled it back."

Viserys threw his hands up dramatically, exasperated and fond all at once. "See! Seven hells, you're unbelievable. Such a maddening man! The Gods must have laughed as they cursed me with a brother like you."

Daemon burst into laughter at that, genuine and loud, the kind of laugh that shook away the last remnants of his earlier vulnerability.

I love you too, lēkia, he thought, the words unspoken but deeply felt.

Rhaenyra POV 

"By the Gods! Why is it so big? How do they even walk around with that swinging between their legs?" Beatrice exclaimed, her eyes glued to the page with horrified fascination.

"Shh! Do you want to get us caught?" Johanna hissed, swatting the younger Strong sister's arm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Beatrice. Not all of them are like that. Mine certainly isn't," Laenor chimed in, utterly unfazed.

All the girls groaned in unison.

"Seven hells, Laenor! I assure you, none of us want a detailed report on your... male bits!" Rhaenyra shuddered, making a face.

"Oh, how tragic," Laenor drawled. "Because I don't recall ever wanting to hear about your moonblood, and yet I've been mercilessly subjected to it."

"We didn't tell you about it. You just happen to always be around," Elenda shot back, arms crossed.

"You wound me, truly. Is this your way of telling me I'm not welcome? I should go. Flog myself with boredom while watching knights train." Laenor placed a hand to his chest with theatrical despair.

"What a tragedy for you," Beatrice said solemnly.

"No, what a tragedy for the poor knights. I'm sure they can feel his eyes searing holes through their armor," Rosamund added, smirking.

Laenor sighed. "Ugh, I never should have confided in you all about my preferences. What madness overcame me?"

"You did it because you know we're on your side," Rhaenyra said softly. "We trust each other." She offered him a reassuring smile, and he squeezed her hand in return.

"You lot are too sentimental," Beatrice cut in, clapping her hands. "We gathered here with a goal. Let's not lose focus."

She placed the book in the center of their little circle, the worn pages spread open for all to see.

Rhaenyra had borrowed it from Dragonstone a few days ago. The book hailed from Essos—almost certainly one of Uncle Daemon's acquisitions. Its contents? Scandalous. Immoral. Absolutely unfit for noble girls.

Inside were dozens of illustrations—men and women in all their naked, unfiltered glory.

Of course, Rhaenyra had some understanding of such matters. The ones between men and women. Or, as she once heard Daemon talking to a friend of his when he didn't know she was nearby, 'fucking'. 

But what she knew was what had been explained to her by her muña, and even by Uncle Vaegon, who was responsible for her education.

Her mother had explained them in a gentle, romantic way. Uncle Vaegon, ever blunt and practical, had given her a more direct and impartial version.

But none of those conversations had ever truly explained what fucking was. Not with the clarity Rhaenyra's inquisitive mind desired. So, naturally, she'd sought the truth. For knowledge. For academic purposes, of course. She was a devoted student.

And her faithful ladies-in-waiting—and Laenor—were equally curious. Even though Rhaenyra suspected that their motivations weren't as pure as hers. They were simply a depraved bunch. Different from the princess.

Currently, they were huddled in a forgotten nook of the royal library, deep in shadows, well away from prying eyes. And, more importantly, away from Laena, who was still too young for this. But unfortunately, had a curiosity larger than the Titan of Braavos.

"Our septa never told us anything like this," Beatrice said, far too loudly again. "It's way more interesting in the book!"

"Septas consider everything regarding this a sin," Rosamund replied, cool as ever. "So their version of intimacy is terrifying and inaccurate."

She's right. Thank the Gods father dismissed my old septa when I was six. That woman was scary.

"And what would you know about such things?" Elenda asked, narrowing her eyes.

"I tend to leave my ears open. I overheard Harwin once, talking to his Gold Cloak friends."

"Rosamund is always eavesdropping," Johanna snickered.

Rosamund shrugged, unfazed. "Information is power."

"Harwin Strong?" Rhaenyra asked, surprised. "He always seems like such a gentleman. Was he really discussing this?"

Beatrice rolled her eyes. "That's just an act. Around women, he's chivalrous. But he's got a filthy mouth and frequents the Street of Silk. A lot."

"He does?" Rhaenyra gasped, scandalized.

"Almost all men do, Nyra. They're simple creatures," Johanna said flatly.

"Hey! I'm a man too, in case you forgot." Laenor raised a brow.

"You don’t count, Laenor," Beatrice waved him off, making him scoff.

"You're shocked about Harwin because you like him," Rosamund said slyly.

"I do not like him!"

"Then why were you ogling him while he was in the training yard?" Beatrice grinned.

"I was just... observing his form. He's tall and strong and fights well. That's all."

Her face was crimson.

"Leave her be," Laenor defended. "It's obvious she doesn't like Ser Harwin like that."

"Exactly! Thank you, cousin."

"Because the one she really likes is Daemon Targaryen. Are you all blind or dull?"

Traitor.

All heads swiveled to look at Rhaenyra. The silence was deafening and stretched for a while. Then, Rosamund spoke, calmly and thoughtfully.

"Ah, that's right. You are a Targaryen." 

The rest nodded with exaggerated seriousness. Rhaenyra wanted to sink into the floor.

So what if I like my uncle? He's a prince of the blood, rides Caraxes, wields Dark Sister, and—most importantly—he's available. I have dreamed of marrying him ever since I was a little child. It's not weird. It's just... how our family does things. It is tradition.

"Oh, look!" Laenor suddenly exclaimed, calling their attention back to the book. "They even drew the netherhairs. So detailed!"

They had. How... thorough.

Rhaenyra leaned in for a better look. For educational purposes, by all means.

"Move! Your head is in my way," Johanna complained, giving her a gentle shove.

"How dare you lay hands on a Princess of the Blood?" Rhaenyra gasped in mock outrage. "Treason of the highest order! To the Black Cells with you!"

Johanna snorted in a completely unladylike way and turned the page. Their gasps rang out in unison.

Gone were the still rather modest nude poses. Now, the illustrations depicted the act itself.

So vivid. So strange. So fascinating.

They were so absorbed that they didn't hear the footsteps.

"And what exactly are you children doing?"

They screamed, jumped, and fumbled to hide the book. Daemon stood before them, arms crossed, brow arched.

"If you shriek like that near me again, I'll feed you all to Caraxes. Now, answer me."

"Kepus!" Rhaenyra yelped. "We're just... talking. Girl talk."

 She shut the book quickly, trying to look casual.

"Girl talk, hmm? And Laenor is here because...?"

"Oh, he doesn't count," Beatrice answered reflexively, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Laenor sighed. Daemon chuckled.

"I see. And why is this 'girl talk' happening in a dark corner of the library?" 

"For, uh... privacy," Elenda offered, unhelpfully.

"And I suppose the erotic book Rhaenyra is trying to conceal has nothing to do with it?"

... Seven bloody hells.

Rhaenyra mustered her most innocent look. "Kepus, please. Don't tell kepa or muña. It's just harmless curiosity. You were young once too, surely you understand?"

Daemon laughed. Actually laughed. How rude.

"Trust me, sweet niece, I'm in no position to lecture anyone. That book's mine."

Their jaws dropped. Rhaenyra had her suspicions already, but to say it out loud so casually and shamelessly like that... Her uncle was really something else.

"But do be careful. If the court hears of this, your ears will fall off from all the scolding. Now get moving—Vaegon is looking for you, princess."

And just like that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving the group wide-eyed and stunned.

After a while, Rhaenyra was finally able to grasp the gravity of the situation.

Oh no. Uncle Daemon just caught me looking at a salacious book... How embarrassing! Gods, please smite me now.

Viserys POV 

"I did not anticipate this many young noblemen wanting to go to the Stepstones," Rhaenys said, her tone laced with mild surprise.

"It's because of the annoying nephew number two," Uncle Vaegon said dryly, side-eyeing Daemon. "A lot of those young men look up to him. He's a brilliant swordsman, after all. And let's not forget—the fact that this war isn't unsanctioned makes a world of difference." The Archmaester eyed Viserys this time.

"I know, I know." Viserys huffed. "The Dream version of me was a terrible king."

"Uncle Vaegon's right," Daemon agreed. "A war supported and funded by the crown against pirates who are stealing, kidnapping, and killing Westerosi folk? It's the perfect chance for a knight to find glory—and coin. Harwin and Borros already told me they would ride with me to battle. I ordered Harwin to stay, he's needed in the City Watch. I want men loyal to me to keep an eye on things while I'm away. Elmo expressed his wish to leave for the war too, but his grandfather forbade him from doing so."

"Of course those boys offered to go with you." Viserys said, chuckling. "They practically worship you. It's been that way since they became your squires. And you've a soft spot for them too—you knighted them yourself, with Dark Sister, no less."

Viserys remembered being genuinely surprised by how much Borros Baratheon had changed under his brother's tutelage. Daemon had managed to polish the arrogance off the heir of Storm's End—a feat few thought possible.

Another surprise had been the sheer number of noble knights eager to join the campaign. Little more than a fortnight had passed since the announcement, and already, King's Landing was seeing a steady influx of young men from noble houses, all seeking to take part in the war effort.

But Uncle Vaegon had the right of it. This time, the Crown was fully behind the campaign. The army was well equipped—ships, provisions, armor, swords, arrows. The Stepstones promised both honor and gold for those who were ready to take the chance.

Viserys frowned slightly, recalling how his knowledge of the future had clouded his initial judgment. In another life, Daemon's army had been a ragtag band of sellswords, adventurers, and cutthroats because the war had been launched without royal approval. The Crown had barely spared them a few coins.

"I thought Corlys would be happier about all this," Daemon said, glancing towards Rhaenys with a curious expression. "But the man's never looked more sour."

Rhaenys laughed, clearly amused. "My lord husband is a difficult creature. On one hand, he came to the Small Council speaking passionately about the need to end the Triarchy's grip on the Stepstones. On the other, he wanted House Velaryon to be the next one to take full control of it—not the Crown. So in his mind, Viserys should have done something, just not this much." She took a sip of wine, her eyes sparkling.

Uncle Vaegon huffed. "That seahorse is Otto Hightower in a different body. He may be your husband, Rhaenys, but you're no fool. I know you see it too—he's too ambitious for his own good. He walks around like House Targaryen owes him something. Keep him in line."

Rhaenys gave a single, solemn nod.

"Speaking of that cunt," Daemon said, drawing out the word with relish, "doesn't the air feel cleaner without him here?" He made a dramatic show of inhaling deeply.

Otto Hightower had gone to Oldtown with Alicent five moons ago. His brother's ire had apparently cooled enough to finally allow them back into the Hightower—but of course, the snake had no intention of staying there quietly for long.

The spies they'd planted in the Hightower reported that Otto was working to regain the Voice of Oldtown's favor. He needed a powerful ally to lend weight to his schemes.

Despite all his failures, Viserys knew the man hadn't let go of his ambitions. The king still had no male heir, after all—and Otto was likely still clinging to the dream of replacing Aemma with Alicent.

For now, he'd keep a close watch. At the first whiff of treachery, Otto would lose his head. He just needed the right excuse—not too sudden, not too loud. Just enough not to ruffle feathers. Politicking, he thought with a sigh. Always politicking.

"Well, I quite enjoy making his life a living hell," Vaegon said, a sinister smile curling his lips. "So I do hope he comes back eventually. It's entertaining to watch him squirm."

"I'm so glad I'm not your enemy, Uncle," Rhaenys said with genuine solemnity.

"Me too," Daemon and Viserys said in unison.

Vaegon laughed—a rich, sharp sound—and somehow, it made him even more terrifying.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV 

The sunlight filtered gently through the small crevice between the curtains, casting a soft glow across the otherwise dark room. Birds chirped their lovely tunes, perching on tree branches or the roof of the Red Keep. The pleasant scent of freshly washed sheets lingered in the air, and a comfortable silence reigned—broken only by the faint, occasional clink of Ser Harrold's armor whenever he shifted position.

It was the perfect environment for one to remain lost in slumber. And that was precisely Rhaenyra's plan—until a series of pesky knocks on her chamber door decided otherwise.

It's still too early for my maids to wake me, so it can't be them...

She groaned in a rather undignified manner and lifted her head slightly from the pillow to better project her voice.

"Enter," she called out, her irritation evident in her tone.

The door creaked open, revealing her father with an amused expression on his face.

"Oh, did I wake you, sweet girl?" he asked innocently.

She groaned again, louder this time, making her displeasure unmistakable.

"Kepā, it's too early. I'm not well-rested yet," Rhaenyra grumbled, even as she begrudgingly got out of bed and approached the small basin of rose-scented water to wash the sleep from her face.

Viserys chuckled at her complaints, leaning against the wall as he waited for her to finish her morning ritual.

"What would people think if they saw how grumpy the Realm's Delight is when she wakes? Oh, how disillusioned your admirers would be," he teased.

Ah yes, admirers. Rhaenyra had many.

Even as a small child, her bright smile, sharp wit, and cute appearance had enchanted everyone around her, earning her the title of the Realm's Delight.

But things had shifted over the past year. Ever since she flowered, the stares that once held innocent admiration had taken on a more probing quality. Men no longer saw a charming child—they saw a potential wife, a dragonriding princess of the blood, and their gazes betrayed their intentions.

She'd overheard some noble ladies whispering about how lucky she was—how, at just twelve, suitors already vied for her favor. They spoke as if her worth was defined by the number of men interested in her.

But Rhaenyra was not impressed.

She could admit that the attention gave her a certain satisfaction—who wouldn't enjoy being called beautiful?—but she had no interest in any of them. Not the eager boys nor the polished knights.

There is only one person who holds my attention…

Laenor once told her that she was a popular topic in the training yard, where squires and knights alike speculated about her. She had only rolled her eyes at that. Let them talk—it changed nothing.

Then, with a sly smirk, Laenor had told her of a certain knight who made a crude comment about the size of her bosom—only to be overheard by none other than her uncle Daemon.

If Laenor's account was to be believed, that knight was beaten within an inch of his life. Afterwards, any talk of her became noticeably more respectful.

Rhaenyra had flushed a rosy pink at that, and allowed herself a small, bashful smile—until Laenor started laughing and received a slap to the back of his head in response.

The only man I'm interested in barely sees me as more than a little girl, she sighed.

The rosewater did wonders for her mood, and she felt more like herself again as she walked over to kiss her father's cheek. The height difference between them was still laughable; she had to stand on her tiptoes while he leaned down to meet her.

"Now, what could've made you wake me up so early, kepa? Is something the matter?" she asked curiously.

"What? Is it so strange that an old father wants to spend time with his only daughter?" he asked.

She clicked her tongue at him. "You are not old, kepa. You're still young—and the most handsome father in the entire realm."

Viserys laughed heartily. "Oh, how love makes one blind. Truly a fascinating phenomenon."

"I'm not blind! It's just the truth. Rosamund knows every bit of gossip in the Keep, and she told me how some ladies—married ladies, mind you—speak of you when they think no one is listening. About how strong and tall you are, what a good husband you make, how the queen is so lucky. And, once again, they're married! Oh, the scandal!" she gasped dramatically.

He snorted, shaking his head in amusement. "Very well, very well. Then this oh-so-handsome father of yours is here to invite you to spend the day with him. After you're ready, come break your fast with me and your mother. Then you and I are going flying. Let's see if you live up to your reputation as the youngest dragonrider in our family's recent history." Her father taunted.

Now that made her perk up.

She was indeed proud of that title. On a sunny day in 104 AC, during a family visit to the Dragonpit, seven-year-old Rhaenyra had surprised everyone. The dragons still roamed freely within the massive structure, unchained, when she suddenly climbed atop Syrax's back and took off—without warning, without a saddle, without any restraints.

Only her sheer grip kept her from falling. Her Syrax, believing it was playtime, soared faster and faster, racing through the skies.

Pandemonium followed. Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Caraxes, Grey Ghost, and Meleys all took flight at once, their roars echoing across the city as their riders pursued the reckless little girl and her overexcited dragon.

Eventually, Syrax realized it was not the time to play and slowed down. When Rhaenyra looked back, she saw the frantic faces of her family—clearly cursing even if the wind stole their voices.

After, the six Targaryens flew together over King's Landing in a breathtaking aerial display. Daemon and Rhaenys, the most experienced riders, twirled and danced through the skies, delighting the crowd below.

Rhaenyra dipped low, letting the people see her clearly, see that their princess was a dragonrider too. The cheers from below were deafening, their applause thundering in her ears.

They landed at the Outer Yard to a gathered crowd of well-wishers and admirers. She greeted them with grace, smiling brightly, soaking in their warmth and joy.

But the moment they returned inside, her family descended on her like a storm.

She was scolded by her father, her mother, Uncle Daemon, Uncle Vaegon—even the usually composed Princess Rhaenys. They made sure she understood how dangerous and reckless it was. She was banned from eating lemon cakes for five whole moons.

I was quite the wild little child, she recalled, chuckling at the memory.

Puffing up her chest with a grin, she looked at her father. "You and that old hag of a dragon are going to be left in the dust, kepa."

He laughed again and left the room so she could call her maids and prepare.

Her father lost the race, of course. But he had the audacity to insist he let her win—"because that's what fathers do."

Kepa is so serious, and even scary, while carrying out his kingly duties and interacting with pesky nobles. It is hard to believe how silly and loving he is with his family. This side of him is only for us. She smiled at the thought.

Afterwards, they walked through the city, stopping to buy trinkets, supporting struggling merchants by boosting their sales. Everyone wanted to buy what caught the eye of the king and his daughter, after all.

The Kingsguards and Gold Cloaks formed a protective ring around them—not because the crowd was dangerous, but because they adored Viserys so much that everyone wanted to be near him.

The streets rang with cheers and calls of gratitude. Children reached out with flowers from behind the guards, which Rhaenyra and Viserys accepted with warm smiles. The joy on the children's faces was radiant.

King's Landing smelled clean now. The once overwhelming stench was gone, replaced with small fragrant flower beds and well-swept cobblestones.

Keeping the city, populous as it was, clean was no small task. That's why her father had created the Street Sweepers—people paid specifically to sweep and wash the streets every two days. It provided hundreds of jobs and helped countless families stay fed by hiring both men and women.

It was especially helpful to widows and single mothers. Before, many had no choice but to sell their bodies. Many of them ended up dead before long, victims of aggressive clients or illnesses that they could not treat.  

Ever since her father became king, such scenarios became less and less common. He created places where the people could learn a craft and encouraged the hiring of women, especially widows and mothers. 

Rhaenyra had personally met some of those women, heard their stories, while in the city to visit the numerous orphanages that were now under the supervision of the Crown. She always spent time with the children, reading for them and bringing all kinds of toys.

Grateful citizens often asked her to pass along their thanks to the king.

As they made their way back to the Red Keep, the crowd began to chant: "The Realm's Delight!" and "Viserys the Magnanimous!" Their love was palpable, warming Rhaenyra's heart.

She'd had so much fun. Time with her father always lifted her spirits. But despite his smiles and laughter, she sensed something was off. His eyes often drifted, his shoulders tense.

She patiently waited for him to speak, but the sun had begun to set, and he still hadn't.

Just as she opened her mouth to ask, he invited her to Balerion's shrine—the resting place of the great dragon's skull.

She silently followed him, sensing that he was finally ready to tell her whatever was on his mind. 

The air inside was heavy. Her father stared at Balerion's skull in silence, his face grave.

Now I'm seriously worried… Is he sick? Is it about Mother?

"I have something to tell you, sweet girl. Many things, in fact," he said, voice low. "And I've been putting it off because… well, because I'm a coward."

He gave a short, derisive laugh, turning to her with shame in his eyes.

What is going on? she thought, panic creeping in.

"Do you believe in Dragon Dreams, my child?" he asked suddenly.

The abrupt change of subject startled her, but she nodded, waiting.

"First, I must tell you of a prophecy," he said. "Aegon's prophecy. He called it The Song of Ice and Fire…"

He reached for the dagger he always carried—and began to reveal the truth.

"And the one who is promised… comes from my line?" Rhaenyra asked at last, her voice quiet, still reeling from the weight of the revelation.

"Yes, my sweet child," Viserys replied, his tone soft but steady. "That is why I must tell you something else."

He drew a deep breath, and Rhaenyra instinctively braced herself, sensing the gravity of what was to come.

"Six sunturns ago, the Gods gifted me a Dragon Dream—one of the true ones, like those Daenys and Aegon once had. In it, I saw a vision… a terrible future wrought by my own hands. Fire, blood, and ruin. It was not just a dream—it was a warning. A chance to prevent what is to come. And today, I must share it with you."

He reached out, gently taking her hands in his. His grip was firm, but his expression was almost desperate. His purple eyes, mirrors of her own, shimmered with emotion.

"All I ask is that you open your heart and listen with all the love you hold for me. Please, Rhaenyra."

She had never seen her father like this before, never so... afraid.

He's afraid I'll hate him, she suddenly realized.

Whatever he saw in that Dream… whatever part he played in it… it's haunted him all these years. And now he fears that Rhaenyra will look at him differently.

Oh, kepa… how foolish you are, she thought, her chest aching with tenderness.

Nothing you could ever do would make me hate you. Even if you drove a dagger through my heart, I would still love you with all that I am.

Without saying a word, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly, as if shielding him from the shadows of his own mind.

Then she pulled back slightly and gave a small nod, her eyes full of resolve.

Viserys exhaled slowly, a long sigh of years finally beginning to lift from his shoulders.

And then he began his tale.

She clung to her father as if her very soul depended on it, heart heavy beneath the crushing weight of all she had just learned.

What she had heard was nothing short of a tragedy—disaster upon disaster, sorrow piled atop sorrow. Now, at last, she understood why her father had carried so much fear in his eyes.

Her future had been nothing but torment. A cursed fate marked by betrayal, war, and loss. A life of survival, not of living. The kind where joy is fleeting and grief is everlasting.

Viserys had told her everything he dared—everything about that long-forsaken future. But Rhaenyra knew, deep down, that he had spared her the worst of it. He did not speak of the deaths of her children in details, nor of her mother's demise, nor Daemon's. And when he told her of her own end, it was with the briefest of mentions: killed by your half-brother. For that mercy, she was quietly grateful. The truth he'd shared was already too much to bear. She didn't need the sordid, gory details.

Gods… Daemon.

I married my uncle.

Her treacherous heart skipped a beat the moment the realization hit her. Why am I smiling? she thought, her cheeks warming despite everything. It's not as if we had a happy ending in that future... and yet...

Still, as bleak as that vision had been, her father had made certain it would never come to pass. He had acted—was acting—to rewrite fate itself. To protect her. To protect them all.

And though a small, wounded part of her wanted to scream at the man who had fathered such devastation in that dark future and that would take everything she held dear from her, she knew he no longer existed.

That version of her father had died the moment he Dreamt.

The gods had warned him—and he had listened. That was what mattered. That was what she would hold onto.

And then there was Otto Hightower.

That he was a vile snake came as no shock to her. She had never liked the man. But Alicent… sweet, pious Alicent—the meek girl she had once called her closest friend. To think that she would dare to slip into her father's chambers, while he grieved, in the dead of night, unchaperoned, under the guise of comfort… and then, to torment Rhaenyra and her sons from a perch of righteousness years later, as if she were untouched by sin.

Fucking bitch. 

Her father had insisted that, as of now, the girl remained innocent. Rhaenyra agreed—reluctantly. But it was hard not to feel the sting of betrayal. The pain of a friendship turned sour.

Maybe I can fix it. Maybe I can… guide her. She's so devout, after all. Perhaps she'd be better suited for the Faith. Yes, a septa. That's what she should be. Rhaenyra's thoughts took a sharper edge.

I'll plant the idea in her head… water it slowly, gently. It wouldn't even be vengeance, not really. She wouldn't be hurt. In fact, I'd be freeing her from her father's grip, from the poisonous influence of House Hightower. She'd have her whole life to pray to her beloved gods.

Before she could lose herself in her schemes, her father gently broke their embrace, placing his hands on either side of her face, coaxing her attention back to him.

"Now that you know the truth," Viserys said, his eyes warm and filled with pride, "I imagine you understand why I called you here."

Rhaenyra swallowed hard, already suspecting where this was going. "I am to be your heir," she said softly.

"Yes," he confirmed, voice full of conviction. "You are the future Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms. It was always going to be you, my sweet girl."

He tenderly brushed a hand across her cheek, and she leaned into it before voicing the doubt gnawing at her heart. "But… am I truly fit for such a role, kepa?"

"Rhaenyra," he said, more serious now. "Do you trust me?"

"Always," she answered at once, without a hint of hesitation.

"Then trust me when I say you were born for this. You will be a magnificent queen, my love."

He smiled at her with so much warmth and belief that it melted away every whisper of insecurity.

"Oh, and there's one last matter," he added, a little too casually.

She raised an eyebrow, wary. "What now? I'm not sure my heart can handle more today."

"The matter of your marriage."

Her heart leapt into her throat.

"Marriage?" 

"Yes." He looked at her seriously. "As the future queen, you will have the freedom to choose your consort. I will not make the mistake of forcing you into an unwanted union."

Her eyes widened.

Oh.

"And… I can really choose anyone I want?" she asked, cautious but hopeful.

"Yes, anyone," Viserys replied, chuckling at her expression.

Oh!

"Even if the man I choose is… your brother?" she blurted out quickly, then clamped her eyes shut, bracing for his reaction.

Viserys laughed—loudly—and she slapped his arm, embarrassed.

"I'm being serious, kepa!"

"And so am I, sweetling," he said with a grin, still chuckling. "Truth be told, I thought it was the best option too. I discussed it with Daemon a few sunturns ago, and he was agreeable to the idea. We decided to wait until you were old enough to form your own opinion."

Her mouth fell open, her eyes wide as moons. She was certain she looked ridiculous, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

Daemon agreed to marry me?

She burst into laughter, the kind that shook her entire frame, and her father smiled as he watched her.

I'm going to marry Uncle Daemon! I'll be his lady wife, and he'll be my lord husband. We'll have children—how many? Maybe six! Or more, like King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne…

Her thoughts raced as fast as her heartbeat. I have to find Uncle Daemon. He must still be at the barracks. Will he return to the Keep tonight?

She laughed again, giddy and radiant.

"All right, all right, I get it," her father said, waving a hand. "You love the idea—clearly. But please, stop laughing like that. You're starting to scare me."

She huffed, mildly annoyed that he had disrupted her very important daydreaming. She had a future to plan, after all.

"Tomorrow," he continued, "I'll announce everything to the Small Council—your succession, and your betrothal to Daemon. After that, the realm will know. All eyes will be on you. Are you ready, my future queen?"

Rhaenyra straightened her shoulders, her expression firm with new resolve.

"Yes, Your Grace," she answered without hesitation.

She was going to be queen. She was going to marry Daemon.

And anyone who dared stand in her way would be met with Fire and Blood.

Viserys POV 

"The construction of the first Healing House in the North is complete, Your Grace. Thirty healers trained at the Learning Centers will depart for Winter Town in a few days. The Healing House of White Harbor is still underway, but it won't be long now." Lord Manderly's voice was as steady as the Mander, but the pride in his tone was unmistakable.

Viserys inclined his head, pleased. The success of the Healing Houses and Learning Centers in King's Landing had exceeded expectations. The sight of the commonfolk learning a craft, of healers and even some maesters treating the poorest of the city instead of just the wealthy, had moved even the most cynical of hearts.

Well… most hearts.

To push the idea beyond the capital, he'd offered a generous proposition to the lords: the Crown would fund the first Healing House and Learning Center in each territory, hoping to tempt even the stingiest among them. It worked better than expected.

The Vale had led the charge, now boasting two Healing Houses and a Learning Center. Predictably, the Lannisters followed—driven less by compassion and more by pride, building three Healing Houses and two Learning Centers just to ensure the lions roared louder than the falcons.

Those prideful lions are easily manipulated into doing good things they normally wouldn't when their ego is involved. Viserys chuckled to himself.

Corlys had built both institutions in Hull and Spicetown. And the North, ever resilient and cautious, had shocked him by not only accepting his offer, but constructing two Healing Houses already.

"Good," he said aloud. "Lord Beesbury, your report?"

"The royal coffers are full, Your Grace. Tax collection has gone smoothly, and all accounts are in order. However, we should discuss the wine tariffs—House Redwyne expects a bountiful harvest this season."

Viserys nodded. "We'll handle it later. Rhaenys?"

"There have been skirmishes again in the Riverlands. Lord Grover continues to ignore the disputes between his bannermen. Instead, they send us multiple ravens, all expecting the Crown to settle their squabbles." Her tone was weary, her expression that of someone well beyond her tolerance.

"The King of the Seven Kingdoms does not mediate feuds over pig theft or border stones," Viserys said. "Send word to the Lord Paramount of the Trident. Inform him that if he's so uninterested in ruling his own territory, then perhaps he could do without it."

Rhaenys took a sip from her cup, hiding her smirk expertly. "Understood, Your Grace."

Viserys leaned back slightly. "Now, that those matters are over, I have news to share. Important ones."

At once, all eyes turned to him. The air shifted. His council straightened in their seats, and even Rhaenyra, who had spent the entire meeting making eyes at Daemon—who looked completely uncomfortable and like he wanted to melt into the floor—sat up with a bright grin on her face. Aemma watched their daughter with mild amusement

She did not fill anyone's cups today. She won't need to from now on. 

"I know the matter of my succession has weighed heavily on this council for years now. But today, you may put those concerns to rest." His voice rang clear and final. "I have chosen my heir."

Murmurs and shifting glances began to stir, but Viserys raised his hand, silently telling they to wait for him to finish.

"My daughter, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, will inherit the Iron Throne. She will be the first ruling Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A woman shall sit the Iron Throne after me."

Silence. Faces twisted with shock, others frozen in quiet calculation.

But he wasn't finished.

"This is not open for debate. The matter is settled. Remember that you are here to advise me—not to question the most sacred of royal prerogatives. It is my right to chose my own heir. I will not entertain other's opinions regarding this decision, because they are irrelevant. As the ones sitting at my table, your only task now is to assist your king and heir to prepare for a successful change of power in the future."

He let that hang in the air for a long while before continuing.

"My grandsire called the Great Council because he was too afraid to name his own heir, he didn't want to be responsible for a succession war. That is why he let the lords choose in his place. But even that—was his choice. The power of deciding the royal succession was never inherent to the lords of the realm, it lies with the Crown alone. Jaehaerys simply gifted it to the other Houses, temporarily. The precedent that favored men over women may have placed me on this throne, but I will not be bound by it."

He looked every one of them in the eye. No hesitation. No compromise.

"Viserys I Targaryen reigns now. And I say the precedent ends here."

If looks could kill, Corlys Velaryon would be a kingslayer already. 

"This was not decided on a whim. Nor will it change. Am I understood?"

A tense beat passed—then came the chorus of submission. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Good. Now for the second matter—my daughter's marriage." Viserys noted the flicker of hope in Corlys' eyes.

Daemon caught it too. He smirked. Viserys barely suppressed his sigh.

This is going to be good, he thought drily.

"As the first ruling Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, my daughter will need a consort. Someone strong. Loyal. Capable of standing beside her, not above her."

He glanced briefly at Daemon, who met his gaze with quiet confidence.

"That is why she is now betrothed to Prince Daemon Targaryen—Commander of the City Watch, rider of Caraxes, and wielder of Dark Sister. They will wed when she reaches her majority at six and ten."

Rhaenyra practically glowed with joy, her gaze almost burning holes on Daemon's face while she looked at him from under her lashes. 

This girl, really. He chuckled to himself.

"You've passed my House over. Again." Corlys rose from his chair, voice low and dangerous. Rhaenys shot him a sharp look, but he ignored her.

Daemon quirked a brow, unimpressed.

Viserys' voice remained calm. "Sit down, Lord Corlys."

The Master of Ships stood, unmoving.

"I will not repeat myself."

From somewhere outside the walls, Vhagar let out a deep, bone-shaking roar that echoed through the Red Keep.

Corlys sat down hastily, eyes slightly wide.

"Lord Hand," Viserys turned to Lyonel Strong, "send ravens to lords of the realm. Inform them of my heir and her betrothal. Use my exact words. They are to come to King's Landing in three moons' time to swear their oaths."

Lyonel bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."

Grand Maester Gerardys was the first one to congratulate Rhaenyra on her new position and betrothal, and the others followed his example. The princess was beaming while Daemon was mildly amused and exasperated at the same time.

"Everyone is dismissed. Except the Master of Ships." Viserys' voice cut through the room like a blade.

Corlys froze.

"I want to have a talk with you."

Corlys POV 

He was fuming.

In all his years, he had never been this close to cause a scandal—close to screaming, to throwing chairs, to shattering everything in sight.

This is an absurdity! The audacity of the Targaryens never ceases to baffle me.

The king had passed over House Velaryon again. If the girl was to be heir, then Laenor should be her consort. It was logical. Obvious.

His House was Valyrian, as ancient—if not older—than the Targaryens themselves. They were the wealthiest house in Westeros,—though those insufferable lions of the Rock would argue otherwise—commanded the largest fleet in the realm, and Laenor was a dragonrider.

And yet, the king had chosen Daemon.

Viserys is out of his godsdamned mind.

The rest of the Small Council had dispersed. Viserys remained behind, casually pouring himself a cup of wine, as if he hadn't just set fire to Corlys' pride.

Corlys stood, stiff and ready to confront him, but before he could speak, the king broke the silence.

"You became the captain of your own ship at six-and-ten. What was it called again? Cod Queen, was it?" Viserys gave a small smirk. "You sailed from Driftmark to Dragonstone."

Caught off guard, Corlys only nodded.

Where is he going with this?

"Then it was Lannisport, Myr, Lys, Tyrosh, Pentos... Volantis. The Summer Isles. Braavos, Lorath. You even went beyond the Wall!" Viserys chuckled and sipped his wine. "Afterwards, aboard your famous Sea Snake— a ship you designed—you set off on your great voyages. Nine in total. From Qarth to Yi Ti and Leng, even to Asshai. You saw it all. You came back with ships bursting with gold, stories, and glory. You became the wealthiest man in Westeros. You even built a new keep, High Tide. Marvelous castle. Corlys Velaryon became the best seafarer of Westeros and then the Lord of the Tides, the head of House Velaryon."

Viserys' gaze turned sharp, calculating.

"You married my cousin, the only child of the heir to the Iron Throne at the time, and earned a seat on my grandsire's council—one you still occupy to this day. Your children are of royal blood, and one even rides a dragon. The Velaryons have two dragons now, if you count Meleys. Your House rose to heights no other has reached outside of House Targaryen."

Corlys remained quiet, sensing danger behind the king’s words.

"And still, you are not satisfied. There is more ambition in you than water in the seas." The cold edge in Viserys' voice sent a chill through the room.

"Your Grace—" Corlys tried to speak, but the king raised a hand.

"I did not give you permission to speak."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"The Velaryons have always been our greatest allies. The oldest, too. Your family gave us brides when we lacked daughters, fought beside us during the Conquest. Yes, you've stood with us for a long while now."

Viserys turned his back and stepped out towards the balcony.

"But somewhere along the way, you began to believe we owe you something."

Another sip. Another heavy pause.

"Your House is powerful, but dragons rule the Seven Kingdoms—not seahorses. Westeros bent the knee to House Targaryen. I sit the Iron Throne. Not you."

He stepped back inside, closing the distance between them with a predator's grace.

"My cousin was passed over, yes. Once by our grandsire, then by the lords of the realm. But make no mistake, Corlys. The one passed over was her, not House Velaryon, not you. Your House has no rights to the Iron Throne. You didn't conquer this realm and you didn't forge a throne made out of the swords of your enemies. The only legitimacy that allows your children to be in the line of succession was brought by Rhaenys' blood. Dragon blood. Not seahorse blood. So you are owed nothing. The Targaryens owe your House nothing." 

Viserys placed his wine cup down and took his Master of Ships' orb, toying with it.

"Rhaenys has cast aside her claim and now stands at my side, as an ally. I suggest you do the same. Set aside your endless ambition and for once in your life be content with what you have. You sit in one of the highest positions in the realm. Enjoy it."

He placed the orb back in its rightful place and moved towards the doors.

"I think we work better as allies, Sea Snake. So I'm counting on you to stay in line. Don't force my hand, Corlys. I don't want to start a war... but I will finish it."

And with that, Viserys was gone.

The suffocating weight in the chamber lifted the moment the doors closed. Corlys exhaled, deeply and reluctantly.

"...Fucking Targaryens."

Chapter Text

Daemon POV

Daemon Targaryen had always been a creature of chaos. Even as a boy, he was wild and ungovernable—more mischief than child. From the moment he could walk, he seemed determined to break every rule placed before him, and Gods forbid anyone try to order him around. His defiance wasn't just stubbornness; it was a fierce, almost gleeful rebellion against authority. Nursemaids and septas came and went, most driven half-mad by the storm that was young Daemon.

Not even kin were spared the fire of his unruly nature. The Old King and the Good Queen, wearied by a lifetime of raising royal children, soon had little patience for their youngest grandson. The boy was untamable, and the elderly monarchs had no interest in playing wrangler to a princeling of such wild temperament.

Prince Baelon, the Spring Prince, did love his sons—but he was a man diminished by grief ever since Daemon was a young child. The death of Alyssa had already gutted him. When Aegon died soon after, it was as if the gods had torn away what remained of Baelon's strength. So though he loved Daemon, he simply had almost nothing left to give, especially to a child that demanded so much. And when Aemon died, Baelon shut down entirely.

It wasn't until the birth of his granddaughter, Rhaenyra, that a spark returned to Baelon's eyes. She brought him laughter again, made him smile as he once had. But that joy was short-lived. The Spring Prince passed into Balerion's realm when the girl was but four namedays old.

Rhaenys had once found Daemon endearing. She would drag him about like a favorite doll, playing the elder sister and attempting to impart her lofty wisdom to him. He, of course, ignored her completely.

Whatever affection she held for him burned away the day Daemon tossed her beloved doll into the hearth and watched it go up in flames with a satisfied smirk. That was the end of her patience.

Viserys tried for a while—he truly did—to be the older brother Daemon needed. Patient, steady, guiding. But Daemon didn't want a guide. He wanted a partner in crime. Even when younger and smaller, he somehow had a way of leading Viserys into trouble.

After a time, Viserys gave up, choosing instead the company of boys who preferred books to blades, calm over chaos. The brothers naturally drifted apart. Viserys looked at his younger brother and started to see a disturbance, a bother.

And Daemon? Well, he found new companions too. Undeniably, they were not the best type of company, but the prince could not care less at the time. He took to the streets of King's Landing like a fish to water. He drank, gambled, fought, and fucked with reckless abandon.

Then, he was reborn—The Rogue Prince, Lord Flea Bottom, Prince of the City.

And now Daemon was preparing for war. He would soon ride to the Stepstones, to burn pirates and butcher Triarchy filth. He was going to cut down men with Dark Sister, lead charges, and bathe in blood. He didn't fear war. He never had.

Daemon Targaryen had always been fearless. To some, he was courageous. To others, reckless. But always, he was unapologetically Daemon. He did as he pleased, and damn the consequences.

Which was why his current situation was... frankly, laughable.

This is fucking ridiculous.

"Kepus?" Rhaenyra's voice echoed from the end of the corridor.

Daemon had been there just moments ago—before he'd darted off like a madman, hiding behind a pillar at the mere sight of her.

"I swear I saw a flash of silver hair," Rhaenyra said, stepping into the hallway, her eyes searching. "And I can still smell his perfume. The one from Lys. Gods, I love that scent." She closed her eyes, breathing it in deeply.

"You're hallucinating now?" one of her ladies snorted. "Infatuated doesn't even begin to cover it."

"Nyra," another interrupted gently, "your lesson with the archmaester starts soon. Let us be on our way. We'll be scolded again if you're late."

"Elenda is right. And haven't you spent enough time with prince Daemon lately? You've barely left his side these past few days. Do not give the court reasons to talk. You are the heir now."

"We're betrothed," Rhaenyra huffed. "Is it such a sin to enjoy the company of my future husband?" She rolled her eyes and walked off, the girls giggling as they followed her.

Thank the Gods. Daemon slumped against the pillar and exhaled. At last, peace.

He loved his niece, truly. But ever since Viserys had informed her of their betrothal, Rhaenyra had been... looking at him differently.

Daemon was no stranger to longing looks. He'd seen the way women—highborn and low—watched him. But Rhaenyra was still a girl. Precocious, yes. Beautiful, undeniably. But still young.

And therein lay the problem.

She flirted with him now. Boldly. Openly. And it made him profoundly uncomfortable. He'd spoken to Viserys about it, hoping for advice, and received only laughter in return.

"Avoid her," Viserys had said between chuckles. "Subtly, if you can. She'll get upset if you're too obvious. Finish your preparations and leave for the Stepstones. The two of you need space—distance—until she's older. My daughter is relentless. Her fire burns hot, the blood of the dragon runs thick in her veins. She always gets what she wants, and right now, what she wants the most is you."

I cannot believe I'm hiding from a little girl. He sighed.

Rhaenyra was already a beauty, the kind that turned heads in every room she entered. And yes, Daemon noticed it too. He wasn't blind. But desire? No. Not yet. He still saw the girl clinging to his cloak, eager to follow him everywhere.

But she clearly no longer saw him as just her uncle. She wanted more—and that put him in a difficult spot.

She made eyes at him. He didn't know how to respond. He couldn't flirt back—not without feeling like a degenerate—but he also didn't want to hurt her. Gods help him if she thought he didn't find her appealing. The last thing he needed was to wound Rhaenyra's pride.

This is giving me a headache. 

He dusted himself off and made his way towards the barracks. A patrol through the city sounded like the perfect escape. Rhaenyra wouldn't follow him there.

…At least, he hoped not.

A red-haired whore sauntered over to his table, her breasts nearly spilling from her bodice, hips swaying with practiced allure. She moved to sit in his lap, like the others were doing to his men.

"Get out," Daemon said coldly, before she could plop her round arse on him.

"My prince?" she blinked, startled by the rejection.

"Your services are not required."

She hesitated, then saw his annoyed expression and scurried off.

Luthor, seated nearby, gave him a puzzled look. "Not in the mood to bed a whore, my prince? Or was she not to your taste?"

Daemon chuckled dryly. "She was pretty enough. I'm just not looking for another headache tonight."

Only the Gods knew what Rhaenyra might do if she somehow found out he'd been seen entertaining a whore publicly now that their betrothal was official. She'd probably have him gelded.

He wasn't avoiding whores for himself—he was doing it for Rhaenyra. She was already under scrutiny as a female heir. Her reputation didn't need to be tarnished by rumors of her future consort's indiscretions.

Daemon wouldn't allow her to be mocked. If she was to be the first ruling queen of Westeros, she had to command respect—not laughter over an unruly husband. They would surely question her ability to rule the realm by saying she couldn't even control her own consort. So yes, even though his loins ached and every instinct screamed for release, Daemon would endure for now.

For her. His niece. His future wife and queen.

If someone had told my younger self that I'd one day deny myself the comfort of a warm cunt out of consideration for the little girl who took my place as heir, I'd have laughed in their face and call them mad.

He smirked at the thought. I guess Viserys isn't the only one who's changed.

Luthor was still staring at him with a confused expression. Daemon waved him off impatiently.

"Forget it. Go fuck someone and leave me in peace."

The tall man laughed heartily and raised his cup.

"Oi! Show your bloody gratitude to the prince! He's paying for your drinks and your whores!"

Daemon had made it a habit to take some of his men, the most loyal ones, to unwind after their shifts. It was a way he had found to build even more loyalty and camaraderie with them. 

Cheers erupted as the Gold Cloaks banged their cups and chanted Daemon's name.

"Yeah, yeah," Daemon muttered. "Just drink and shut up."

"Congratulations on your betrothal, my prince! Or should I say... my king?" one man shouted.

A chorus followed: King Daemon!

Daemon slammed his palm on the table, silencing the tavern.

"Consort," he corrected sharply.

"My prince?" a few men asked, eyes wide.

"I said, I'll be the king consort. Rhaenyra Targaryen will be your ruling Queen. I will be her consort. Make sure you don't forget that again."

A tense pause lingered—until Luthor stood and raised his cup high.

"Long live Princess Rhaenyra, the future Queen of Westeros!"

The tavern erupted once more, this time in cheers for the Realm's Delight.

Daemon lifted his cup with a satisfied nod. Yes. That's better.

"The Lord of Storm's End sent me a raven," Viserys said the moment Daemon slipped into his chambers through the secret passage. "Boremund wants to join the war efforts—seems he's had enough of the Triarchy's grip on the Stepstones. His ships and men are yours."

Daemon smirked. "Of course he does. His son and heir is determined to follow me to those damned islands, so naturally Boremund sends troops—to protect the future of his House."

Viserys chuckled, then tilted his head with amusement. "Valonqar, why are you using the secret passage? Hiding from someone or something of the sort?"

Daemon tensed slightly, his eyes darting to the side. That was all the answer Viserys needed before bursting into laughter.

"You are hiding! Is it from Rhaenyra?" the king teased, half-doubled over with mirth.

"Shut your mouth, Viserys," Daemon muttered, scowling. "This is your fault anyway. You raised her. Your daughter is relentless. A terror, really. A few days ago, she cornered me when we were alone for a few moments and tried to kiss me!"

Viserys was wheezing now.

"She couldn't reach my mouth, thank the Gods for her height—but she gave it her all," Daemon added dryly.

It took a few minutes for Viserys to recover, wiping tears from his eyes. "Set boundaries," he said finally, still grinning, "but be patient with her. She's excited and doesn't know what to do with herself. For as long as she's understood what marriage meant, she's imagined it with you—and now it's real. She'll settle down once the weight of her responsibilities sets in."

Daemon sighed. "I know. It's just—this whole thing is absurd because of her age. I wish she were a bit older. Then I guarantee you I wouldn't be running from a gorgeous and eager little Valyrian brid—"

He stopped. Viserys was glaring at him, face thunderous.

Ah, Daemon thought, I guess no matter how much he approves of our union, a father doesn't want to imagine his daughter with a man. It's only funny to him while I'm running away from her advances. The moment I stop doing so… well. 

Viserys huffed, clearly annoyed. Daemon's words were a sharp reminder that, in the not-so-distant future, his little girl would be a married woman—and her husband would be his brother. The very same brother known far and wide for his debauched ways.

This is clearly a thorny subject, no doubt about it. Best to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"I've received news from my eyes and ears in the Hightower. They already know about Rhaenyra's position as heir and our betrothal. Otto Hightower reportedly foamed at the mouth when he found out. Nearly gave himself a stroke out of anger, and had to be seen by maesters. Spent three days abed. Unfortunately, he lived." Daemon sighed, slightly disappointed. "Currently, the leech is making his way back to King's Landing. He's probably ready to start his spiel about why a woman shouldn't sit the Iron Throne and how I'm 'Maegor come again' and the worst possible candidate for a consort." 

Viserys groaned. "Let him come. If he's foolish enough to publicly cause trouble over my chosen heir, I'll finally have a good reason to rid the court of that snake once and for all."

"Oh, I like that. I'll be rooting for him to commit treason—just one little act. Maybe I can use Dark Sister to separate that scheming head from his shoulders."

"Would you sully our ancestral blade with his blood?" Viserys raised an eyebrow.

Both brothers burst into laughter.

Vaegon POV 

"Rhaenyra, for the last time—concentrate," Vaegon said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need your attention on the lesson, not drifting towards my unruly nephew. Are you even capable of thinking about anything besides your betrothed?"

"I'm not thinking about Uncle Daemon!" she huffed.

"You are. That foolish expression on your face says everything."

"I was simply thinking very hard about the answer."

"Oh, certainly," he said dryly. "And what was the question I asked?"

Rhaenyra's eyes widened. She stammered, caught red-handed.

Didn't hear a single word I said, did you? Infatuated little fool. Well then. Perhaps it's time to drag her out of her dreamy little cloud and back down to reality.

"Oh yes, Westeros has such a bright future ahead," he said with biting sarcasm. "Our future queen can't even focus on her lessons because she's too busy daydreaming like a love-struck child."

"Kepus—"

"I understand you're elated," he cut in. "You were given something most women will never have—a choice in your future husband. But the time for floating in the clouds has passed. You are the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra. You'll be the first woman to rule Westeros."

He stepped closer, voice steady but cold.

"We have protected you, supported you, loved you—but the world beyond our walls will not. It is ruthless. Unforgiving. Most of Westeros does not believe a woman can rule. Look no further than what happened to Rhaenys, the 'Queen Who Never Was'. They think you unfit—lesser—wrong, simply because you were born without a cock."

He could see her jaw tighten. Good.

"Some go as far as to believe it an affront to the Gods that a woman might sit the Iron Throne. They will eat you alive, Rhaenyra. Feast on your flesh and laugh as they toss your bones to the dogs."

He let that sink in before continuing.

"Every eye is on you now. Every noble lord who whispers against you, every vulture in court—they are all watching, waiting for you to fail. A single flaw, a single misstep, and they'll pounce."

His voice grew sharper.

"So what will you show them? A little girl, chasing after her uncle with stars in her eyes?"

"It isn't fair, but fairness doesn't matter on this world. You will have to be twice as good as any man just to earn half the respect they're handed without effort, simply by being born."

He exhaled, gaze softening just slightly.

"We'll be with you. And our dragons too. We won't let you face this alone. But you must rise. You must do your part."

He paused.

"You're brilliant, Rhaenyra. You have the mind and the fire for this. I believe in you. Don't make me regret it. I hate being wrong. Do you understand?"

She was quiet for a moment. Then she straightened her spine, lifted her chin high, and met his gaze with steel in her eyes.

"I understand, Uncle Vaegon. I won't fail. They will rue the day they doubted me."

No hesitation. No falter.

There's my little dragon queen, Vaegon thought, and allowed himself a small, rare smile.

"Good. I'll accept nothing less. Now—let's return to the feud between the Brackens and the Blackwoods. How would you solve their endless bickering?"

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV

"I, Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, promise to be faithful to King Viserys, and to his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. I promise this in the names of the Old Gods and the New."

The gruff voice of the North's lord echoed through the Great Hall as he bent the knee, reciting the now-familiar vow with steady resolve.

One by one, the lords of Westeros came forth to swear fealty, their voices filling the grand chamber as they recognized Rhaenyra as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne—their future queen.

Just a day prior, Rhaenyra had been riddled with nerves. The mere thought of standing before so many powerful lords and ladies had twisted her stomach into knots. She feared a misstep, a stutter, a slip of the tongue that would turn her into a laughingstock among the realm's nobility. Her parents had spent hours reassuring her, speaking to her in hushed tones of comfort and love. Even now, they cast her frequent glances, subtle yet filled with concern, checking to see if she was holding strong.

Their eyes, suspiciously wet, glistened with quiet pride. Unshed tears shimmered as they watched their daughter step into history, and every time their eyes met hers, they were full of warmth and wonder.

Despite all their reassurances, Rhaenyra had expected the worst—that her fear would consume her the moment the ceremony began. But to her surprise, the instant she took her place at the base of the Iron Throne, the fear melted away. No unease, no nerves. Only a strange and powerful calm. As if something deep within her soul had aligned. As if this—this exact moment—was her destiny.

She raised her chin, her gaze sweeping across the hall with serene composure. She observed everything and everyone, not with fear, but with the eyes of someone who belonged.

The Great Hall had been transformed into a breathtaking vision of House Targaryen's glory. Crimson banners bearing the three-headed dragon draped from the walls. Ancient Valyrian tapestries, older than the Doom itself, hung beside more recent ones depicting Aegon's Conquest. Towering statues of dragons carved from frozen fire lined the place, and busts of Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys loomed proudly over the gathering—reminders of a legacy rooted in Fire and Blood.

Her father had long ago abandoned the excesses of his early youth. Feasts, balls, and lavish tournaments had become under his reign. He believed such coin was better spent uplifting the realm, improving roads and feeding the poor. The nobility, unsurprisingly, had grumbled at first, lamenting the loss of their endless opportunities to feast and gossip at the Crown's expense.

But their attitudes began to shift when the King started hosting balls in honor of the House that had donated the most to the Dragon's Wings throughout the year. Suddenly, these rare royal festivities became badges of prestige. An invitation alone meant recognition; being the reason for one became the envy of the realm.

Thanks to this clever incentive, the Lions of Casterly Rock had become the most generous benefactors in all of Westeros. The Tyrells and Velaryons were close behind, and even House Celtigar was making significant strides.

For the first time—in maybe ever—all that gold the Lannisters love to boast about so much is being put to good use. 

Meanwhile, the decision of reducing the amount of festivities being thrown for the nobility with the Crown's coin deeply pleased the smallfolk, another way in which her father earned their love and loyalty.

But today's occasion was different. Viserys spared no expense for this moment. Every piece of food, every thread of fabric, every glinting jewel had been chosen to display the splendor and might of House Targaryen.

Rhaenyra's gown was a masterpiece—crimson silk and black Myrish lace, adorned with rubies and diamonds that glittered in the light. A golden necklace bearing the three-headed dragon rested proudly against her collarbone. At her father's command, a special circlet had been forged for her: delicate golden vines spiraling into the shape of a dragon, its wings unfurled, a ruby hanging like a drop of blood between her brows. It was her 'heir crown'—a visual proclamation of her place in the line of succession.

Rhaenyra observed the nobles' faces as they bent the knee and pledged their loyalty. Most were careful, their expressions neutral. But some let their true feelings slip. She took note of those who weren't pleased—memorizing faces, matching them with names.

Because dissatisfaction, when allowed to fester, could easily turn into rebellion. And Rhaenyra had no intention of allowing traitors to thrive in her shadow.

Among those whose resentment was most palpable were Otto Hightower, his ever-arrogant brother Hobert, Lord Jasper Wylde, Lord Peake and old, crusty Grover Tully. Their eyes were full of disdain.

They can hate the idea of a ruling queen all they like—as long as they obey when commanded. If they don't, there are always others who'd be eager to take their titles and lands.

The Lannisters' twins were displeased too, but their faces did not carry the same level of disgust and contempt as the other ones. In truth, Jason Lannister, heir of Casterly Rock, appeared far more interested in ogling her lady-in-waiting, Johanna Westerling, than anything else. His lack of subtlety was almost offensive.

Rhaenyra turned towards her friend, expecting her to share her distaste—but to the princess' horror, Johanna looked positively delighted by the attention. She twirled a lock of her hair and cast coquettish glances at the lion of the West.

Rhaenyra nearly gagged. She quickly averted her gaze before she actually did vomit on the Iron Throne's steps.

To her utter disbelief, another scene unfolded nearby: Borros Baratheon was quite visibly ogling Elenda Caron, the shyest of her ladies. Poor Elenda was blushing so furiously, Rhaenyra feared she might faint. And yet… Elenda didn't exactly look horrified, just overwhelmed.

Rhaenyra groaned internally. By the Fourteen. Not everyone can have good taste in men, I suppose…

Her attention then flicked to her cousin Jeyne, deep in conversation with Lady Jessamyn and Laenor. Rhaenyra longed to join them, to laugh and speak freely. But duty anchored her to the throne. For now.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her kepus Vaegon, exchanging words with the Hightower brothers. Judging by the way both their faces twisted with sour dismay, it could not have been anything pleasant.

Rhaenyra had to suppress a laugh. It rarely is pleasant when Uncle Vaegon speaks—and never for the Hightowers.

A glance revealed Alicent standing nearby, wringing her hands, her expression full of quiet distress. Her necklace bore a large seven-pointed star, and she was picking at her nails until they bled. Worry painted her features as she looked between her father, uncle and the Archmaester.

Rhaenyra's gaze lingered on her. Strange to think that this meek, anxious girl would one day slither into my father's chambers and crown herself queen... She shook the thought away. Not today. Not now.

And then, as if the Gods themselves sought to lift her spirits, her betrothed stepped forward.

Daemon Targaryen—her prince—approached with that unmistakable swagger of his. He knelt before her, unsheathing Dark Sister and lifting it with both hands, presenting the blade to her as though it were an offering.

"I, Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Blood, Commander of the City Watch, Rider of Caraxes, and Wielder of Dark Sister, swear my loyalty to King Viserys I and to his named heir—my betrothed, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. My sword and my dragon are forever yours, my princess. I swear this by the Fourteen Flames, the Old Gods, and the New."

A collective sigh swept through the women in the room. Several ladies looked ready to swoon.

Rhaenyra felt no shame in admitting—internally—that she was just as swept away. Her heart thundered wildly in her chest, and it took every ounce of self-control not to leap into Daemon's arms right then and there.

Instead, she straightened her back, lifting her chin, her voice as calm as she could manage despite the storm inside her.

"Rise, my prince."

Daemon obeyed, his eyes locked on hers, full of mischief and pride. Before she could become emotional due to the way he looked at her, he winked. The rogue.

Damn you, she thought with a helpless blush. You know exactly what you're doing.

At last, with every lord sworn and every vow spoken, Rhaenyra looked towards her father. He gave her a small nod.

It was time.

She reached out to Syrax, using the special and magical connection that only existed between a dragon and their rider.

This had been her father's idea: to bring her mount into the Great Hall itself. Not just to display power, but to make a statement—she was not just a girl, not merely a princess. She was a dragon. It was a great way to help persuade some of the lords that were reluctant about her new position. 

The massive doors had been left wide open for this very reason. From the Outer Yard, Syrax entered with a measured, graceful gait. Though not yet fully grown, she was no hatchling either—and the Great Hall, with its towering ceilings and open space, could just barely contain her presence.

Gasps erupted. Nobles shrank away, eyes wide with fear and awe. They pressed against the walls, desperate to give the she-dragon space.

Yes, they all knew dragons existed. But knowing it and being so close to one were entirely different things.

The majority of the nobles present were not a part of the court, they spent their time in their own territories, not in King's Landing. Because of that, dragons were even more like a distant concept to them, something they heard about during their lessons as small children. 

Syrax's golden scales shimmered like sunlight on water. Her body radiated heat, and those standing too close began fanning themselves. A Targaryen would never be bothered by such warmth. We were born for it.

Some lords looked awestruck—Rickon Stark and Lord Blackwood chief among them. Others, like Otto Hightower and Jason Lannister, were ghostly pale.

Some screams rang out.

Syrax—clearly annoyed by it—growled low in her throat, then unleashed a thunderous roar that shook the very foundations of the Red Keep. Silence fell like a blade. Not another whisper of protest dared to rise. Some people were almost fainting at that point.

I sincerely hope nobody soiled themselves. 

With slow steps, she approached Rhaenyra and lowered her head. The princess extended a hand, stroking her dragon's warm snout. Syrax nuzzled her in response, protective and proud.

A thick golden chain, inlaid with rubies, coiled around Syrax's neck—a gift from her father, and a symbol of Targaryen majesty.

The dragon curled around her rider, settling protectively behind the princess, head lowered and eyes scanning the hall for threats. Smoke curled from her nostrils.

Then came her father's voice, ringing clear and strong.

"I, Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, who hereby name Rhaenyra Targaryen Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne." 

As his words echoed through the chamber, Syrax spread her wings wide and let out a second roar—this one answered by the dragons in the Outer Yard. Their calls overlapped, reverberating like thunder.

The chamber trembled beneath the weight of their power.

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, her purple eyes sweeping across the room as her fingers traced the rough, warm scales of Syrax's neck.

She saw the exact moment the realization struck the gathered nobles—that they were utterly at the mercy of the Princess of Dragonstone. With a single word, a mere command, she could reduce them all to ash. The fact that she was a woman meant nothing. It would not hinder her at all.

Dragons cared not for the sex of their riders.

At last, they understood how insignificant they truly were before a dragon—even a young, relatively small one bonded to a little girl—as some of them liked to call her when they thought nobody was listening.

After such a blatant display of power, not a soul left the Great Hall doubting the strength of House Targaryen, or mistaking the young heir for a feeble, timid girl. Some were reassured. Others were terrified beyond measure.

Viserys POV 

"I heard you've become a father recently, little Cregan, if I'm not mistaken. How is the lad?"

"Aye, Your Grace. The boy passed his first nameday not long ago. He stayed in Winterfell—he's still too young to travel—but strong as a horse already."

"Good. The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing is long and harsh, far too much for a child that small."

The northern man gave a grunt of agreement. "Was worse before. The new Kingsroad made it easier—took us five days less to get here."

"Good," Viserys nodded, lips tugging into a hint of a smile. That was as close to a compliment as he'd ever get from the Warden of the North.

He leaned back. "And what of the preparations for winter, Lord Rickon?" he asked casually, watching the man's face for any sign of reaction.

Viserys had summoned Lord Rickon Stark to his solar the day after Rhaenyra's heir ceremony. He wished to help the North with the winter preparations, lower the number of deaths by starvation and from the cold as much as he could.

There is also the matter of Aegon's prophecy, but one thing at a time. I will not scare the Stark man right off the bat.

He wanted to help, but he also knew the North's nature well: proud, fiercely independent and stubborn. Rickon Stark would not welcome the idea of aid, not without suspicion.

As expected, the man's expression tightened. "They go as they should, Your Grace," he answered curtly, eyes cautious.

Of course, Viserys thought with a sigh, pouring himself a generous cup of wine.

"Then I'll be direct, since I know northerners don't care for fancy words. I summoned you here because I plan to aid the North this winter. I want to send provisions and build shelters for those with nowhere to go."

Rickon's face somehow managed to grow even graver, a feat Viserys wouldn't have thought possible.

"With all due respect, Your Grace," the man said through gritted teeth, "we know how to survive winter. We've prepared for it all our lives. That is the way of the North. I see no reason for southerners to meddle in our business."

Viserys scoffed, setting his cup down with a dull thud. "So starving and freezing to death is also the way of the North?" he shot back, voice cold. "Not everyone is lucky enough to spend winter inside a keep heated by hot springs."

He met Rickon's eyes directly. "Your people suffer every winter. And now, when they could be spared, you'd let them continue to suffer—out of pride?"

The king laughed bitterly. "I understand your people want distance from the South. You value your way of life. But your ancestor bent the knee to mine, and that means your people are also my people. And I take care of what is mine, Lord Rickon."

Rickon said nothing, but his silence was louder than words. Viserys could see the conflict playing out behind his eyes—duty warring with pride and suspicion.

"If you are not comfortable with receiving aid, then let's call it something else. A trade." Viserys leaned forward. "I have been making many changes in my city—building, rebuilding, preparing. There's also going to be a war soon and new ships will need to be made in order to replace the ones that are inevitably going to be lost. You have timber, a lot of it. Also wool and hides. Our orphanages will be in need of warm clothes and beddings for the children once winter arrives. Sell it to me."

He continued before the Stark could interrupt. "Instead of coin, I can give you provisions, if you so prefer. Three new buildings to house anyone who has nowhere to go will also be built, the Crown will cover the expenses."

He took a slow sip of his wine. "So tell me, Warden of the North—are you going to help your people, or let them die, like northerners?"

A long silence followed.

Then finally, Rickon sighed. "Aye. Fair enough. It's a deal."

Viserys beamed and leaned forward to refill the man's cup himself. "Excellent. Now, tell me about the Glass Gardens. I've heard of it, but I want to know how it works. And what do you think of building more? The Crown would be happy to fund part of it."

Chapter Text

Otto POV 

A girl.

He made a girl heir. 

A girl.

Heir to the Iron Throne.

A girl. 

The future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

Otto Hightower laughed—madly, bitterly—once he was alone in his cramped new chambers. The room was a far cry from the one he'd once commanded atop the Tower of the Hand. Dignity stripped, title lost, space reduced. It was fitting, in a cruel sort of way.

Still, he was glad to have escaped the Great Hall, where that mummery of a spectacle had played out.

Men, proud lords of ancient bloodlines, had knelt to a little girl and sworn oaths to her.  The lords of the realm humiliated themselves, while the Gods looked on in silence, their laws mocked by the very rulers who should serve them and preserve their teachings.

And then came the dragon. That beast was brought into the Throne Room as if it were a dog on a leash, while the most powerful lords in Westeros stood there. Reckless didn't begin to describe it.

All their lives were put in jeopardy. That monster could've turned on them in an instant. Otto doubted the girl even had full control over it. She was a child, and that was a dragon.

All of it—a grotesque, dangerous display of power. And worst of all? It worked.

Otto had watched as many of the lords and ladies left the hall with awe in their eyes, newfound admiration for the spoiled princess rising in their hearts.

Madness. All of them have gone mad.

And then, as if things weren't terrible enough, there was him. Vaegon Targaryen. The demon in scholar's robes. He'd found Otto amidst the chaos just to taunt him—again—and humiliate him in front of his brother.

The Archmaester's venom still clung to his ears.

"Oh, Otto. So you truly have returned to King's Landing. I must admit, I didn't think you'd be shameless enough to show your face here again. I fo olishly believed you'd rot away in Oldtown after finally groveling for your brother's forgiveness. But clearly, I underestimated your persistence, your capability of being an utter nuisance. You're remarkably like a weed between crops, or a rat that keeps returning no matter how many times one tries to shoo it away. Resilient, yes—but like a pest.

Ah, Lord Hobert. Forgive me, I didn't see you here. It tends to happen when someone is... unremarkable. But tell me, how do you fare? I've heard some unfortunate rumors. Something about a few family heirlooms being sold off to keep the castle running? Tragic. But understandable—what with the debt repaid to the Crown and the raised taxes for your dear Otto's misdeeds. Still, brothers must stand together in difficult times, mustn't they? Family must always come first. Well, I need to go now. Do take care."

Otto and Hobert hadn't even managed to get a word in. Vaegon hadn't come to talk—only to pour his venom out and leave. Completely unprovoked.

He had worked so hard to earn Hobert's trust back, to make him believe that not all was lost. Rhaenyra being named heir and her betrothal to Daemon had already cracked that fragile reconciliation. Now, thanks to the demon's words,—reminding Horbert of their House's  financial problems—his brother was furious again.

That son of a whore. He lives to make my life more difficult. And yet, Otto could not fathom what he had ever done to deserve such open hatred from Vaegon. He could recall no moment of insult, no crime deserving of this vendetta. It is utterly unfair.

A headache throbbed behind his eyes. When the news had first reached Oldtown—Rhaenyra as heir—he had fainted. Actually fainted. It had taken days in bed to recover. Even then, he'd clung to hope. Maybe it was a mistake. A jest. A rumor gone wild.

But today, in that hall, that fantasy died.

It was no mistake. Viserys had named her Princess of Dragonstone. And then—to twist the knife—he gave her hand to Daemon.

The world had lost its mind.

Otto had never held much faith in Viserys' intelligence, but this... this proved the man was deranged. He had handed the crown to the Second Maegor—on a silver platter. Daemon would rule through the girl, turning her into a puppet. She couldn't lead a flock of chickens, let alone a realm. Daemon would be king in all but name—and the realm would bleed for it.

How can Viserys be so blind? Am I truly the only one with sense left in the realm?

Otto had seen it in the faces of some lords: distaste, reluctance, uncertainty. Not everyone welcomed the idea of a woman on the throne. He hadn't had time to speak with them—he had fled the hall too quickly—but their eyes had told him enough. They were of one mind.

Nevertheless, Otto's hands were tied. What use was it to oppose Rhaenyra as heir without another claimant to rally behind? 

The lords that were dissatisfied with her new position would only act if there was someone else with a claim, someone they could support—a man with Targaryen blood. But the Gods were cruel, so there was none. No one who was useful, at least. 

The only males with dragon blood were Daemon Targaryen, Vaegon Targaryen, and Laenor Velaryon—Otto decided not to even consider the many bastards of Saera, the whore princess.

The first two were completely unsuitable.

Daemon's claim would merge with Rhaenyra's through marriage—he'd be king regardless. Therefore, those who supported him wouldn't care much either way.

But even if that weren't the case, Otto would never back the prince's claim to the throne.

Better a girl than a madman.

Unfortunately for him—and he had Viserys to thank for that—even if he preferred Rhaenyra as heir, Daemon would end up on the throne anyway because of their marriage. There was no escape.

Curse you, Viserys. Curse you to the seven hells.

And Vaegon? A demon in robes. Otto would sooner slit his own throat than see him crowned.

That left only Laenor Velaryon—Targaryen blood through his mother, heir to the richest house in Westeros, bonded to a beast, son of a man who ached to see his line on the throne. He would be the perfect choice.

The problem was his mother—and the only one in the family with an adult dragon—was firmly fixed at Viserys' side. She had apparently forsaken any notion of sitting the throne or placing her son upon it.

The boy himself was close to the princess. Always seen at her side, as if he were one of her ladies-in-waiting. His dragon was still small—smaller than Rhaenyra's yellow beast—and without Rhaenys' support, he stood no chance against the Targaryens.

Not that I believe he'd even try to go against the little girl in the first place.

Corlys might dream of power, but dreams were all he had. The Sea Snake held no claim of his own—he needed his wife and son for that. His other child was a girl without a beast to her name.

The realm would not rally behind a Velaryon. They knelt to dragons, not seahorses. Only a Targaryen on dragonback would satisfy them.

Also, it was a good deterrent that Rhaenyra had five dragonriders behind her—including the largest beast in existence. Her own dragon would soon grow, and if Laenor remained by her side, that number would rise.

No fleet could win against that amount of dragons—Westeros was conquered with only three of them, after all. 

Corlys' hands were tied. So were Otto's. Two men who wanted the throne for their blood—but could do nothing to reach it.

Another problem was how beloved Viserys was. That fool had the affection of the realm. Many would accept Rhaenyra's claim out of loyalty to him, not her.

Meanwhile, Otto's reputation had hit rock bottom. Even those who agreed with him would fear association. He was disgraced, ridiculed, powerless.

His only hope now was for Viserys to sire a son. Preferably with Alicent.

She was three and ten—young, but hardly unusual for marriage in noble circles. The king had bedded his own wife at that age.

But Alicent had no access to the king anymore. She had lost her closeness to Rhaenyra and been replaced by other companions. The girl hadn't even asked Alicent to be a lady-in-waiting. Without proximity, there was no chance to charm Viserys.

And even if she did, the queen still lived. And she was healthier than ever. That sickly, pale woman had become vibrant since claiming her beast.

Any child born to Alicent would be a bastard. The majority of the lords would never support a bastard's claim over a trueborn child—even if that child was a woman.

Otto had no allies left in the Red Keep. Viserys had replaced many of the old servants. Every loyal whisper was gone. The maesters had been pushed aside in favor of common healers. Assassinating the queen to clear the path for his daughter was all but impossible.

He hadn't the coin for bribes—hiring someone competent enough to strike at the queen or princess would cost an absurd amount of gold. His house had been bled dry by Viserys' punishments.

He could do nothing. Not a single thing.

Otto slumped to the cold stone floor, letting the weight of impotence and despair crush him. His vision blurred with a few angry, helpless tears. A cup flew from his hand and shattered against the wall.

No. There had to be a way. There was always a way.

I am simply overwhelmed. I need time. I need a plan. It's not over. It's not over.

That familiar ache bloomed in his chest, sharp and burning. He clenched his fists and waited for it to pass.

A few painful moments later, it did. He exhaled, shakily.

Gods help me.

Aemma POV 

"A bit lower, my love. Oh! There. Right there. That feels wonderful," Aemma hummed contentedly as Viserys' strong, capable hands worked along her aching back.

They had exhausted themselves earlier with some rather enthusiastic activities, and now her muscles were protesting in that pleasant, lingering ache. Though sore, she felt no regret. Not even a little.

It hurts in the best way.

Afterwards, they had taken a scalding, relaxing bath—one that worked wonders to soothe her sore body. Viserys then offered to give her a massage, and of course, Aemma had eagerly accepted.

"You're tense," he remarked, kneading a stubborn knot with focused precision.

"It's just stress. Overseeing the Dragon's Wings is more demanding than I expected. There are so many in need," she sighed, moaning softly as he hit a particularly sore spot that somehow sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine.

"And you're doing an outstanding job, my life." He leaned in and kissed the nape of her neck tenderly, sending goosebumps dancing over her skin.

"Mmm, I missed this. I missed you," she admitted. "We've both been buried in our own duties. And with the preparations for the heir ceremony, we were so focused on every detail. By the end of the day, we barely had the strength to crawl into bed, let alone do anything else. I swear, I was starting to feel like a maiden again," she shamelessly whined about the recent lack of intimacy between her and her husband.

Viserys chuckled warmly, the sound low and intimate against her ear.

"We are of the same mind, wife. I was beginning to worry—what if I'd forgotten how to make you scream my name?" His voice dropped to a husky whisper, deliberately brushing her ear, eager to watch her reaction.

"That could never happen," she purred, arching into his touch. "You only get better."

"Oh, I'm glad to hear my fears were unfounded," he murmured, his calloused hands slipping from her back to graze teasingly along the sides of her breasts, sparking a fire in her belly.

Just as she was about to ask if he was interested in another round of intimate exertions, Viserys returned to massaging her back innocently, as if he hadn't just driven her to the edge with a single touch.

Tease. 

Aemma glanced back with a playful scowl, only to be met with wide, innocent eyes. She snorted. "Terrible acting."

"Believe me, I'd love nothing more. But I have a meeting with Lord Stark in a couple of hours," he sighed.

"You and Lord Rickon have grown close in just a few days. Is it all part of your grand plan?" she teased, eyebrow raised.

Viserys was determined to reshape the North, to better prepare it for the coming of Aegon's prophecy. It wouldn't be easy—northmen were notoriously stubborn, distrustful, wary of outsiders. But then again, her husband was also a stubborn man.

Finishing the massage, he wiped away the excess oil from her back with a soft cloth and helped her dress.

Aemma didn't even try to hide the way her eyes drank him in as he changed his shirt—his old one stained with the essential oils he used in the massage. Viserys' training sessions with Daemon were clearly working. He had always been tall, but now his body was imposing, all lean muscle, broad shoulders, powerful arms and legs, and a defined abdomen that made her mouth go dry. He had become a living sculpture of strength and grace.

And he shaved now, leaving his face clean and more youthful. Paired with his natural Valyrian beauty and commanding presence, he was—unfortunately for her sanity—irresistible.

To Aemma's immense vexation, she was not the only one who thought so.

Her ladies-in-waiting had reported that more and more noblewomen were suddenly 'coincidentally' appearing in places where the king frequently passed through. And always dressed in their finest—and most revealing—gowns, adorned with jewels and heavily powdered faces with painted lips.

Shameless, Aemma thought, scoffing inwardly. They were practically throwing themselves at him, each one hoping to be the next royal mistress.

But apparently, Viserys didn't even seem to notice them. He treated those women as if they were invisible. Amanda once said, "The king only has eyes for the queen." That had made Aemma smile for the rest of the day.

"Cease your shameless ogling, woman. I have duties to attend to," he teased, snapping her out of her daydreams.

She smirked and winked. "Guilty."

"In answer to your question," he continued, fastening his cloak, "I first sought out Rickon so things would go smoother when I revealed the prophecy and my plans for the North. But it turns out, I genuinely enjoy his company. He's honest, doesn't hide behind veiled words and empty pleasantries. It's a breath of fresh air after dealing with the court."

"Do you think your new camaraderie will be enough to make him believe you?"

Viserys gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Absolutely not. He likes me, yes—but talk of prophetic dreams and a second Long Night will make anyone hesitate. I'll have to rely on what I know of the future and hope it's enough. We need the Starks on our side."

Aemma could see the weight of it all in his eyes.

"If anyone can do it, it's you, my love," she whispered, stepping forward to kiss him—soft, slow, and full of quiet strength.

"After such encouragement, I am also certain of that," he said, returning her kiss with lingering devotion. They kissed again. And again. Neither eager to part.

Eventually, Viserys pulled away with visible reluctance and left the chamber, his expression so glum it made Aemma laugh despite herself. That sullen look didn't suit his big, intimidating frame one bit.

Back to the real world, she thought, sighing as she turned to her desk. Reports about the new orphanage on the Street of Sisters awaited her.

She missed him already.

Viserys POV 

"I... I have no words."

Rickon's voice was barely above a whisper. His grey eyes—those unmistakable Stark eyes—remained fixed on the massive skull before them. The skull of Balerion, the Black Dread.

"Many criticize Thorren Stark for bending the knee to the Conqueror," Rickon went on, his voice growing steadier, but still laced with awe. "They call him a coward. But standing here, seeing this... I understand. What could any man—king or not—do against such a creature? Resistance would have been suicide. He did what a true leader must. He protected his people, even at the cost of his pride… and crown."

He fell silent again, staring at the remains, as if expecting the Black Dread to open its maw and unleash a torrent of dragonfire even in death.

"The moment the Conquerors turned their gaze to Westeros, we never stood a chance," he muttered.

"They had their reasons. A motivation," Viserys said quietly, stepping closer to the altar.

"Greed," Rickon replied sharply. "An endless thirst for power. It's what drives most rulers—men or women alike."

Viserys chuckled under his breath. "Perhaps there was some of that. But no, greed alone wasn't what drove my ancestors."

He struck a candle to life on the altar, its flickering glow dancing in his purple eyes. Rickon raised a brow, watching the king with cautious interest.

"I assume Your Grace is about to enlighten me," the Warden of the North said, eyes flicking back to Balerion's hollow sockets. "Considering you brought me to what is clearly a sacred place for House Targaryen."

Viserys drew the Conqueror's dagger from its sheath. The dragonbone hilt gleamed darkly in the firelight as he held the blade above the flame. Slowly, ancient glyphs began to emerge—glowing—along the Valyrian steel.

"Come closer, Lord of Winterfell."

Rickon's eyes had narrowed at the sight of the blade, but as the glyphs shimmered into view, his wariness gave way to something stronger—curiosity. He stepped forward.

"This… what is this?"

"High Valyrian runes," Viserys answered. "This blade belonged to Aegon himself… and before him, to Aenar Targaryen, the father of Daenys the Dreamer. Are you familiar with our family's history, Lord Stark? Do you know why Daenys was called so?"

"She supposedly foresaw the Doom of Valyria in a prophetic dream, didn't she?" Rickon answered cautiously. "That's why your family fled and settled on Dragonstone."

"Indeed. We call them Dragon Dreams. And they are real—just as real as the dragons we ride and the magic that still lingers in our blood." He turned the blade in the candlelight, revealing more of the glowing inscription. "Aegon Dreamed too. These glyphs were carved by the last of Valyria's pyromancers at his command."

He read aloud: "From my blood comes the Heir that was Promised… and theirs will be the Song of Ice and Fire."

Rickon blinked slowly, his brows furrowed deep in confusion. Just as Viserys had expected.

He thinks I've gone mad, the king mused wryly.

"I… don't understand, Your Grace."

"This is the reason. The true reason Aegon conquered Westeros. Not for land or titles—but because of a Dream. A prophecy."

Rickon crossed his arms, frowning. "And why am I being told such a thing?" 

Viserys looked him dead in the eye. "Because the prophecy speaks of the end of the world of men. A dreadful winter coming from the far North, carrying with it a storm of death and darkness. Aegon saw it. And he knew the only way to stand against it was to unite the realm under one banner. Under one house." He studied the confused man for a moment. "Does this threat to the world of the living sound familiar to you, Lord Stark?"

Rickon took a step back, visibly unsettled. "The Long Night happened thousands of years ago. The White Walkers were defeated."

"They were pushed back," Viserys corrected gently. "But not destroyed. They will return. Not in our time, but in two hundred years—give or take. I saw it myself. In my dreams.

The Night King will rise and lead them.

The destruction he brings…" Viserys paused, his voice tightening. "It was beyond anything I could imagine. So many people perished. I was shown this future by my own Gods, so I could change it."

He looked at Lord Stark. "The North—your North—will be the first to face them. Our first line of defense. And in my Dream… it was completely unprepared."

Rickon laughed—not harshly, but in disbelief.

"Your Grace expects me to believe all this? Dreams, prophecies, a second Long Night?"

Suddenly, he stopped laughing and stared at Viserys as if the king had lost his mind.

"With all due respect, Your Grace… you must admit that all of this is—"

"Insane," Viserys supplied.

The Northman nodded emphatically.

Viserys let out a breath and rubbed his temples. "The crypts beneath Winterfell," he said softly.

That caught Rickon's attention.

"The entrance lies in the oldest part of Winterfell, near the First Keep and the lichyard. The door is made of ironwood and opens to narrow, winding spiral steps. It has multiple levels—the oldest ones are the lowest, oddly enough—meaning the crypts were built from the bottom up. The lowest level is said to be collapsed and inaccessible. Iron longswords are laid across the laps of Winterfell's former lords… to keep their spirits from wandering."

Rickon staggered back, his face pale.

"How do you—? That's not written anywhere. Only Starks know that. I—"

"I saw it in my Dreams," Viserys said simply.

"Your descendants. Children. Playing down there. Telling ghost stories. Laughing." He tilted his head.

"I'm not insane, Lord Stark. Now… do you believe?"

There was no response for a long while—so long that Viserys began to worry.

Then, finally, Rickon gave a slow, numbed nod. He looked like a man whose entire worldview had just been turned upside down.

"Good," Viserys said, a thin smile touching his lips. "Because I have many plans for the North. And I'll be needing your help."

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

I can't believe the Warden of the North is acting like a toddler. 

Lord Rickon hadn't stopped asking questions since learning about the 'prophetic dreams'. So many queries, one after the other, as though he were trying to unravel all the secrets of the universe in a single conversation. Viserys answered as best he could, while hiding some facts that should stay a secret. 

The tall and burly Lord of Winterfell was acting like a wide-eyed child discovering the world for the first time, his booming voice full of wonder, curiosity, and relentless inquiry.

Now, they had relocated to Viserys' solar, awaiting Daemon's arrival to begin the formal discussion about the future of the North.

Viserys had summoned his entire family to join them, believing their insights could be useful—each of them offering a different perspective.

Rhaenyra stood by the massive map of the North—prepared beforehand by him—examining it with intense focus, her fingers lightly tracing the painted rivers and sigils. By the hearth, Aemma and Rhaenys exchanged whispers and mischievous glances, their quiet laughter drawing his curiosity. What on earth are they gossiping about?

Uncle Vaegon, on the other hand, was already growing impatient. He tapped his foot loudly, arms crossed, grumbling about Daemon's  tardiness.

Then, quite suddenly—

"What about my death?"

The unexpected question yanked Viserys out of his thoughts. His eyes widened slightly as he turned back to Rickon.

"Pardon?" he asked, utterly taken aback.

"Can Your Grace tell me about my death?" Rickon clarified, his voice calm, as though asking about the weather. "When or how I will die. Is it something the king has knowledge of?"

I'm not entirely sure how he dies… but I know it will be in 121 AC... Maybe I can prevent it.

Many of Viserys' plans for the North would take years, even decades to bear fruit. It would be far easier if Rickon remained in place as Lord of Winterfell throughout it all, rather than his brother being regent—and, eventually, young Cregan assuming control of the North.

And… I've grown somewhat fond of the man.

Viserys let out a weary sigh. "You'll pass in 121 AC. I don't know the cause. What I do know is that your brother will serve as regent for Cregan, and later refuse to relinquish control of the North. Your son will have to imprison Bernnard and his sons to claim his rightful place."

Rickon's face went blank for a moment. Then he said coldly and loudly, "Bernnard… may the Others take him!"

His curse echoed through the room, earning surprised looks from every Targaryen present. Before the slightly embarrassed northman could apologize—

The doors burst open with a thud, and Daemon strolled in with theatrical flair, his trademark smirk in place.

"I am terribly sorry for my delay," he announced with mock gravity. "War preparations, you know. I find myself quite busy as of late. It's also exhausting, but my king summoned me, so here I am. I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

Not a hint of sincerity graced his voice.

Aemma and Rhaenys rolled their eyes in perfect unison, unimpressed by his dramatics. Rhaenyra, however, smiled fondly, clearly enchanted by her uncle's antics.

Viserys quickly stepped in, noticing the way the Archmaester's mouth was twitching—an unmistakable sign that a tirade was brewing.

When Uncle Vaegon starts ranting, there's no stopping him. And I'm not sitting through one of his lectures right now.

"Now that we're all here," Viserys said, clapping his hands lightly, "it's time we begin."

Everyone gathered around the map. Predictably, Rhaenyra slid into the seat beside Daemon.

She no longer trailed after him like a lost puppy, not after a stern scolding from Uncle Vaegon. But in private, away from the court's eyes, she was still very much besotted.

Viserys cleared his throat. "Lord Rickon is already aware of Aegon's prophecy—the threat beyond the Wall. He and I agree: the North must change. It must become stronger, more prepared."

Rickon nodded solemnly.

"We're here to discuss exactly that. I have ideas, but I want to hear yours as well." Viserys' gaze swept across his family, lingering on Rhaenyra. "Especially yours, my daughter. This concerns your future realm."

Archmaester Vaegon raised a brow. "Oh, this should be interesting."

Daemon groaned dramatically and slouched in his chair. "More planning? Truly? Why was I not spared it? I'm already organizing a war—I've barely slept, I'm exhausted. Let our descendants worry about the future. We'll be dust by then anyway." He even pouted in an attempt to appear like a poor, miserable soul. 

Rhaenyra was the only one who fell for it, she looked utterly concerned by his over-the-top suffering.

Viserys ignored him. "Let's begin with your opinion on the New Gift, Lord Stark."

Rickon shifted awkwardly, his eyes flicking to each of the Targaryens in the room. He tried—very visibly—to be diplomatic. "It was… considerate of the late queen and king to worry about the Night's Watch's ability to sustain themselves."

Daemon burst out laughing. "That's one way to put it."

The others chuckled softly, though with more restraint. Sensing Rickon's growing discomfort, Viserys jumped in to reassure him.

"There's no need for politeness. My grandmother, despite her good intentions, was often… mistaken."

Daemon snorted. He had every right to. He was, after all, a victim of the late queen's disastrous marriage arrangements. 

"That area was already owned and the Night's Watch did not have the manpower to take care of the extra twenty-five leagues of land south of the Wall."

Rickon nodded, "The majority of the smallfolk who used to live in those areas have abandoned it because of the wildlings' attacks. Since the lands no longer have the protection of their former lords and the black brothers lack the numbers to effectively take care of it, the raiders got bold. The people eventually left in search of a safer place, leaving only scattered villages. Lots of fields, bee yards and orchards were abandoned. The… donation also displeased the Umbers and Karstarks, the two houses who originally owned a part of those lands. In short, it's a waste. It helps no one."

He's speaking faster now—this really struck a nerve, huh.

"Exactly," Viserys agreed. "Leaving fertile land abandoned in the North is unacceptable, especially with famine always looming during winter. That's why I intend to give it back."

Rickon's eyes opened widely, he looked around the room as if waiting for someone to start laughing and tell him it was a joke. 

"Are you–are you jesting, Your Grace?" 

"I'm not. It's imperative for the North to become able to produce more food and sustain itself if we plan on strengthening the region. If people die from starvation every once in a while, there will be less manpower, which is a problem. We're going to need every single man and woman to help build a better North."

Before Rickon could reply, Vaegon spoke up.

"You'll need to negotiate with the Night's Watch, nephew," he said, arching a brow. "Those lands now belong to them, even if they make no good use of it. To simply take it—like father and mother did—will not bode well with the Watch, and that's a problem. Especially since we need their order to cooperate with us. Remember that they're the ones actually responsible for fighting against the Others, the ones manning the Wall. The Night's Watch is also an independent order, they'll not answer to you just because you are the king. You either convince them to relinquish their rights to those lands willingly, or you take it by force and make an enemy out of them—which is something that will greatly hinder our goal." The Archmaester stared at Viserys as if he was stupid for not taking it into consideration.

...Fuck. How could I have forgotten about such a crucial detail?

The North isn't the only one that need to be stronger. The Night's Watch is the actual first line of defense against the White Walkers— the order was created for this sole purpose.

I blame my lack of foresight on the multiple sleepless nights I spent doing fucking paperwork. 

Viserys decided that it was better to act as if he had already thought about it, otherwise a lecture from Uncle Vaegon was going to be inevitable.

He cleared his throat, trying to appear unbothered. "Naturally. I plan to visit the Wall during our future royal progress and speak with the Lord Commander personally. I'll explain the situation and remind them about the real threat behind the Wall."

The king hoped that would be enough to convince Vaegon he hadn't forgotten. The archmaester narrowed his eyes, clearly assessing him.

Before he could call Viserys out, Daemon, mercifully, jumped in.

"Let's say the guys freezing their arses up in the Wall agree to give the New Gift back. What then?" 

My hero. I could kiss you.

Viserys seized the moment. "Then Lord Stark will be responsible for the redistribution of the New Gift. I advise you to give the Umbers and Karstarks their part of the lands back, but to keep some for your own house." He looked at Rickon, who nodded.

The Lord seemed to have finally recovered from the fact that Viserys was planning to give the New Gift back.

"Aye. The section closest to the Gift didn't belong to either family. I'll keep that for my house."

"Good. But make it clear: the return of those lands comes with responsibility. They must invest in it. Rebuild, farm, protect. That area must not stay idle anymore. The soil's too valuable."

"What can grow that close to the Wall?" Aemma asked, intrigued.

"Plenty," Viserys replied. "Apples, pears, plums, cherries, berries, grapes. Oats, rye, barley, wheat, root vegetables—turnips, potatoes, carrots, cabbage. We can buy the seeds from the Reach or the Riverlands. Barley and clover can be used to feed livestock, like sheep, goats and cows. And the region is ideal for beekeeping—honey and wax."

Everyone stared at him as though he'd sprouted another head. Vaegon, to Viserys' surprise, looked genuinely proud.

"I did my research," Viserys muttered, clearing his throat.

"We noticed," Daemon smirked.

Trying to steer the conversation back, Viserys gestured at the map. "That's all we'll say on the New Gift until I meet the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. For now—let's talk roads."

He pulled the map closer.

"The North is vast, but overly isolated. Not only from the south, but even between its own territories. There are no proper roads linking its keeps—nothing that makes travel easy or trade efficient. So traveling inside the North is time-consuming and, oftentimes, dangerous. We need to change that. Wide, paved roads. And canals."

He pointed to the map, "For example, here—a road should be built from Last Hearth to Karhold, connecting the two keeps. Also others from Winterfell to Hornwood, Torrhen's Square and Barrowton. These are only a few examples, I'll have the rest marked on the map." 

Viserys chuckled to himself. Everyone was leaning over the map and the image was oddly endearing.

"Then we have the canals," he continued. "The North has many rivers that could be used for the quicker and cheaper transportation of goods and for commerce. The canals are going to link some of these rivers together. Here—we can connect the Broken Branch to the White Knife, or even the Long Lake to the Last River. We can hire Essosi builders with experience in such constructions to oversee the process, following the example of Braavos' famed canals."

Viserys took a long look at the map. "Tall bridges will need to be built where the canals cross roads, allowing boats to pass beneath them. Small villages can spring up along the waterways in otherwise uninhabited areas. And in winter, when the canals freeze, sleighs pulled by horses can still transport goods—the ice will likely be thick enough."

"Does Your Grace truly believe this can be done?" Rickon asked, his voice tinged with doubt.

"Almost anything can be done with enough coin, Stark," Vaegon replied smoothly.

"I—well, I do not have that kind of coin, Your Grace. Roads like that aren't cheap, and the North is vast. Canals will be even costlier. My House is not poor, but we are no Lannisters. Or Velaryons." He glanced at Rhaenys, who raised her cup in amused acknowledgment.

"I understand,"Viserys said. "A great deal of coin will be needed. But it's vital the North becomes better prepared before the threat beyond the Wall awakens. And for that, its people must thrive—not merely survive. That is why I intend for the Crown to fund these improvements. We have more than enough gold."

"It won't work, cousin," Rhaenys interjected at last. "The lords of the realm will be... upset if the Crown is seen favoring one region of house over the rest. Soon, you'll have every lord in Westeros knocking on your door, demanding roads and ports and harbors in their own lands." She took a sip of wine and raised a brow at Viserys.

Viserys sighed. He had already considered this problem, but no clear solution had presented itself. It was true, the other lords would make a fuss if the Crown's coin—a lot of it coming from their taxes—was used to benefit one region specifically. 

Everyone was silent for a while, until Rhaenyra finally spoke. 

"Our House could found a bank," she suggested. "Like the one in Braavos. The Dragon Bank, perhaps. Westeros lacks one, and it would allow us to fund the North's improvements without the lords whining about favoritism. It would also make the Crown richer in the long run. Just look at Braavos."

Oh. Oh!

"That is an amazing idea, my love!" Viserys beamed and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The princess blushed at his praise.

"It's a great idea, indeed," Vaegon murmured, stroking his chin in thought. "If done correctly, the Crown will be swimming in coin."

"Won't it anger Braavos?" Aemma asked, frowning. "What if they retaliate?"

"Unlikely," Daemon said. "Braavos is too smart to pick a fight with the Seven Kingdoms over mere competition—especially now that we have five adult dragonriders. Also, even if Westerosi nobles turn to our bank, Braavos still has the entirety of Essos. Most Essosi will remain loyal to the Iron Bank. So yes, it's a good idea. Well done, zaldrītsos."

Rhaenyra almost melted under his compliment.

"And I already know the perfect person to run the Dragon Bank," Rhaenys said slyly, eyeing Vaegon.

"No," Vaegon said immediately. "I refuse. I don't want that kind of responsibility. Are you trying to kill me? Truly? My own family?"

"But kepus," Rhaenyra said sweetly, "you have the golden ring, rod, and mask from the Citadel! You've studied numbers and accounts your whole life—it's perfect! You wouldn't refuse to help your family, would you? A bank like this could strengthen our House immensely. And who can we trust more with it than you?"

Viserys knew the archmaester was finished. For all his grumbling, Vaegon had a soft spot for Rhaenyra.

Vaegon groaned and slumped back in his chair. "Fine! Fine. I’ll find Beesbury and we'll begin drafting plans. Now leave me be, you insufferable little pest."

Rhaenyra flashed a smug, satisfied smile. She'd won again.

"Very well, then," Viserys declared. "Now we have a way to help the North without angering the rest of Westeros. The Starks will request a loan from the Dragon Bank. Don't worry—we'll go easy on the interest rates."

"Aye," Rickon said, nodding thoughtfully. "I believe this can work."

"We've solved the financial problem, then," Aemma said with a warm smile. "What's next, my love?"

Viserys turned to Rickon.  "The North needs to invest in trade. You've got timber, wool, and pelts in abundance. I suggest striking a deal with Braavos—they're always in need of lumber for their ships. We can extend the White Knife deeper into the Wolfswood, float logs downriver, and use water-powered sawmills to cut them. Gristmills can also grind grain. But don't stop at raw goods—teach woodworking in the Learning Centers and turn the North into a furniture producer. Same with wool. Expand into textiles."

"They're going to need a fleet, a big and strong one," Daemon suddenly said, catching everyone's attention. 

Rickon blinked. "A fleet?"

"What do you think will happen if the North starts to become wealthier?" The prince looked around the room but began talking again without giving anyone the time to answer his question.

"The Ironborn are going to attack your shore, undoubtedly. They're opportunistic and the North is not known for its strong fleet—the Manderlys aside. Your western coast is wide open," Daemon pointed at the map. 

"Build a major harbor at Stony Shore, near Wolfscreek Castle. Station galleys there. Same for The Rills. Here on Flint’s Finger especially, it needs to be constantly patrolled. If they slip through Blazewater Bay, Saltspear and the Fever River, you'll have raiders in your lands."

Rickon grumbled, "They're a bloody headache."

"That they are," said Viserys. "Great idea, brother. The east coast needs guarding too, against pirates—maybe harbors at the New Gift and Widow's Watch. And build vessels for long-distance trade with Essos and the rest of Westeros."

"The coast near Karhold is promising for food," Rhaenys added. "The Shivering Sea's waters are brimming with life—fish, crab, seals, even walruses. Lord Rickon should strike a deal with House Karstark. The Starks fund some ships and you both split the profits. The North has starved too many winters. Let's change that."

Viserys nodded, "My cousin is right. Having enough food to feed everyone is our priority.

"Manpower will be an issue," Aemma noted. "The North is vast, but its population is relatively small. You will need more hands to work the land, raise animals, build the infrastructure."

"Precisely," said Uncle Vaegon, finally rejoining the conversation after sulking about his newfound responsibility of overlooking the still inexistent Dragon Bank. "That's something that I myself was thinking about, Aemma." 

"Offer homes, food, and honest work, and people will go. The North could attract settlers," Viserys said. 

Rickon frowned. "My people are wary of outsiders."

"There're also the Free Folk beyond the Wall. I know that some of them even trade with the Night's Watch, especially at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Maybe a few of those people are interested in moving south of the Wall. As long as they bend the knee and obey our rules, I do not see much problem," Viserys tried again. 

"No," Rickon shook his head. "There's too much bad blood between us. My people see them as raiders who steal our goods, kill our men and kidnap our women. It would cause unrest."

Daemon smirked, "Then you sons of a whore better start fucking like rabbits and popping out child after child quickly." 

"Daemon," Aemma scolded, glancing at her blushing daughter.

"My brother is a rather crude man, but he's not wrong," Viserys said with a sigh. "The North needs more people, more manpower."

Rickon exhaled heavily. "Aye, I'll try to talk sense into them."

"Any other ideas?" Viserys looked around.

"I believe the Ryswells breed fine horses, right?" Aemma said. "Why not sell them outside of the North? Strong horses are well sought after."

Rickon nodded. "Aye, they have really good horses. That's a good idea. I will talk with Lord Ryswell." 

"We should also build more Glass Gardens in Winterfell," Viserys added. "Myrish glass isn't cheap, but it's worth it."

Rickon nodded thoughtfully.

"That's enough for now," Viserys said. "These are ambitious and long-term goals—they'll need time to be implemented. For now, we focus on the coming winter. As agreed, the Crown will provide food at minimal cost and build shelters for those in need. Let's pray this winter is a short one. You are dismissed."

Everyone filed out. Left alone, Viserys stared at the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

"So much work," he muttered.

Being king is fucking miserable. Can I abdicate yet?

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV 

"I suppose you could say he's not hideous, and his family certainly isn't lacking in gold—but are you truly not repulsed by how absurdly full of himself he is? The man needs a second chair just for his ego, he always carries it around everywhere. Sit beside him, and you'll feel it—his pride practically has a presence of its own, like some arrogant ghost hovering nearby. I spoke with him for only a few minutes, and I swear, I lost count of how many times he managed to praise himself and his entire bloodline during such a brief interaction. It was quite outstanding, in a way."

Her friends' laughter rang like bells, drawing the attention of passing nobles strolling through the Godswood. They were too far to overhear the conversation, and Ser Harrold was dutifully keeping any curious onlookers at bay—but Rhaenyra still wished they'd stayed in her chambers. But alas, the court would undoubtedly gossip about Laenor's presence there. They already thought it unseemly for a boy to spend so much time around a group of girls. 

Laenor did have male friends, of course. He simply enjoyed gossiping with the princess and her ladies-in-waiting more. He often quipped that other boys were fine to spar with and handsome to look at, but their conversations bored him to tears.

Rosamund had dryly remarked that perhaps Laenor felt that way because most men spent their time speaking about women—specifically their favorite whores and how they bedded them.

Besides Joffrey Lonmouth, a stormlander he met on Driftmark, Laenor's closest male companions were the two Alans—Alan Beesbury, grandson of the Master of Coin, and Alan Tarly. The three of them served as squires under Uncle Daemon, and they had bonded over the shared torment that came with such an honor.

They complained endlessly, of course, but Rhaenyra knew they were secretly proud. Being chosen as one of the Rogue Prince's squires—and perhaps having the honor of being knighted one day by Daemon himself with Dark Sister—was the dream of almost every noble boy in Westeros.

Lord Boremund Baratheon had boasted more than once that sending his son, Borros, to the Red Keep had been the wisest decision of his life. The heir to Storm's End had arrived a spoiled brat and left a well-respected knight. Daemon had even forced him to learn to read and write, declaring he'd have no fool squiring for him.

Now, lords and ladies clamored for the chance to send their troublesome sons to Daemon, hoping he'd discipline them into proper men. Unsurprisingly, the her uncle was not amused by this.

Johanna, the only one not laughing, gave Rhaenyra a pointed scowl.

"Oh, please. Stop exaggerating. And spare me the hypocrisy, princess. Have you forgotten who you're betrothed to? You're utterly bewitched, and Prince Daemon Targaryen is not exactly known for his humility."

Rhaenyra waved her hand dismissively. "It's not the same. Daemon's pride is earned. He's an exceptional swordsman, was knighted at six and ten, he rides Caraxes and wields Dark Sister. He turned the City Watch from a band of unruly fools into a disciplined fighting force. Now even noblemen want to join the Gold Cloaks. He's preparing for war even now. And Jason Lannister? What's he done? Besides win the title of Most Insufferable Man in Westeros?"

Beatrice stifled a laugh. "Fair points, but come now, Nyra. Be honest. The real reason you're drawn to him is because he's your uncle and you're a Targaryen."

The traitors laughed, and Rhaenyra had to resist the very real urge to send them all to the black cells.

"I admire him because he is extraordinary! The Lannister heir doesn't deserve to even be compared to my uncle."

Laenor tilted his head slightly, "You defend him so fiercely. I thought you were cross with him after hearing about his past dalliances in the Street of Silk..."

Rhaenyra sighed. "I was never angry, just… frustrated. We're to be wed, and yet he's lain with more women than I can count, while we haven't even shared a kiss. It irked me. But the past can't be changed, and I was being silly. Regardless, once we're married, he won't touch another woman. I'll accept nothing less than absolutely loyalty from my husband."

"If the rumors are true, you've nothing to worry about," Rosamund said in her usual monotone. "His preference for pale-haired whores suggests he'll find you quite to his liking. Why seek imitations when he'll have the real thing beside him?"

"Whores?" Laena asked, eyes wide with curiosity, reminding everyone all too suddenly of her presence.

The group fell into awkward silence. They really shouldn't have spoken of such things in front of a ten-year-old. Laenor's eyes widened with panic as he scrambled for an excuse to send her away.

"Laena, don't you have a lesson soon? You know mother won't be pleased if you're late. Off you go."

Laena crossed her arms with a huff. "I'm always sent away when you're gossiping! It's not fair. You all hate me!"

"Oh no, sweet girl," said gentle Elenda, leaning towards her. "We don't hate you at all. We simply speak of things not meant for younger ears."

"Fine! I'm going. My lessons are more fun than talking with you lot anyway!" Laena stomped away, her silver curls bouncing with every defiant step.

They could still hear her muttering about Laenor and Rhaenyra not being adults either.

"She's so spoiled. Our parents coddled her too much. Good thing she's adorable, or I might actually stay annoyed," Laenor said, watching his sister go. "Has she stopped pestering you about becoming your lady-in-waiting?"

"Only because I promised she could join us after her twelfth name day," Rhaenyra replied with a chuckle.

"If we're lucky, she won't ask Lord Corlys or Princess Rhaenys what a whore is," Beatrice added with a smirk.

"We've gotten off track," Rhaenyra said. "The discussion should be about how absurd it is that Johanna isn't repulsed by Jason Lannister showing interest in her!"

Johanna took a dainty sip of her tea and folded her hands in her lap.

"My dear princess, you're still so naive. See, Jason Lannister is a prideful man who loves himself too much, but that flaw can be a good thing if you know how to exploit it. Unlike his brother Tyland, he's not clever, which makes him easy to manipulate. All I have to do is bat my lashes, praise him sweetly, tell him how marvelous he is—and he'll believe I adore him. In the end, without much effort from my part, he'll come to love me, because he will believe that I am in love with him."

She smiled, soft and sweet. No one would believe the cunning beneath it.

"Naturally, that love won't be genuine—on either side—but that's hardly relevant in noble marriages. Jason needs someone to constantly stroke his ego, and I'm more than happy to apply for the role. In return, I get gold and power. As a woman, I need to marry regardless, I will also not inherit any titles or lands, being unable to have power of my own. Because of that, I need to borrow that power from a man. So why not take it from one that is wealthy, not hideous, foolish, easily placated and manipulated? I'll be Lady of Casterly Rock, and my son will be Warden of the West. What's not to like?"

She calmly added more honey to her tea.

 "Besides, as your lady-in-waiting, it's my duty to strengthen your alliances. Once I become Johanna Lannister, I'd whisper lovingly in my husband's ear about the benefits that would come from allying and being close with the next ruler of the realm, even if he mislikes that she's a woman. My son—and future Lord of Casterly Rock—would grow up seeing his  mother's bond with the heir to the Iron Throne and become fast friends with your own children in the future. The lions would become true allies of the Crown. So yes, Jason is insufferable, but I'm patient—and I play the long game. I give him the devotion he craves, and in return, he gives me everything I want. Everyone wins."

Johanna smiled demurely and softly, as if she'd just talked about her new favorite embroidery pattern. Rhaenyra was genuinely taken aback.

...I believe I just learned something. 

Laenor shuddered playfully. "Seven hells, you're terrifying."

Johanna giggled. "Women must learn a few tricks to survive in a world of men."

Rosamund nodded solemnly in agreement.

"All of you were so enthralled with Jason and Johanna," Beatrice said with a wicked gleam in her eye, "but what about Elenda? I saw her and Borros Baratheon exchanging glances."

Every pair of eyes turned toward poor Elenda, who immediately turned the color of ripe cherries. She squeaked in protest and looked down, cheeks ablaze.

Laenor groaned dramatically. "Don't tell me you also have some grand scheme to manipulate the heir to Storm's End while pretending you're madly in love with him? One wicked girl is more than enough."

Johanna let out a snort and rolled her eyes.

Elenda shook her head so fast it looked like she might rattle herself to pieces. "I–I just like that he's really tall and strong!" she stammered, then buried her face in her hands as if she could disappear behind her fingers.

"Oh, thank the Fourteen," Laenor sighed in mock relief. "At least this one is still normal."

Without missing a beat, Johanna discreetly kicked Laenor under the table. He yelped loud enough to startle a few passing nobles. Scowling, he rubbed his shin and glared at her.

"Are you quite alright, Laenor?" Johanna asked sweetly, batting her lashes as if she hadn't just tried to cripple him.

They are all ridiculous. Every last one of them.

"Borros isn't so bad anymore," Rhaenyra said, trying to offer Elenda a lifeline. She gave her friend an encouraging smile, speaking in the gentler tone she always used with her. "He's grown. Perhaps he'll make a fine husband one day."

Beatrice let out a most unladylike snort. "He can read his own ravens now, at least. Maybe he'll even write Elenda a love poem—'Ode to My Shy Lady.'"

Rhaenyra elbowed her sharply, earning a wince and a cheeky tongue stuck out in retaliation.

Luckily, Elenda was too focused on her lap to notice the exchange. Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft and sincere. "I am a little worried… he's going to the Stepstones with Prince Daemon... I'll be praying for his safe return."

A hush settled briefly over the group.

Rhaenyra fidgeted with the rings on her fingers, twisting them nervously. She didn't like thinking about the war. It scraped at her heart, a constant low thrum of worry she refused to let anyone see. Her father had Dreamed Daemon would win—would be crowned King of the Narrow Sea, even—but so much had changed. Her father had already rewritten the future in ways no one could have imagined.

And if the future could be changed… then so could the way the war ended...

No. She wouldn't let her thoughts stray down that path.

Kepus is going to win. He has to. Because he is Daemon Targaryen. Because he always wins.

She released her rings and forced herself to smile, her voice light as she joined in the teasing and laughter once more. If she was to be queen, she must learn to carry her fears in a regal way, beneath her smiles.

She must be strong. Always.

"Princess! Princess Rhaenyra!"

She was just returning from a grueling Small Council meeting when Alicent Hightower appeared out of nowhere, breathless and wide-eyed.

Oh, splendid. Just what I needed.

Rhaenyra now had a seat at the Small Council table—a true seat, with her own orb made of dragonglass. When her father first presented it to her, she had been thrilled by the show of trust and support. But it didn't take long for her to realize that things are really different when you are the Princess of Dragonstone and your task is no longer only refilling cups.

The meetings were long and taxing, often stretching for hours. And as the heir, she was expected not just to listen but to contribute—actively, intelligently, decisively. The issues of the realm were never-ending, and her input was no longer optional.

She couldn't afford to daydream anymore. Not even for a second.

Uncle Vaegon had already made a habit of having her review council topics even when she was just a cupbearer, using them as lecture material. But back then, she'd had the luxury of time—and her uncle's sharp guidance. Now, she had to think on her feet, with some of the realm's most powerful lords watching her every word.

It was exhausting. And it left her irritable.

Which made running into Alicent Hightower the very last thing she wanted right now.

Rhaenyra drew in a steadying breath, buried her annoyance, and plastered a courtly smile on her face. 

"Oh, lady Alicent. Long time no see. How was Oldtown?" 

Alicent took a few moments to catch her breath. She had clearly been running to catch her, and Rhaenyra, who had been walking briskly towards her chambers in desperate pursuit of a moment's rest before her lesson with the Archmaester, had not made it easy for her.

While the Hightower girl composed herself, she gave her a swift, appraising glance.

Alicent, three and ten—just a year older—stood taller than her. Where Rhaenyra had begun to develop soft, feminine curves since flowering, Alicent remained thin and flat, a look the court considered more refined and elegant. Her auburn curls were thick and glossy, and though Rhaenyra found her features plain, she supposed others might call her comely.

She wore a pale blue gown, its color offset by a massive silver necklace shaped like the Seven-Pointed Star. Meek. Innocent. Pious. Every inch the image she projected.

Rhaenyra found it hard to reconcile this girl with the stern, self-righteous queen from her father's Dreams. The woman who would someday betray and loathe her. The woman who would raise a usurper.

Alicent, the Green Queen. A fake pious queen with a usurper son.

Will she wear that color again this time, I wonder?

"It was marvelous," Alicent beamed, after finally regaining her breath. "There is nowhere as beautiful as the Reach. The green fields, the orchards, the flowers. And the Starry Sept, Princess—it is a holy place. I could feel the presence of the Gods so strongly as I prayed there. It moved me to tears."

Rhaenyra barely managed to suppress a scoff.

"I'm so glad to hear that, Lady Alicent. I hope the visit brought you peace. I know things haven"t been… easy for your family. I'm truly sorry."

Her voice was smooth, her expression sincere. The very picture of courtesy and compassion. Alicent squirmed under the intensity of her gaze, her fingers already raw from worry picking nervously at themselves.

"I—yes, Princess. It's been difficult. The other noble ladies, they tend to avoid me now. And we… we're not as close as we once were. I miss you, Princess. I miss our friendship."

But you would throw that friendship away in a heartbeat to obey your father and for a chance to become queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

"Oh, Alicent. I miss you too," Rhaenyra said, taking the girl's hands in hers—perhaps squeezing just a bit too tightly. "We used to play so much together, didn't we?"

"It gladdens me to hear that you remember it fondly," Alicent said, eyes flickering with something unsure. "I could never forget."

There was a pause. Then Alicent bit her lip, gathering her courage.

Rhaenyra waited impatiently for her to spill whatever it was she wanted to say.

"Princess… I was really saddened when you didn't invite me to be your lady-in-waiting."

Ah, so that's what this is about. 

"I thought that maybe… now that we've spoken again… that I might join your household."

She looked up, pleading, her brown eyes wide with hope.

Did you come up with this on your own? No. Your father probably sent you. 

Rhaenyra let her features shift into regret and shook her head gently. "Alicent, I truly wish I could. But after what your father did, I simply can't." She squeezed Alicent's hands in comfort. "You must understand. As heir to the Iron Throne, my duty must come first. Ser Otto committed a grave offense against the Crown—it wouldn't be well received if I made his daughter one of my ladies."

Alicent looked away, shoulders sinking. "I do understand, Princess."

But she didn’t look convinced. Her eyes sought Rhaenyra's again as she said softly, "My father has always been an honorable man. I still don't understand how it happened. Maybe… maybe someone framed him."

Oh, Alicent.

"The King himself led the investigation," Rhaenyra replied gently. "Do you believe he would lie? That he would frame Ser Otto? They were close. My father trusted him."

She pressed Alicent's hands again, warm and steady.

"I'm not saying your father was always disloyal. But even good men can be corrupted. Power has that effect. Ser Otto was the second most powerful man in the realm. It's not hard to imagine darker forces taking advantage of that, to taint a faithful man."

She almost snorted while saying that.

Still, Alicent's face was clouded with doubt.

So Rhaenyra leaned in a little more. "Has your father ever denied the charges to you? Sworn to his innocence? Or was he just angry he'd been discovered?"

Alicent's eyes widened, and slowly welled with tears. Rhaenyra pulled her into a soft, careful embrace.

 "Even fathers make mistakes, Alicent. That’s why we must be cautious whom we follow. Men are corruptible, they can be led astray. The only ones truly worthy of our blind faith are the Gods."

Alicent nodded, wiping her eyes.

"I know it hasn't been easy for you. So let me ask you something: when was the last time you felt truly at peace?"

"When I prayed at the Starry Sept," Alicent answered at once, gripping her necklace tightly.

Rhaenyra's smile turned soft and knowing. "Sometimes the Gods reward us with signs, subtle but sure. They guide the faithful to the right path. You've always been devoted—perhaps they are offering you a new way forward. A holier path, untainted by ambition and deceit."

Alicent looked lost in thought, eyes lowered, the weight of her necklace suddenly heavier in her hands. Rhaenyra smiled to herself.

The seed has been planted. Now we wait to see if it will sprout.

"I was just on my way to the Sept to pray for the people of the realm," Rhaenyra said, her smile brightening as she extended a hand. "Will you join me?"

Alicent returned the smile, hesitantly, and took her hand.

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

"A troubling rumor has recently come to my attention," Lord Corlys said gravely. "Some of my men report whispers that Dorne and the Triarchy are in contact. It seems increasingly likely they intend to join forces against us."

The small council erupted into alarm—murmurs and exchanged glances filling the chamber. Only his family remained composed; they had already been informed by Viserys of Dorne's involvement in the conflict in his Dreams.

"Gods be good," Lord Beesbury muttered indignantly. "To think they'd ally with slavers just to spite us."

"Prince Qoren Martell is surely wary of the Iron Throne's growing interest in the Stepstones," Lyonel Strong said, his voice as steady and unemotional as ever. "He may believe such expansion threatens Dorne."

Daemon snorted, loud and scornful. "And what does he imagine we would do if the Iron Throne was in control of the Stepstones? Block dornish ships just for fun? Perhaps burn them all? It's nonsense. Fucking stupid."

"He wishes to antagonize us," Rhaenys added, rolling her eyes.  "They still cling to that rivalry with House Targaryen to these days. Qoren probably believes we'll sabotage Dorne the moment the Stepstones fall under our control."

"It would certainly benefit Dorne if the Triarchy wins the war with their support," Grand Maester Gerardys observed. "Prince Qoren could gain influence over the shipping lanes alongside the Three Daughters. A tempting prize."

Viserys leaned forward, his tone cold and resolute. "His reasoning is of no consequence to me. If Qoren sends dornish men to fight beside Craghas Drahar, they will be treated no differently than any Triarchy soldier—cut down, burned and buried beneath the waves. Once this war is won, I will decide how best to deal with Dorne."

"I couldn't agree more, Your Grace," said Lord Manderly with a firm nod.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Lord Lyonel said carefully, "but I must advise caution. A retaliatory move could plunge the realm into open war with Dorne."

Viserys met Lyonel's gaze, his expression unwavering. "I understand your concern, my lord Hand. I, too, would rather avoid war. But should it come, it will not be because we sought it. Prince Qoren crossed a line the moment he entertained the idea of siding with our enemies. The Triarchy has attacked our ships, looted our trade, slaughtered our men, and kidnapped our women and children. And now, Qoren Martell dares consider alliance with them. What kind of king would I be if I allowed such brazen disrespect to pass without consequence?"

Lyonel bowed his head. "Very well, Your Grace."

Viserys glanced towards the balcony. The sun was already low in the sky, casting soft orange hues across what had once been a clear blue horizon.

This meeting has dragged on for at least four hours, he thought wearily.

He longed to wrap things up and spend some leisure time with Aemma—but there was still one more issue that needed addressing.

Viserys straightened in his chair. "I have a question for my council. In a city as vast and crowded as King's Landing, how many of the smallfolk do you believe can read, write, or do sums?"

The counselors exchanged confused glances, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic.

Rhaenys was the first to speak. "Only a select few, I suppose. Perhaps some apprentices, if their trade requires it. But most die illiterate."

"None of the children in the orphanages know their letters," Rhaenyra added, frowning. "That's why I always read to them when I visit."

Viserys nodded. "Exactly. And I wish to change that. Most of King's Landing's people cannot read, write, or do basic sums. That alone bars them from a lot of occupations."

He leaned forward, gaze sweeping the room. "There are no farms inside the city, no crops to tend. Because of that, their work options are limited. And those few jobs that can be done without an education? They don't pay enough to feed one's children or keep a roof over one's head."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.

"What happens when there isn't enough coin for food and shelter?"

Rhaenyra's voice was quiet. "They starve. And die."

"Many do," Viserys said. "But some will do whatever it takes to survive. They'll turn to prostitution, theft, and any kind of misdemeanor that could earn them a few copper coins. Crime rises. The city becomes dangerous, unstable, and filled with starving, suffering people. Discontent people. Do any of you know what an overly discontent population does?"

"They rebel," Daemon said lazily, spinning his orb until it nearly slipped from the table.

"We do not want that, do we?" Viserys asked.

"Absolutely not, Your Grace," said Grand Maester Gerardys, shaking his head.

"It's better for the economy if people are working, not stealing or dying in a ditch," the king continued. "If they have coin, they'll spend it, buying things. Trade improves. Prosperity grows."

Actually, it should just be common sense that leaving the majority of your population illiterate is wrong. But this is Westeros, so I need to tell them the economic benefits of doing the right thing, and also remind the lords that angry smallfolk could become a problem for everyone.

Aemma turned to him. "And what do you propose, husband?"

"We're going to open the first—hopefully of many—House of Letters and Numbers here in King's Landing. A place where commoners, young and old, can learn to read, write, and do sums. Free of charge."

Predictably, Lord Beesbury turned red on the spot. The poor man looked like he might faint.

"Your Grace! The treasury—if funds are spent without any profit—"

Viserys held up a hand, silencing the loyal but penny-pinching old man with an exhausted look.

"Lord Beesbury. I know you are… fond of the gold in our vaults, but what good does it do sitting there, collecting dust, while my people suffer? The treasury has never been this full—not since Aegon and his sisters conquered these lands. I could host feasts, balls, and tourneys every day for a decade, and we'd still have coin left."

He waved his hand dismissively. "The Crown will not collapse because of this, I assure you." 

The old man swallowed hard and gave a reluctant nod. "Yes, Your Grace."

"The Citadel won't be pleased, cousin," said Rhaenys. "They believe education is their domain. The Order of Maesters is solely responsible for it."

"And therein lies the problem," Viserys replied. "The whole realm relies too heavily on a single order. The maesters are venerable, yes—but we cannot be forever dependent on one organization for such important matters."

"It won't interfere with their work," Aemma said calmly. "Those who will benefit from this the most are the poorest of King's Landing. Such people would never reach the Citadel anyway. Those halls are for the rich, the exceptional, or the sponsored. Not for normal folk."

"Precisely," Viserys agreed. "Also, the Citadel doesn't accept women."

That got everyone's attention. Several pairs of eyes widened around the table.

"You plan to let women attend the House of Letters and Numbers, Your Grace?" Corlys asked, startled.

Rhaenys shot her husband a sharp side glance.

"Naturally," Viserys said plainly.

Only Aemma, Rhaenyra, and Rhaenys seemed pleased. The rest looked utterly perplexed.

Well, Daemon is still just twirling that damn orb. I don't even know if he's been listening or not.

"The next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms is a woman," Viserys said, smiling warmly at Rhaenyra, who returned it with pride. "It's time the people grew accustomed to seeing women in roles they've never had before. Lowborn men can still study if they're extremely talented or sponsored by a noble. But women? Never. The order of maesters does not accept them. For that reason, the House of Letters and Numbers will be open to girls and women."

A pause.

"With the exception of widows and orphans,"  Lord Beesbury said carefully, "most women will require their husbands' or fathers' permission to attend. Men may wish to improve their chances of finding better-paying work, but they likely wouldn't want their wives or daughters to have the same opportunity. It is how things are, Your Grace."

Of course. Their lives don't even fully belong to them. Viserys sighed.

"What if we offer an incentive?" Rhaenyra asked suddenly. Her calm, confident voice drew all eyes—even Daemon finally stopped spinning his damn orb.

"What do you have in mind, zaldrītsos?" Daemon smirked. 

"We pay them," she said simply. "A modest amount. Sixty pennies every moon for every girl or woman who attends classes. Nothing moves hearts quite like coin."

Viserys carefully ignored the desperate looks  Beesbury was throwing his way. The man had started sweating profusely, wiping his brow every few seconds with a damp handkerchief.

He's so dramatic.

"Call it an education incentive for women," Rhaenys chimed in. "Sixty pennies isn't much for the Crown, but for the smallfolk, it's enough to make a difference."

"I like it," Viserys said, nodding to both women.

He then looked at Gerardys, "And how long would it take to teach a person the basics of letters and numbers, Grand Maester?"

Gerardys pondered. "It depends on the frequency and duration of lessons, but… no more than a sunturn."

"Then classes will run for four hours a day, five days a week, for an entire year," Viserys announced. "No tuition. And women receive payment to encourage attendance."

Daemon scoffed. "And who's going to teach them? Maesters?"

So he had been listening...

Corlys snorted. "Good luck finding one willing."

"There are tutors in Essos who know the Common Tongue well enough to teach it," Viserys shrugged. 

"With your permission, Your Grace," Gerardys said. "I know a man—Artos—who may be interested in teaching the smallfolk. He currently resides in Dragonstone and fishes to sustain himself. He's exceptionally smart, a former maester."

"Former?" Daemon raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"He was stripped of his chain," Gerardys explained. "In 90 AC, while he was in town, he came across a laboring orphan girl in the streets—she was only three and ten namedays old. The girl had been walking around and crying for help, but people turned away from her because she'd sometimes sell herself in order to feed her younger siblings. She was having several difficulties and would've died if he hadn't done anything—so he helped. The infant died, but the mother survived. Word of his actions got around to other maesters and they were not happy about Artos using what he learned at the Citadel to save a prostitute's life. It was deemed inappropriate. In the end, he lost his chain and was sent away." 

Rhaenyra clenched her fists. "That's… awful."

"Indeed, princess. Such things are more common than we would think," Gerardys said grimly. "There are many like him. People who don't align with the Citadel's beliefs and end up being expelled. I believe Artos would be eager to teach again, if given the chance."

"Find him," Viserys ordered. "And see if he knows others like him, qualified to teach."

"Yes, Your Grace." 

"And what about the building where the classes will take place, my king?" Lord Manderly asked. 

"We'll build a large multi-storey structure divided into classrooms. Men and women will learn separately—for caution's sake. There's a vacant space for it near the old Flea Botto–"

"Viserys' Heart," Daemon interrupted, grinning. "That's how it's called now. Don't be shy, brother. The people named it for you, in your honor. Be proud."

Rhaenyra bit back a laugh.

I really want to punch that annoying face of his right now. And to think that I was sad because his departure to the Stepstones is rapidly approaching… 

"In any case, that's where it'll be built," Viserys ignored Daemon completely. "We'll speak more on the details later, Lord Manderly."

The man bowed his head.

"We already have the Learning Centers, where the smallfolk can be taught a craft, and now there will be the House of Letters and Numbers, where they can learn to read, write, and do sums. All we'll need in the future is a place of higher education—one outside the Citadel and its constraints… but that is something for later."

Everyone glanced at one another warily, already dreading what else the king might come up with next.

Viserys chuckled in his mind.

"Well, that's all for today's meeting. You are dismissed." 

Alicent POV 

She returned from her morning prayers at the castle's sept—as was her custom—and found her father waiting in her chambers. The look on his face left no room for doubt: he was displeased. Alicent's fingers began to fidget with the skin around her nails, an old, nervous habit.

Otto stepped forward and briskly seized her hands, forcing them apart. His eyes narrowed into a glare.

"I've told you to stop this, Alicent. So many times I've lost count."

"I'm sorry, father," she murmured, bowing her head in shame.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly trying to calm himself. Alicent remained perfectly still, hoping her stillness might temper his rising anger.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"I was at the sept," she replied softly. "Praying." She offered him a tentative smile. Rhaenyra had been right—she felt better whenever her feet touched the sacred grounds of a sept.

"Praying?" he echoed with a scoff. "Hah."

His reaction confused her. Wasn't it he who had taught her to revere the Gods? Who had stressed the importance of piety? What had she done wrong?

Her father had changed so much since the king stripped him of his position. At times, she barely recognized the man standing before her.

"I told you to approach the princess," Otto snapped. "You should be spending your time getting close to her so you can become her lady-in-waiting—not wasting hours in the sept. It is crucial for us. I've explained this, again and again. Why can't you understand?"

His voice rose to a near shout. Spit flew from his mouth, some of it landing on her cheek.

Alicent hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller.

"But I did speak to her," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Rhaenyra explained that she cannot invite me into her household, she said—"

"Nonsense!" he barked. "She's the heir—" he spat the word like poison—"now, and if she wanted you near, nothing would stop her. You're simply not trying hard enough to endear yourself to her. How could you, when you spend every waking moment holed up in that damned sept!"

Alicent gasped, her hand flying to the necklace around her neck. How could he speak of such a sacred place with that kind of contempt?

"I—I don't understand," she stammered. "Why is it so important that I become her lady-in-waiting? It won't help me secure a good match since our house can't afford a proper dowry anyway, no respectable family will want me as a daughter-in-law. Also, I wouldn't even fit in with the other ladies or with the princess. She studies politics, attends council meetings—we have nothing in common. Why is it so important that I become her lady-in-waiting?"

Her voice shook with anxiety, but it was the loudest she had ever dared speak to her father.

"Why?" Otto repeated, as if the answer were painfully obvious. "How else will you ever have a chance to meet the king frequently?"

Alicent blinked. "What?"

The king? Why would she need to meet the king?

Otto pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation and said nothing. The silence stretched, making her heart pound.

"The current heir to the Iron Throne is a girl," he said eventually. "Do you really believe that's right? Do you think the Gods would approve?"

She wasn't sure. It felt wrong. Women weren't meant to rule—that's what she'd always been told. But Rhaenyra was clever, and her father had no male heirs. What choice did the king have?

"I… I think the princess is very smart," she said cautiously. "With the right guidance, maybe—"

"Smart?" Otto barked a bitter laugh. "Girls aren't smart, Alicent. That's not in their nature. She'll be married to her uncle—that aberration—and he'll pull her strings while he drags the realm into ruin!"

Alicent flinched. She didn't agree with the marriage either. The Targaryen customs unsettled her. Also, prince Daemon was violent, unprincipled, and vile. But the king had already made his decision.

"And what could we do about it, father? Even if I were in her household, what would that change? The king's word is law. And we are his subjects."

Otto's lips curled in disdain. "The king's a fool. He named her heir only because his barren queen couldn't give him a son that lived for more than a few minutes. The only wise course is for him to remarry—a woman young enough, strong enough, to give him true heirs. But he's still clinging to that Arryn girl like some love-struck youth. Pathetic."

The venom in his voice chilled her.

"We must save the realm, Alicent," her father continued, eyes blazing. "From Rhaenyra. From Daemon. From ruin. It's what the Gods want. And for that, we need a pious, virtuous woman—someone who can give Viserys a son. Raise him to be righteous. Even if the Arryn woman is still queen."

Her blood ran cold.

"…What?"

She stared at him, horror blooming in her chest. He couldn't possibly mean what she thought he meant. It was too awful to even consider.

"B-but the king is married, father," she said, her voice thin. "Any child born from another woman would be a bastard. It would be a sin. To interfere with a sacred union like that... They were wed in the sept, in front of the Gods themselves. This cannot be right. What pious woman would want to do such a thing? And what does that have to do with me being Rhaenyra's lady–" Her words halted mid-sentence.

The thought struck her like lightning. An impossible, repulsive thought.

No. No, he couldn't mean… father would never suggest something so disgusting. I must be going insane.

But one look at Otto's face was all the confirmation she needed.

Her stomach turned.

"Father," she whispered. "Tell me that's not what you mean. Please."

She clutched his hands tightly, trembling, praying this was all a nightmare.

"Dear child," he said gently, prying his hands free and brushing her hair tenderly—something Alicent had longed for ever since she was a small child, but she couldn't bring herself to enjoy it now. "We each have a part to play. The realm needs us. The Gods need us to interfere with the abomination Rhaenyra's reign will be. The Gods have chosen you for this. You're perfect for it, Alicent. You'll give Viserys the son the realm needs."

Her heart thudded violently. She wanted to scream, to cry, to run. To go back to the sept and pray, to ask the Gods for wisdom and strength. 

Rhaenyra's words were circling inside her head incessantly, haunting her. 

Maybe even the most righteous man can be led astray by malicious forces. Maybe father… 

He stepped away, straightening his sleeves. "Start slowly. Calmly. That girl has a terrible temper, so don't annoy her. Earn her trust, no matter what. Even if it takes a few years. Find a way to make Viserys see you, until he realizes what a perfect woman you are. And one day, the Gods willing, the Arryn woman will be gone. If your son is born by then, he will be legitimate. You will be queen." he smiled, it felt strange on his face. "I am counting on you, daughter. We all are. You can do this, right?" 

Alicent could barely breathe, but she nodded. She couldn't say no. She never could.

"Yes, Father."

He smiled, satisfied. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me. You're a gift from the Gods, Alicent. I'm proud of you. Proud to be your father."

Once, those words would've filled her with joy. Now, they made her want to weep.

"I'll leave you to reflect about your purpose," Otto said. "Read the Seven-Pointed Star. Pray, I'm sure the Gods will guide you. And remember—We Light the Way."

"Yes, Father."

As the door closed behind him, every ounce of strength left her body. She sank to the floor, clutching her necklace, her eyes squeezed shut.

Maybe... maybe Rhaenyra was right.

"Gods help me," she whispered.

Chapter Text

Daemon POV 

Daemon parried Viserys' blow—barely. It took more effort than he had anticipated. With a swift counter, he lunged forward, disarming his brother in a blur of movement. Viserys' sword clattered to the ground several feet away, kicking up a puff of dust. The watching men erupted in applause, a chorus of claps and approving murmurs echoing around the yard.

Only a few days prior, Daemon had suggested they move their sparring sessions from the privacy of the king's solar to the training yard. Today marked the first time they practiced together in public.

Before this, it had been crucial to keep their training hidden from prying eyes. Viserys had once been hopeless with a sword—clumsy, hesitant, and lacking all sense of form. It would've been unthinkable to let the court see their king floundering like a green boy with a blade.

But things had changed.

After years under his watchful eye, Viserys had clawed his way up from disgrace to competence. He still wasn't a master, not by any means, but Daemon was confident his brother could now hold his own against many of the noblemen in the Red Keep. Perhaps even best a few.

That was why he decided it was time to take their sessions public. Let the nobles, knights, squires, and castle servants see that their king could fight. A ruler who wielded a sword with strength and confidence inspired a different kind of respect.

"You're getting stronger," Daemon said, raising a brow at him. "That last strike actually made me work."

"I'm glad you noticed," Viserys replied, smirking as he lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face. "I've been training diligently. Aemma's quite fond of the results."

A sudden chorus of squeals erupted nearby, sharp and unmistakably feminine.

Daemon's gaze swept across the yard until he found the source—dozens of noblewomen loitering in the shaded galleries that surrounded the training grounds. They were scattered about, pretending to pass through or chat idly, but their eyes betrayed them. Every one of them was glued to Viserys and Daemon, cheeks flushed pink, fans fluttering like panicked butterflies.

With a grin tugging at his lips, Daemon nudged his brother with an elbow. "Seems Aemma isn't the only one fond of your new appearance, lēkia."

Viserys quickly tugged his shirt back down and sighed in resignation. "Fourteen help me if Aemma hears about this."

Daemon chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief. "What's wrong? Afraid the queen will scold you for flashing your royal torso to a flock of swooning ladies? Is she the jealous sort?"

"You'll understand once you're married," Viserys replied, shaking his head. "Targaryen women are… fierce."

Before Daemon could fire back with a retort, they were interrupted—of course—by the three little pests who had taken to following him like ducklings. The Velaryon heir and the two Alans—his squires—marched towards them, practically buzzing with excitement.

Here we go again, Daemon thought with an exasperated sigh.

"Laenor," he said flatly, as the boy offered a deep bow to Viserys.

"Your Grace," Laenor greeted, then turned eagerly to Daemon. "That was incredible, my prince! You moved so fast!"

The two Alans nodded furiously in agreement, their enthusiasm nearly knocking their heads off their damn shoulders.

"Your Grace fought well too!" Alan Tarly chimed in. "That last strike was really impressive!"

"Yes, I didn't even know the king knew how to hold a sw—ow!" the younger Alan, Beesbury's grandson, yelped as Laenor elbowed him hard in the ribs, horrified at his near-blunder.

Daemon scoffed. As if Viserys would be insulted by that, especially from a boy.

And, as expected, his brother laughed heartily, clapping the boy on the shoulder.

"I've been learning from the best," Viserys said warmly. "You boys are lucky to be squiring under Daemon. Learn everything you can while you have the chance."

The boys nodded so quickly they might as well have been lizards baking on a rock.

"My friends were all jealous," Beesbury's grandson added brightly. "They wanted to be Prince Daemon's squires too."

"Alright, alright. Enough chatter." Daemon waved a dismissive hand. "I've no need for any of you for the rest of the day."

The boys began to cheer—too soon.

He raised a finger, and they froze.

"That does not mean you can go gallivanting about. I want three more hours of footwork drills. You know what I showed you last time. Get to it."

Groaning, they bowed. "Your Grace. My prince." Heads lowered in tragic defeat, they trudged off toward the practice yard.

"Annoying little pests," Daemon muttered.

Viserys hummed thoughtfully. "Hmm. You say that, yet it looks to me like you're quite fond of them. They are rather adorable."

Daemon shot him a look like he'd sprouted two heads. "They're thorns in my side, that's what they are. Constantly pestering me to take them to the Stepstones. Laenor's the worst of them—he'll probably go even if I don't take him with me. Corlys thinks it's a splendid opportunity for his son to prove himself. At least he's flown with his dragon recently."

"It's normal for squires to accompany their lords to battle. Their request isn't entirely absurd."

"Not entirely absurd?" Daemon shook his head, frustrated. "They're children. I don't even know how bad the situation in the Stepstones really is. What if something happens to them? I'd have to deal with their annoying, grieving parents. No, I'll go first, assess the enemy, and only then—maybe—I'll bring the brats along. I'll speak with Corlys, try to convince him not to drag Laenor off just yet."

He noticed Viserys giving him a strange look.

"What?" Daemon asked, lifting an eyebrow.

His brother smiled, a glint of something proud in his eyes. "It's just… fascinating to see. You grumbled so much when I first suggested you take squires. Now here you are, worried for their safety, planning ahead so they won't be exposed to unnecessary danger." He chuckled. "I'm proud of you, brother. You'll make a great father someday."

Daemon rolled his eyes. "You do realize your daughter will be the one bearing my children, don't you? Which means they'll be your grandchildren and your nephews."

He smirked wickedly as Viserys' face darkened instantly, eyes narrowing.

Heh.

Daemon could see the barely-restrained urge in his brother to kick him square in the ribs—but they were in public, and Viserys had grown wise enough not to start a scene.

"I've other matters to attend to," the king said stiffly. "You should go bathe, you stink."

Daemon grinned as Viserys turned on his heel and walked off. "As Your Grace commands," he called after him with a mocking bow.

A few days had passed since their last training session, and now Daemon found himself inside the king's solar, just one day before his departure to the Stepstones.

"And you're sure about using Wildfire?" Viserys asked, pouring him a cup of wine.

He then reached over to a small table crowded with pastries and picked up a piece of strawberry cake, offering another to Daemon. The prince shook his head in refusal.

"Hm. Not only have I already acquired it from the Alchemists' Guild, but it's been shipped to the Stepstones as well," Daemon replied, accepting the wine. "Caraxes is outstanding, but he's still only one dragon. To burn the Triarchy's fleet efficiently, we'll need more than dragonfire. That's where Wildfire comes in."

Viserys frowned. "Your men will need to be careful. Wildfire is dangerous and volatile. Not a good combination."

"That's how most people would describe me," Daemon smirked. When his brother responded with a flat look, he added more sincerely, "Don't worry, lēkia. The Alchemists trained some of my men in how to transport and handle it safely."

"Hm. And what about the caves? Are you planning to use Wildfire in there too?"

"I thought about it, but no. Those caves are filled with treasure—generations of it. That whole area used to be a pirate haven before the Three Whores cleaned it up, and they often stashed their loot deep inside the caverns. Craghas Drahar hasn't even moved most of it yet. There are rumors he's added his own collection—plunder from Westerosi ships. Using Wildfire would destroy it all. It's too strong. It'd melt anything valuable."

Daemon then wandered to the window and gazed at the setting sun, watching as its golden light slowly faded from the rooftops and cobbled streets. The darkness crept in, stealing warmth from the world, just as war would soon steal lives from their homes. He thought of the soldiers who had already left, of how many might never return, never again see the sun rise.

The men, along with the weapons and provisions, had departed several days ago. Corlys and his fleet had followed not long after. Daemon had convinced him to leave Laenor behind—at least for now.

Uncle Vaegon and Rhaenys had flown with their dragons to escort the ships and ensure their safe passage. They had since returned—Vaegon grumbling about the 'glorified babysitting' while Rhaenys rolled her eyes and let him vent.

Now all that remained was his own departure.

As the commander of the war effort, Viserys insisted Daemon leave in full regalia. Tomorrow, he would ride through King's Landing in black armor, surrounded by Gold Cloaks, while the crowds cheered and threw flower petals in his path.

Daemon had scoffed at the idea—it was all too theatrical for his taste—but Viserys was adamant. He said the people needed a hero. A warrior prince from the stories, riding off to defend the realm. And Viserys wanted him to be that hero. 

The procession would end at the Dragonpit, where the royal family and important nobles would see him off before he departed on Caraxes.

"And how do you plan to deal with them?" Viserys suddenly asked. "Are you going to use the same tactic as in the Dream? Luring them out with yourself as bait? Because I don't approve of that. It's reckless."

"Maybe," Daemon said. "First, I'll try to capture one of their men. Torture him until he gives up all the hidden cave entrances they're using. Right now, we only know the main one. If I can get the full layout, it'll be easy to block them all off and let the bastards starve inside. Not a very exciting ending, I agree, but it'll save us men and resources."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Then yes. I'll be the bait again. It worked last time," he shrugged nonchalantly.

"It was risky and irresponsible," Viserys snapped. "You could have died."

Daemon waved a dismissive hand. "War is a risky business, Viserys. Comes with the territory."

Viserys let out a long, tired sigh. "Just—don't fucking die, you arrogant piece of shit."

He smiled at his brother. "I won't, lēkia. I promise."

"Good. I wouldn't break that promise if I were you, Daemon. Do you really think your niece and I wouldn't go storming into Balerion's Realm to drag you back by the ear? Don't test me. Or Rhaenyra."

Daemon burst out laughing. "I would never."

Viserys' face grew serious again. "Listen. This isn't about doubting your ability. But if things go wrong—if you find yourself outnumbered, or cornered, or anything of the sort—send word. Don't be fucking stubborn. One raven from you, and I'll drop everything. I'll fly to the Stepstones myself, and I'll drag Uncle Vaegon and Rhaenys with me if I have to. Your family would be devastated if you died. So do whatever you have to do to stay alive. Even if that means asking for help."

Viserys held his hands tightly, his purple eyes locking with Daemon's lilac ones.

For a moment, Daemon wanted to crack a joke to ease the tension. It was his usual way out of such sentiment. But something in Viserys' expression told him that wouldn't go over well. He resisted the urge.

"I will, lēkia. Trust me." He squeezed his brother's hands in return.

"Always," Viserys said softly.

Rhaenyra POV 

He looked otherworldly.

His long, silver hair was styled in a Valyrian war braid—one Rhaenyra had insisted on doing herself. She'd woken early and meticulously tended to his silky locks, even lulling him to sleep for a few moments with the gentle rhythm of her hands.

Mounted upon a powerful, dark destrier, Daemon's black armor gleamed in the morning light, polished to perfection. With Dark Sister strapped to his waist and a wave of cheering smallfolk trailing behind him, he cut an awe-inspiring figure—like a hero out of an old Valyrian song.

When he dismounted and offered one last wave to the crowd, the cheers reached a fever pitch. The Gold Cloaks formed a protective wall, keeping the people from surging forward and approaching the Dragonpit.

He walked towards them with that signature stride of his—half swagger, half challenge—and Rhaenyra couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips.

"Brother. My Queen. My princess," he greeted, bowing smoothly and taking Rhaenyra's hand in his. He kissed it softly, and her heart soared higher than any dragon ever could.

Behind her, she could hear her ladies—and several noblewomen—squealing in excitement, but she ignored them, fighting hard to maintain her composure.

After the Small Council members had offered their well wishes, it was time for the family to say their goodbyes.

"Be careful, Prince Daemon. May the Gods bless you," Laenor and Laena said in unison, earning a small smile from him.

"Show the Triarchy why our family words are Fire and Blood, cousin," Rhaenys said with a sharp nod and an even sharper grin.

"Oh, I will. Don't worry, cousin," he replied with a grin to match hers.

"Try not to be hit with a flaming arrow this time. It's unbecoming for a Targaryen prince to go around with a burn scar on his body. Fire is meant to be our ally, not our downfall. Don't embarrass our House," Uncle Vaegon sniffed, arms crossed and unimpressed.

"That's his way of saying: 'Please don't get hurt, nephew. I'd be devastated if something happened to you,'" Mother replied with a serene smile. Rhaenys snorted in amusement while Vaegon's eyes widened in indignation.

"I don't hate you either, Uncle Vaegon. Try not to stress yourself into an early grave with all the planning for the Dragon Bank," Daemon teased before the archmaester could retort.

Aemma caught his hands and gave them a soft squeeze. "I know you'll win—I have no doubt—but for the sake of all our hearts, please be less reckless than usual. May the Gods protect you, Daemon."

"Thank you, good-sister. I'll try to be a little more careful," he said with his signature smirk.

Father said nothing. Instead, he stepped forward and pulled Daemon into a tight embrace. They stayed like that for several long moments before finally parting.

Then it was Rhaenyra's turn.

Her hands trembled as she took out the handkerchief she'd spent moons embroidering. She wasn't fond of the craft, but she'd worked diligently, stitching the image of their dragons—Caraxes and Syrax—flying together across a vast, open sky.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister, and Rhaenyra tied the handkerchief securely to its hilt.

"Do come back in one piece, kepus. I do not wish to lose my consort before we've even married," she said, voice trembling though her expression remained unreadable.

Come back to me.

"Not even the Gods themselves could take me from you, zaldrītsos," he replied.

Then he mounted Caraxes and took to the skies, leaving Rhaenyra with a hollow ache in her chest as the people cheered wildly around her.

She was heir to the Iron Throne now—Princess of Dragonstone. She needed to carry herself with composure, dignity, the way Princess Rhaenys always did.

…

…

…

Fuck it.

Without a word, Rhaenyra turned and marched towards Syrax. Her dragon waited nearby, eyes locked on the red dot in the sky that was already shrinking in the distance. She mounted quickly.

"Sōves," she commanded.

Syrax launched into the sky with a desperation that mirrored her rider's. The wind whipped past Rhaenyra's face as they soared higher, faster, chasing the other dragon.

A piercing cry from Syrax caught Caraxes' attention. Daemon turned, momentarily startled, then smiled that infuriating smile of his. Rhaenyra grinned in return and urged Syrax even closer.

The dragons sang to each other in their own language, high and wild, then began to twirl in the sky—a graceful, powerful dance that left Rhaenyra a little dizzy but breathless with joy.

When they finally flew side by side, Daemon reached his hand towards her. She did the same.

They couldn't touch, not truly—but she understood the meaning behind it. She nodded at him.

With one final smile, Daemon urged Caraxes forward, speeding into the horizon.

Syrax let out a low, mournful sound, and Rhaenyra stroked her neck soothingly.

"I know, my girl. I know."

She looked to the horizon—where he'd vanished—knowing he had taken a piece of her heart with him.

"See you soon, kepus."

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 110 AC 

Viserys POV

"The Citadel has yet to release the white ravens, but there is little doubt winter creeps ever closer," Grand Maester Gerardys informed the council, his tone even. "We can feel it in the air. And there are already reports of early frost in some areas."

It had been four moons since Daemon's departure. A new year had come, but the council meetings remained as long and draining as ever. Viserys found himself missing his brother more than he liked to admit. Daemon had a habit of making inappropriate jokes and speaking out of turn—but somehow, that had made these sessions more bearable. Lively, even.

"A dreadful time to begin a war, just as winter looms," Lord Manderly sighed, the weight of it clear in his voice.

"Indeed, my lord," Rhaenys replied. "But sadly, the enemy rarely waits for a more opportune moment before they strike." 

"There's no cause for concern about the war draining our supplies just yet," Lyonel Strong added. "The harvest has been remarkably generous across the Reach, the Riverlands, and the Vale. Rainfall and sunlight were in perfect balance, and we saw very few cases of crop blight or rot. Not in many years have we seen such abundance. Our granaries are full to bursting."

He inclined his head towards Viserys. "Thankfully, Your Grace had the foresight to order the lords to expand their granaries, root cellars, and storehouses moons ago. Without that, we'd be facing a rather absurd dilemma: too much food and nowhere to put it."

"The Gods have surely blessed us," Lord Beesbury murmured, casting his eyes upward in reverence—despite the only thing above being the chamber's ornately carved ceiling.

"And are those buildings completed?" he asked after a pause.

"Yes, Your Grace," Lyonel replied. "We now have ample space to store provisions for the winter."

"What is to be done about the North?" Gerardys asked, his expression serious.

Viserys waved a hand casually. "I've already settled matters with Lord Rickon. The North will be well-prepared."

"The Crown's storehouses are full," Aemma added, "but we must act with prudence. Provisions must be distributed not only to the Stepstones but also to the Dragon's Wings charities. We cannot afford waste or negligence."

He nodded. "Announce that the crown will suspend all extravagant festivities during winter, including nameday celebrations for the royal family. Send ravens to the Great Houses, advising them to do the same. We are at war in the Stepstones—let us set an example and stay mindful of the times."

"It will be done, Your Grace," Gerardys replied, dipping his head in agreement.

Lyonel sifted through the stack of parchment before him, eventually retrieving one with a seal already broken.

"There are reports of increased Ironborn activity along the Reach and Westerlands coasts," he announced. "Minor raids, some small ships sacked. Nothing major—yet."

"They're testing us," Rhaenys said sharply. "The Ironborn can smell weakness. If we do nothing, they'll only grow bolder."

"They're opportunists," Rhaenyra agreed. "With most of the royal fleet engaged in the Stepstones, they see the western shores as easy prey."

"Restless folk," Lord Beesbury grumbled, shuffling his ever-growing stack of records.

"The Lord of Casterly Rock has written," Lyonel continued. "He has increased patrols along the coast but asks whether the Crown intends to act should the Ironborn escalate their raids."

Viserys exhaled slowly, massaging his temples. "We can't afford to split our attention. Our fleets are needed in the Narrow Sea."

"Exactly," Aemma added with a weary sigh. "And they know that."

"Send word to House Greyjoy," he said sharply. "Tell them to keep their people in check—or I'll visit the Iron Islands on Vhagar's back. And make it sound threatening. I find myself with little patience these days."

"As you command, Your Grace" said Gerardys with a bow.

Before Viserys could adjourn the meeting, the chamber doors swung open with a loud thud. Archmaester Vaegon strode in without waiting for an introduction, his long robes sweeping behind him

"Uncle," Viserys greeted. Vaegon gave a brief nod before speaking in his usual curt tone.

"Lord Beesbury, I trust the ledgers are in order?"

The elder man nodded hastily, already reaching for the correct tome. He dragged a thick book towards himself and flipped it open.

"The treasury was already flush, and the bountiful harvest has only bolstered it. I've reviewed your proposals for the bank's administration. I agree with most of them."

"Excellent," Vaegon replied briskly. "Then there's no reason to delay the opening of the Dragon Bank much longer. Has the location been finalized? What of the vaults—how will they be protected?"

"A site beside the Dragonpit is being cleared as we speak," Lord Manderly answered.

"Clever," Vaegon said with a rare hint of approval. "The Dragon Bank guarded by dragons—poetic, and practical. I doubt many would dare rob such a place."

"The vaults will be underground," Manderly added. "Carved deep into the rock for safety. They'll be safe from fire and theft alike. We've hired the best stonemasons and builders available."

"Even if construction finishes this year," Viserys interjected, "I want to wait until winter ends before opening the bank."

Vaegon huffed, clearly displeased, but said nothing.

"Will our bank lend to entire kingdoms like the Iron Bank of Braavos?" Rhaenyra asked, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

"In time, yes," Vaegon replied. "But we'll start by serving noble houses here in Westeros—offering a secure place to store their wealth. Lords, merchants, even smallfolk will be able to request loans, though with varying terms and interest. Our initial rates will be low, to compete with the Iron Bank. As collateral, we'll—"

"Spare us the finer points, Uncle," Rhaenys interrupted, waving a hand. "You and Lord Beesbury, two specialists in numbers and all things related to them, have surely accounted for everything. Our minds are already tired from the hours we've spent here today."

Vaegon muttered something under his breath, clearly annoyed, but did not press the issue.

"A new order of knights will be formed to protect the bank," Viserys continued. "Half will also be assigned to the Red Keep and the royal family. The Kingsguard are too few, and our family will grow in the years ahead—once Rhaenyra and Daemon begin to have children."

Rhaenyra blushed faintly, lowering her gaze. Aemma smiled at her daughter with a glint of amusement.

"Also, the Gold Cloaks will soon have more than enough to manage, as King's Landing is constantly growing. Therefore, I believe another order is needed," Viserys added.

"And how will this new order function?" Vaegon asked, arms crossed.

"They'll be called the Dragon Guards," Viserys said. He caught Vaegon's snort at the simple and unimaginative name, but ignored it.

"They'll be an elite force—one thousand strong, handpicked to ensure loyalty. Half will be stationed at the Red Keep. Each royal family member will have four Dragon Guards in addition to their Kingsguard. The other half will be housed in barracks beside the bank, guarding both the entrance and the vaults. Their duties will be to protect the Dragon Bank and ensure it always receives what it's owed. They'll wear crimson cloaks and breastplates bearing the Targaryen sigil."

"And who will command them?" Rhaenys asked.

"Daemon," Viserys replied without hesitation. "He did a splendid job with the Gold Cloaks. Keeping the same commander will help prevent friction between the City Watch and the new guards."

Rhaenyra stifled a laugh. "Oh, Uncle won't be pleased to hear that."

Aemma chuckled softly. "More responsibility and work? Daemon will surely complain."

Viserys waved a hand dismissively. "He'll have loyal men to delegate tasks and lighten the burden. And he has always wanted the family to rely on him—well, now his wish is coming true. He ought to be pleased."

The council chuckled quietly, exchanging knowing looks.

"That will be all for today," Viserys declared. "We'll discuss matters of the bank and the new order in more detail another time. You're dismissed."

The warm glow of the hearth flickered gently, casting golden light across their chambers. Shadows danced along the walls, and in that soft firelight, she looked ethereal—more goddess than woman.

Aemma's pale silver-blonde hair spilled across the pillows like threads of moonlight. Her blue eyes watched him quietly as he read a letter in his hand.

"You know," she said, her voice light with teasing affection, "this wife would very much appreciate it if her husband stopped bringing work into the bedchamber. Must you still be king, even at the hour of ghosts?"

Viserys chuckled, the sound low and fond. "I'm afraid being king is a position with no set hours, my love. But in my defense, this isn't entirely work—well, only a little. You could say it's a family matter."

He waved the letter in the air for emphasis.

"From Daemon?"

Viserys nodded. "He's been sending frequent ravens, cursing the 'damned war,' as he calls it, and updating me on the campaign. Though I fear I lose in the contest of correspondence—he and Rhaenyra exchange nearly twice the number of letters. Those poor birds must be having the worst time of their lives." 

Aemma giggled, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"You know Rhaenyra wouldn't have it any other way. She has always adored monopolizing Daemon's attention ever since she was a little child. It's a miracle she hasn't tried to follow him to the Stepstones herself."

Viserys visibly shuddered at the memory of Daemon's departure. He truly believed, for a moment, that their daughter—only twelve—might try to chase after her uncle into war.

"Please don't remind me of that dreadful day."

With a sigh, he placed the letter on his desk and turned to fetch his nightshirt.

"What did Daemon write?" Aemma asked, curiosity in her tone.

"Nothing important. The enemy soldiers keep launching attacks before retreating into their caves. Daemon hasn't yet uncovered all the entrances, which drives him mad. But his mood improved after burning ten ships. That seemed to cheer him up."

Viserys began to undress, removing his day clothes, but just as he was about to slip into his nightshirt, he heard a soft, disapproving sound.

He turned, puzzled. "What?"

"Why bother?" Aemma arched an elegant brow, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

Viserys huffed a laugh, his gaze lingering on her silky nightgown with a teasing look.

Aemma waved a hand dismissively. "This won't be on for long," she murmured, rising gracefully to her feet. Her hand found his and tugged him gently towards the bed with unmistakable purpose.

She pushed him down with a delicate touch, settling herself in his lap, arms slipping around his neck as her fingers threaded through his hair. Her hands wandered lower, exploring the firm lines of his abdomen with featherlight caresses.

"Do you enjoy it that much, my love?" he asked with a smirk, tugging the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders. The fabric pooled at her hips, revealing her to the cool air. Her nipples stiffened in response, and he traced the curve of her breasts with teasing fingers, brushing over the sensitive peaks and then retreating, leaving her wanting.

"Mmm, I do enjoy it," she purred, "but I fear I'm not the only one. Ever since you lifted your shirt in the training yard and revealed that body to the noblewomen strolling by, the number of ladies 'taking walks' there has mysteriously doubled. I wonder why... I have even heard whispers about a certain king with the 'body of the Warrior himself', do you believe it?"

Viserys laughed, lowering his head to kiss her breasts. "I've apologized for that—though I never imagined I had such an effect on the court ladies," he smirked.

"But if that little mishap made my queen more possessive, then perhaps I should be grateful. And you, my love, should be flattered. After all, the king with the body of the Warrior himself is yours, completely. Aren't you blessed by the Gods?" he teased her.

"Will my king take me into the throes of passion tonight, or are you content with just words?" she whispered against his neck, her hands slowly descending, seeking what she desired.

She found him hard and ready, wrapping her soft fingers around him, stroking with deliberate intent.

"They say actions speak louder than words," he said hoarsely, desire thick in his voice. "Then tonight I shall scream my love for you, wife."

His hands slid down her back, squeezing her cheeks with hunger, drawing a moan from her lips. His fingers found her heat, and he gently began to prepare her for what was to come.

Their eyes met—hers glazed with longing, his with equal fervor.

"I am yours, my king," she breathed, her voice barely audible but potent enough to set his blood ablaze.

"And I, yours—forever, my queen."

Viserys laid her down gently, peppering kisses along her neck, down her chest, and pausing just above her entrance. His tongue hovered, but he lifted his eyes in silent question, seeking her permission.

Aemma shook her head, her breath ragged. "Not tonight," she whispered, urgent and hungry. "I need you inside me now. No more games."

He obeyed without hesitation, as he always did when it came to his Aemma. It was the only way he knew how to exist. 

Their bodies moved together in perfect harmony—wordless, instinctual, deeply attuned. He worshipped every part of her, ensuring her pleasure before his own. Twice he brought her to the peak, savoring the way she trembled and tightened around him. Only then did he surrender to his own need.

His thrusts grew desperate, fevered, the room echoing with their cries, music to his ears—sounds no bard could hope to replicate, a symphony meant only for the two of them.

When he spilled inside her, just as she preferred, he collapsed gently atop her, his arms protectively encasing her trembling form.

He kissed her brow, her cheek, the crown of her head, each kiss a promise.

When he made to rise and fetch a cloth to clean her, she held his arms tightly.

 "I need to clean you, my love," he whispered, brushing a kiss across her lips. "You cannot fall asleep like this, the nights are growing colder." 

"I'm not that fragile, Viserys," she said with a soft laugh. "But if you insist, I won't stop you. I only ask for a few more moments like this."

She pulled his arms tighter around her. "Stay, just a little longer."

How could anyone say no to that?

As always, when it came to his Aemma, Viserys did what he always did—he obeyed.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV 

The cold had crept into the very stones of the Holdfast, as though the walls themselves sought to remind all within that winter had arrived in Westeros. But inside the princess' chambers, the roaring hearth kept the chill at bay—a testament to the diligence of her maids, who had tended the fire through the night while she slept soundly. Rhaenyra reminded herself to thank them later.

Morning light filtered through the thick, heavy drapes, heralding the start of another cold, dreary day.

Beneath a mountain of furs, Rhaenyra stretched languidly, the warmth of it cocooning her against the bitter air. She sighed, loath to leave her sanctuary.

But alas, as the heir to the Iron Throne, she had responsibilities—duties that would not wait simply because the morning was colder than she would have liked.

With a resigned sigh, the princess pushed the furs aside and sat up, her skin prickling against the chill. At that very moment, a knock echoed at the wooden doors.

"Enter," she called softly.

Her maids swept in, efficient and cheerful. They stoked the fire until the flames blazed anew, drew back the curtains to let in the pale light of day, and brought in a steaming basin of water for her morning wash. All the while, they chattered with her and among themselves, their lighthearted tones aimed at lifting the princess' spirits.

Rhaenyra knew each of them by name. They had cared for her faithfully for many sunturns, and she did not take their devotion for granted.

"Thank you for tending the hearth last night," she said, a soft smile curling her lips.

They quickly shook their heads, insisting it was their duty. But their small, grateful smiles betrayed how much her appreciation meant.

Rhaenyra often admired the keep's servants. They rose earlier than she ever did, braving the icy air to fulfill their duties without complaint. Their chambers were not as warm as hers, nor were their clothes lined in fur and velvet. Yet still, they worked with diligence and a smile on their lips.

No matter how much I complain about my ever-growing responsibilities, she mused, I know I am lucky to have been born a princess.

A few moments later, Rosamund and Elenda stepped inside.

"Good morrow, princess," they said in unison, both wearing the same weary expression that mirrored Rhaenyra's own reluctance to be up and about so early—and in such frigid weather.

Still, they moved without hesitation. Elenda laid out a fresh gown and matching jewels while informing the princess of her schedule for the day. Rosamund approached Rhaenyra's desk, sorting through the pile of parchment and books the princess had left behind the night before, organizing the scattered documents with swift precision.

Elenda assisted Rhaenyra in dressing, her fingers deft as she adjusted the fabric to perfection. The gown was a regal piece of black velvet, thick and luxurious, with golden embroidery that shimmered like starlight. Its high collar, trimmed with soft Myrish lace, caressed Rhaenyra's neck.

Instead of her usual sandals—better suited for the warm months—she slipped into black leather boots, their fur-lined interiors offering welcome protection from the cold.

Rosamund took her time brushing Rhaenyra's hair, weaving it into a beautifully intricate braid. She finished the look with a pair of ruby earrings, their deep red catching the light and gleaming brilliantly against the dark gown. A golden necklace was fastened around her neck, its pendant a sizable ruby that gleamed like dragonfire.

"You look stunning, Nyra. As always," Elenda said with a warm smile.

Rhaenyra returned it, her voice fond. "Well, I have the both of you to thank for that."

By the time she was dressed, the maids had already finished setting the table for their morning meal. A delicious spread awaited: warm bread, fresh fruits, honey, strawberry jam, fragrant tea, and a selection of pastries she favored.

The three girls sat and ate together, chatting softly.

"What about Johanna and Beatrice?" Rhaenyra asked, one brow arched in amusement as she glanced at the empty spaces beside them.

Rosamund clicked her tongue. "My sister was practically glued to her bed. Impossible to wake. I imagine Johanna was the same. Elenda and I have already agreed—they'll handle the rest of the day's duties on their own. Perhaps that will teach them something about responsibility."

Elenda nodded firmly in agreement.

Rhaenyra chuckled. "I can't fault them. I'd love nothing more than to stay in bed for another two hours myself."

"But you cannot. None of us can. Including those two," Rosamund muttered, rolling her eyes.

A short while later, a servant entered with a stack of letters for the princess. Rhaenyra immediately perked up, her heart fluttering with hope. She sifted through the pile quickly, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation.

Then—there it was.

A delighted squeal escaped her lips before she could contain it. Forgetting all courtly decorum—there was no need for it among her ladies-in-waiting—she eagerly pulled the letter free.

Rosamund and Elenda exchanged amused glances and smirks.

"We'll give you your privacy, princess," Rosamund said with a teasing smile. "But don't forget—your lesson with the Archmaester begins in less than an hour."

With that, the two girls slipped quietly from the room, leaving Rhaenyra alone with her treasure.

She broke the wax seal with quick fingers and unfolded the parchment. Her eyes hungrily devoured the familiar, bold strokes of Daemon's handwriting.

To my dearest Princess,

I trust this letter finds you in good health. As for myself, I fear I am slowly losing my sanity. The enemy insists on playing their tiresome game of cat and mouse, retreating into the caves each time we press the offensive. But I imagine you've heard as much already.

I have yet to find a single man with useful knowledge of those damned tunnels. Many have been captured and tortured, yet none have broken. Stubborn fools.

Still, the true source of my descent into madness is not the enemy, but an 'ally'—Vaemond Velaryon. I have endured Corlys' esteemed brother for eight moons now. He is the most maddening man I've ever had the misfortune of knowing. Cowardly, petulant, a waste of provisions, and utterly useless. He fails at everything he does, and yet never fails to complain. Always criticizing. Always whining. Nothing pleases him.

Each time I hear his voice, my hand strays towards Dark Sister. And each time, I must remind myself he is Corlys' kin—and that I cannot simply remove his damned head.

Laenor shares my frustration. The look on his face whenever his uncle speaks is priceless. I suspect he regrets ever joining this campaign. The two Alans aren't faring much better; our accommodations are far from pleasant. I cannot begin to understand what they thought war would be like—perhaps they imagined something out of the books they read as small children.

Only Caraxes is truly content. He's developed a fondness for burning men and ships. He's also taken to hunting sea creatures in the Narrow Sea—everything from fish to krakens. The boy keeps himself entertained.

And yet, I know Caraxes misses your Golden Lady. As I miss you, zaldrītsos.

How are you, my little dragon? Tell me of your adventures in King's Landing. Are the council meetings still as dreadfully dull as they were before I left? I imagine they're even worse without me.

Your nameday draws near. I will not be present, but expect a gift—do not worry.

Alas, duty calls. These islands will not conquer themselves, and if left to the enemy, we may be here for another decade.

Yours,

Daemon Targaryen.

Rhaenyra read the letter twice more before finally setting it down, her smile wide and bright.

He never fails to make me smile.

She longed to write back at once, but there was no time—not if she wanted to avoid Uncle Vaegon's ire. With one final, wistful glance at the letter, she rose and left her chambers, Daemon's words lingering in her mind the entire way.

The scent of ancient scrolls and ink filled the private royal library, a smell Rhaenyra usually adored. She loved books, loved learning—but today, none of it could hold her attention. She was utterly bored.

She cast a sideways glance at Vaegon, who sat across from her, entirely absorbed in his parchment. His quill moved with irritating grace, likely drafting something dull about the Dragon Bank.

Rhaenyra sighed. Loudly.

Vaegon didn't even flinch.

She sighed again. Louder.

Still nothing.

Another sigh.

Then one more—this time theatrical, drawn-out, and laced with despair.

Finally, her uncle raised his head, his expression carved from stone, save for the faint flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

"Never once in all my years," he began coolly, "did I imagine sighing could be used as a form of communication. Much less by a princess—the heir to the Iron Throne, no less."

His sharp gaze found hers. "Speak, girl. With words. What ails you?"

"I'm bored, uncle," she said, chin in hand.

He gave her a long, unimpressed look. "And I was under the impression I gave you a task."

He nodded towards the forgotten book beside her. "The one on politics. Or has boredom dulled your memory as well?"

"I've already read it!" she groaned, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

"Well, I'm telling you to read it again. It's important." He waved her off like an annoying fly.

"Kepuuss," she whined, stretching her arms across the table before collapsing onto them in melodramatic defeat.

Vaegon rolled his eyes. "And what, pray tell, would you rather be doing?"

Her head shot up, hope ignited. "Oh, so many things." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Eating lemon cakes while gossiping with my ladies, spending time with muña, visiting Syrax, watching father train—Seven hells, I'd rather be sleeping."

Vaegon studied her, sharp eyes narrowing. "And you find all of those things more important than the book I assigned?"

"Of course! I've already read it," she huffed slightly.

He leaned back in his chair, lips curling into a sly smile. "Then I'm sorry to inform you, princess… but it seems you've already lost."

She blinked. "Lost? What have I lost?"

"The game."

She laughed, her confusion giving way to amusement. "Are you going mad, uncle? We're not playing any game."

"That's where you're wrong," he said. "We are always playing a game. Every highborn person is."

She stared at him, utterly confused. "I don't understand."

"You will," he said. Then he stood and crossed the room.

Moments later, Vaegon returned with a cyvasse board and a red velvet pouch filled with carved pieces. He set them down with purpose.

"If you're too bored for books, then we'll try a more practical lesson."

Rhaenyra arched a brow. "Cyvasse? I know how to play."

"Do you?" he asked, brow raised.

"Yes. I even beat Uncle Daemon," she smirked proudly.

Vaegon gave a sharp little laugh. "Then either he let you win… or my nephew is more of a fool than I thought."

She snorted. "Daemon does not simply let people win."

Vaegon began arranging the board, challenging her with a look. "Let's see if you can win against me."

The spark in her eyes returned, her competitive spirit had been stirred. Rhaenyra sat up straighter and began setting her pieces with care.

The game opened in tense silence. Every move was calculated. Rhaenyra advanced her dragon early, playing aggressively. Vaegon countered her strikes with ease.

"You act too quickly, thoughtlessly," he murmured. "Your strategy is brute force. You believe that it alone will win you the game."

She frowned, adjusting her formation. "The dragon is the strongest piece. Why not use it?"

"Because power without thought is a blade without a hilt. It cuts both ways, princess. With no distinction."

"One cannot overthink every move, uncle. Sometimes power means acting."

"And yet," he said calmly, "here you are. Losing."

Rhaenyra glanced down and scowled. Her dragon was trapped—cornered by elephants and crossbowmen. She'd focused so much on attacking, she forgot to protect her flanks.

She looked at the board again, trying to find a solution for her situation. 

Vaegon watched her struggle. "Most players make this mistake. They think power is overwhelming force. Real power is restraint. Patience. Letting your enemy believe they're winning… until you decide to show them they're not."

"You sound like the lords on the Small Council," she muttered.

That made him laugh, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Decide, girl. Sacrifice your dragon, or retreat and rethink your entire strategy."

 Rhaenyra chewed her lip. Slowly, she pulled the dragon back.

Vaegon gave a rare nod of approval. "Restraint. A rare virtue in our family."

"I'm not giving up," she said through clenched teeth.

"I'd be disappointed if you did," he smirked.

This time, she played with care. Every move was deliberate. She studied the board. Trapped his crossbowmen. Redirected her cavalry. Slowly, she laid her trap.

Then—her final move. She placed the piece and looked up, triumphant.

"I win."

Vaegon studied the board with practiced eyes. Slowly, a smile spread across his face.

"Well done,  Rhaenyra."

She beamed, throwing a fist into the air. "Ha! I beat you!"

"And why do you think you won?" he asked.

She tilted her head. "Because I captured your king and broke into your fortress."

"Yes. But why were you able to do so?"

She paused, considering. Her smile returned, smaller now, thoughtful.

"I was patient. I planned my moves and adapted." 

He nodded once. "A valuable lesson. Remember it when you sit that ugly chair."

She laughed—then stopped. Her eyes narrowed on the board. A realization dawned.

She looked up, aghast. "Did you… let me win?"

Vaegon didn't answer right away. Just gave her a lazy smile, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Does it matter?"

She gasped. "You did! You let me win!"

He rose from his seat, chuckling. "Another lesson, princess. In politics, someone is always willing to let you think you've won… if it earns them your favor. As the future ruler, you should always remember that."

He turned and began walking off, then paused to throw one last remark over his shoulder.

"Now read the damn book."

And with that, he was gone—leaving Rhaenyra staring after him, mouth agape in complete disbelief.

Chapter Text

Viserys POV 

It was another grey and gloomy winter morning. Viserys would have much preferred to remain in bed, wrapped in the warmth of his soft, sleeping wife—but alas, duty called.

And so, the King of Westeros found himself in his solar with Grand Maester Gerardys, his patience once again worn thin by the Ironborn.

"So, they've yet to put an end to the raids?" Viserys asked, eyeing the raven scroll from Casterly Rock that Gerardys held in hand.

The Grand Maester sighed, nodding solemnly. "According to Lord Lannister, small villages and passing ships are still being sacked."

Viserys let out a dry chuckle—humorless and bitter.

"I was under the impression a letter had already been sent to Pyke, with clear instructions on how these attacks on our western coast were to be handled."

Gerardys began sifting through the stack of correspondence until he retrieved the relevant letter.

"It was sent, Your Grace. The raven flew as you commanded. The future Lord of House Greyjoy, young Dalton, is but a child of five namedays. His uncle, Harlon Greyjoy, serves as regent in his stead." He handed the letter to the king.

"In his reply, Harlon claims these raids are not sanctioned by House Greyjoy. According to him, the men responsible are acting of their own accord."

Viserys scoffed. "And that is all he has to say? He didn't order it, therefore he can do nothing? Even though these are his people?"

"That was his response, Your Grace. The letter offers little else." Poor Gerardys was treading lightly now, well aware of the king's foul mood.

Viserys tapped his fingers against the wooden desk, deep in thought.

"I will go to the Iron Islands myself, in a few days," he said at last.

"Alone?" Gerardys asked, eyes widening with concern.

"Yes. I'll fly on Vhagar—it'll be faster. Bringing others would only slow me down."

"But, Your Grace, the Kingsguard should always be at your side—for your safety. And even on dragonback, the Iron Islands are not just around the corner."

Viserys gave a knowing smile. "I have Vhagar, Grand Maester. Who in this world could protect me better than she? Also, dragonriders are used to long hours in the sky. It is no hardship."

The Grand Maester looked as though he wished to argue further, but Viserys waved a hand, ending the discussion.

"It is settled, Gerardys. I'll leave early and return before the day is out. This must be dealt with swiftly."

Reluctantly, the Grand Maester bowed his head and departed with Viserys' leave.

A few hours later, the door creaked open after two quick knocks, and a warm, familiar energy entered the room like sunlight parting grey clouds.

"Kepa! My teacher has arrived!" Rhaenyra announced cheerfully. She skipped towards his desk, a radiant smile lighting her face. As was her custom, she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Viserys chuckled, heart warmed by her presence, and returned the gesture with a gentle kiss to her temple.

My little girl has grown so much, he thought, marveling at the passage of time. Thirteen already.

It felt like only yesterday that Rhaenyra had darted through the Red Keep's halls, fleeing her nursemaids with a stolen lemon cake clutched in her small hands, her laughter echoing through the corridors like music.

"The Braavosi swordmaster?" he asked, matching her enthusiasm.

"Yes!" she squealed with delight.

Near the end of the previous year, Rhaenyra had expressed a desire to learn the art of swordplay. She had always enjoyed watching the boys train in the yard—far more thrilling than embroidery, she said. More than that, she idolized Queen Visenya, and the woman was known for her fierceness in battle and mastery of the blade. Visenya, after all, had once wielded Dark Sister—the very sword now resting in Daemon's hands.

Viserys had embraced the idea instantly. If Rhaenyra could defend herself, he would sleep easier. When he suggested she learn the Water Dance of Braavos—a refined style emphasizing agility and precision over brute force—she eagerly agreed.

He had tasked his men with finding a Braavosi willing to train a student of royal blood, though he had not revealed the identity of the pupil. It had taken longer than he would have liked, but eventually they found a man: Syrano the Shadowstep. Once a famed duelist in Braavos, Syrano had been disgraced after refusing to strike down an unarmed opponent.

"Have you met him yet?" Viserys asked.

"I have! He was tired from the journey and went to rest, but Teacher Syrano said our training will begin in two days!" She nearly bounced with excitement. "I can't wait to use Bloodfire, Kepa!"

Viserys chuckled softly. Of course she had named the sword.

He had commissioned it for her thirteenth nameday. The blade was long and narrow, perfect for swift thrusts and dodges. Its black hilt was fashioned in the shape of dragon wings curling around the base—a weapon befitting a princess of House Targaryen.

"You'll have to wait a little longer, sweet girl," he said with a smile. "Training always begins with wooden swords."

Rhaenyra groaned with theatrical despair, making him laugh outright.

"And are you sure you wish to train in the Godswood? The court will gossip about a girl with a sword."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. "Of course they will. Let them. The Andals may keep their women to childbearing and embroidery, but I am a Targaryen, a Princess of the Blood, and heir to the Iron Throne. I want to do this—and I have the king's blessing. What more do I need?" She lifted her chin defiantly.

Viserys pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head, proud of the fire in her spirit.

I will never let them dull your fire.

"You need nothing more, my sweet girl," he said, his smile sharpening. "Now go—and show them just how feeble women can be."

Rhaenyra grinned, mirroring the steel in her father's voice. "I will, kepa."

The winter winds howled as he soared above the Iron Islands, cold air biting at his face—held at bay only by the immense heat radiating from Vhagar's colossal body.

Viserys gripped the reins tightly, guiding her in wide, slow circles over Pyke. Each pass was accompanied by a thunderous roar, a warning to House Greyjoy of their visitor's arrival. Vhagar's massive shadow stretched ominously across the stone walls below.

Unsurprisingly, his decision to come alone had not been well received. The Kingsguard protested. His council fretted. But to Viserys, their concerns were exaggerated.

The likelihood of the Ironborn attempting to attack the King of Westeros without a good enough reason was slim. The chances of them actually succeeding with Vhagar at his side, nonexistent. 

Besides, bringing an entire retinue would only slow him down. He intended to be in and out. He wouldn't even bother setting foot inside the castle.

The Ironborn were simply doing what they always did—testing boundaries, seeing how far they could push before consequences came knocking. Viserys intended to deal with them decisively. 

"Land on the island, Old Girl," he murmured. "No need to destroy the Greyjoys' keep—unless they give us more reason to do so."

Vhagar growled, deep and low. A complaint, unmistakably. She was not thrilled to have flown for seven hours in such miserable weather.

They flew low now—low enough for Viserys to spot the gathering of men waiting far below, tiny as ants on the jagged terrain. They had descended from the castle and were waiting for him in the island's mainland. 

"Careful not to crush anyone." 

Another rumbling growl answered Viserys, the sound reminded him of thunder. 

Vhagar landed hard on the barren rocks, cracking the ground and shaking the very earth beneath her. The gust from her wings sent the crowd staggering backward.

The old she-dragon cast a disdainful eye over the men, then let loose a roar that split the skies. Her bad mood evident.

Even the ironmen—hard-eyed, salt-worn warriors—flinched. Their pride couldn't mask their fear.

Vhagar exhaled sharply, smoke curling from her nostrils. To him, it looked suspiciously like an amused snort. 

Perched atop her, Viserys observed the group with cool detachment, his elevated position offering a perfect vantage point. Their faces were taut with unease, pride clashing with fear as their eyes darted between him and the dragon, as if trying to gauge whether this visit was peaceful or not. 

He did send a raven a couple days before leaving King's Landing, warning them about a personal meeting to discuss what was happening at the western coast. 

I suppose even with my warning, the sight of Vhagar is enough to unsettle any sane man.

His eyes found a tall, sharp-featured man in black—posture rigid, hawk-like eyes tracking Vhagar's every move. A boy stood beside him, small but defiant.

Harlon and Dalton Greyjoy.

Viserys studied the boy. Five namedays at most, yet already trying to wear the mantle of authority. He stood with his chin lifted, determined to appear unimpressed—but his darting eyes, constantly looking up at Vhagar, betrayed him. There was awe. And fear. Though he tried his best to hide it. A child playing at confidence.

Harlon stepped forward, his expression hard and cold, his features as weathered as the jagged cliffs of Pyke itself. When he spoke, his voice was rough, laced with the natural arrogance of the Ironborn.

"Your Grace." A stiff nod, just enough to avoid insult.

"Greyjoy." Viserys returned the gesture. "You already know why I'm here, so let's not waste time with pleasantries. I received another raven from Casterly Rock. The raids haven't stopped, despite my warning."

Harlon straightened in a feeble attempt at feigning composure—but his eyes flicked towards Vhagar and the facade shattered momentarily.

The dragon snarled again and shifted. The ground trembled. The Ironborn flinched once more, hands tightening around weapons they dared not draw.

Then, without warning, Vhagar spread her wings and launched into the air. The sudden gust sent men stumbling backward as she rose, her shadow darkening the sky. She vanished into the mist above Pyke.

Viserys, already used to his dragon's antics, ignored the entire thing. He turned back to Harlon, unbothered.

"The raids must end."

Harlon's gaze remained skyward for a moment before dropping. His arrogance, briefly shaken, slowly returned after Vhagar's departure.

"As I said in my letter, we gave no such orders. If we had, the attacks would not have been so... small." He smirked.

Viserys narrowed his eyes.

"Raiding is in our blood," Harlon went on. "The ironborn raid, we always have. It is the way of the sea. I cannot control every reaver in these islands, their hunger for plunder is strong." 

"That is not sufficient," Viserys said, his tone sharp as Valyrian steel. "House Greyjoy rules the Iron Islands. It is your duty to control your people. If you cannot, then what is the point of your rule?" 

Harlon's jaw clenched.

"Since the Conquest, House Targaryen has left the Iron Islands alone. Your people was allowed to keep their religion, their culture, their customs, their way of life—we have not interfered. And this is how you repay us? With raids on Westerosi villages and ships?" His voice darkened. "No more."

He leaned forward slightly, voice like a knife.

"The realm is already at war in the Stepstones. Winter is upon us. I will not tolerate more chaos in my lands—especially not from those who are subjects of the Crown, wether they like it or not. Raid Essos. Raid the Summer Isles. Raid the Seven Hells, for all I care. But raid Westeros again, and House Targaryen will treat the Ironborn as enemies. Do you understand?"

Before Harlon could answer, a thunderous sound drew their eyes upward.

Vhagar was returning from her little trip to Gods' know where.

In her talons, she carried something massive.

Viserys squinted, trying to see what it was. Then she landed behind him with a bone-rattling thud and unceremoniously dropped her prize on the dirt.

A kraken.

A real one. Still writhing.

The symbol of House Greyjoy, tossed before them like prey.

The kraken's red tentacles twisted weakly on the cold earth, an eerie mirror of the Greyjoy banner. Silence fell. The ironborn stood frozen in fear, their bodies tense, their faces pale and filled with worry. Harlon—having lost his previous bravado—stepped back, dragging Dalton with him. The boy stared, spellbound, seeming unable to decide if he was terrified or in awe. Maybe both. 

"Dragons are willful creatures," Viserys explained lightly. "They do as they please."

Vhagar placed a claw on the struggling beast, pinning it like a toy. The creature's tentacles wriggled in vain, its body twitching in a last-ditch effort to escape, but it was fruitless.

Then she opened her maw and released a stream of flame—controlled, precise, just enough to cook without incinerating. Remarkable restraint for a dragon whose fire could melt stone.

I suppose it comes with age. She's fucking old, after all.

The kraken's body writhed in agony as it was consumed by the flames, the sizzling sound of its flesh burning echoed in the wind, the scent of roasting meat filled the air.

Vhagar tore into her prey, she devoured the creature in two bites. Only the scorched earth remained.

The symbolism wasn't lost on Viserys. A dragon devouring the very symbol of House Greyjoy—it was almost poetic. For a moment, he wondered if Vhagar did it on purpose—somehow—or if it was really just a coincidence.

Viserys watched her, narrowing his eyes, but she only stared innocently at him. Vhagar slowly lowered her head towards him until they were close enough to touch. 

Viserys sighed and ran a hand over her scales, scratching absentmindedly as he thought about the many other matters awaiting him back at the Red Keep. 

Then he turned to the ironborn—specifically, the smallest among them.

Dalton was still trying to look unimpressed. But his eyes betrayed him—wide, reverent, afraid.

"I suppose she was hungry. It was a long journey, after all." Viserys said calmly. Then, to Harlon: "I presume our discussion is settled?"

Harlon hesitated, then gave a stiff nod.

"Aye, Your Grace. I'll tighten the leash. It won't happen again."

"Good. See to it."

Viserys glanced back at the boy, still staring at Vhagar like he'd just seen a God.

The future Red Kraken, huh.

"Dalton," he said.

The boy flinched at the sound of his name, eyes snapping to him.

"Do you wish to fly?"

Silence.

Dalton looked at his uncle, then at the dragon, then back. He puffed up his chest.

"I am not afraid of dragons."

Viserys laughed. "Then you're either a fool, or a liar."

Dalton scowled. Viserys chuckled again.

"I didn't ask if you were afraid, boy. I offered you a chance to see the world from above—a rare gift. Do you accept?"

Dalton hesitated, glancing at his uncle for permission. Harlon shrugged. The boy hesitated for a few seconds, then nodded. 

"Come, then." Viserys guided the boy to Vhagar. The dragon watched them with curious eyes.

"We have a new passenger, Old Girl. Don't eat him." 

The dragon rumbled low. Dalton squeaked and gripped Viserys' cloak.

He soothed the boy, helping him climb the rope ladder into the saddle.

"Sōves." 

Vhagar launched into the sky once more, slicing through the clouds. The cold wind cut at them, but neither man nor boy cared.

Dalton clung to the saddle, eyes wide with wonder.

After a few minutes of wind-blown silence, the boy's voice piped up, cutting through the cold air.

"What language was that?" he asked, blinking up at the king with a squint, cheeks flushed and nose red.

"Hmm?" Viserys looked down at him. "High Valyrian. The tongue of my ancestors. Did your maester never mention it during your lessons?"

Dalton huffed like a defiant little lordling. "I don't need lessons. They're dull. I'd rather be at sea with my uncle."

A ghost of a smile touched Viserys' lips. "Ah. And yet, you are heir to House Greyjoy. One day, you will rule your people. Knowledge—especially the kind you find in those dull little lessons—will make the difference between a lord and a fool. Choose which one you'll be."

Dalton made a face, scrunching his nose in exaggerated protest, but said nothing. The wind whistled between them for a few beats longer before curiosity, that ever-burning flame in children, reignited in his eyes.

"Why do you speak that language to it?" he asked, glancing at the great beast beneath them, still awed despite himself.

"Because it is her tongue," Viserys said. "The language of dragons. It is how they understand us."

Dalton's eyes went wide as saucers. Viserys could see the wheels turning in his mind.

"So… if I go to my lessons and learn High Valyrian, could I talk to dragons too? Would they let me ride them?" His voice trembled with hope, the kind only children dare wear so plainly.

Viserys tilted his head, fixing the boy with a dry look. "Are you a Targaryen?"

The response came swift and offended. "Of course not! I'm a Greyjoy!" Dalton's chin jutted upward proudly, as if the very idea of being something else was absurd.

"Then no," Viserys said flatly, with a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Only those with the blood of dragonlords may ride dragons. Anyone else who tries… ends up charred bones in the dirt."

Dalton's bravado wilted. His shoulders sagged, and his lips twisted into a mighty pout. Viserys bit back a chuckle, amused by the sheer drama of the boy's crushed dreams.

They rode in silence again, the skies vast around them, until the king tugged gently on the reins and commanded Vhagar to land. With a thunderous beat of her wings, she began her slow descent towards the waiting earth.

When they landed, Viserys dismounted and handed the boy back to his uncle. Harlon Greyjoy looked as though he'd been holding his breath the entire time.

"You did well, Dalton," Viserys said, patting the boy's head. "You've a courageous heart."

Dalton puffed up like a rooster, glowing from the praise—but the king's next words dropped like a weight.

"However, don't be a fool. Earlier, you said you weren't afraid of dragons." Viserys leaned down slightly, his tone sharpening. "You should be. Dragons are not pets, not mere beasts. They are fire and wrath. A force of nature. You should respect them—and also fear them."

Dalton swallowed, glancing back at Vhagar, who stared at him with unreadable eyes. The boy said nothing.

Viserys turned to Harlon and gave a small, deliberate nod. "I have other matters to tend to. I trust you'll handle the situation properly, Lord Greyjoy."

"Aye, Your Grace," Harlon muttered, bowing his head.

With that, Viserys climbed back onto Vhagar's saddle. The great she-dragon surged into the sky once more, wings blotting out the sun for a moment as they vanished into the clouds.

Dalton…

Still a boy, still soft clay yet to harden, but Viserys could already see the outlines of the man he would become. Proud. Stubborn. Troublesome. Unless—

A smirk tugged at the king's lips.

Daemon would need new squires in a few years once Laenor and the two Alans become knights… and Dalton would be just the right age by then.

He chuckled to himself.

Daemon was going to kill him.

Viserys laughed aloud, the sound lost to the wind as he soared towards the Red Keep.

Daemon POV 

Strong waves crashed violently against the jagged cliffs of Dwarfstone, their thunderous roar echoing across the bleak shoreline. The place was already dismal enough on a fair day, but the icy wind and relentless storm painted an even gloomier picture—gray skies, cold spray, and a chill that crept into the bones. It was utterly miserable.

From where he stood, Daemon could see Bloodstone's jagged silhouette in the near distance. Those cursed hills—sharp, black and riddled with an endless network of caves—had become the enemy's haven, their hideaway. It was there the Triarchy's men skulked like rats in a cellar, hidden beneath the surface and extremely difficult to root out completely.

The war had dragged on for nearly ten moons now, far longer than Daemon would have liked. Viserys hadn't exaggerated when he spoke of what he saw in his Dream, describing how the enemy would dig in and vanish into the rocks. Rats, he had said. And Viserys had been right.

Still, thanks to the Crown's unwavering support—steady provisions, generous funding, and a rotation of healers—the campaign was in far better shape than it might've been. Daemon could hardly imagine how grueling this would've been without the Iron Throne backing them.

No wonder the war had lasted years in Viserys' Dream.

He stood now at the edge of the main camp, watching the scene unfold before him—ships struggling through the stormy waters, soldiers limping from tent to tent, nursing their wounds or arguing over battle plans inside shelters that barely held against the battering winds. A cold and bitter routine had settled over everything.

Nearby, Caraxes lay curled in the mud, his massive crimson form unbothered by the storm or the din of men. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, tail flicking now and then in lazy irritation.

Speaking of irritation…

Daemon turned at the sound of laughter—sharp, boyish, and much too loud. His three squires huddled near a fire, hands outstretched to the meager warmth, faces bright with mischief, laughing boisterously at Gods' know what. They'd been at war long enough to settle into its rhythm, but the boundless energy characteristic of youth has yet to leave them. And with it, came an endless appetite for foolishness.

As if summoned by Daemon's disdainful gaze, Laenor looked over at him and opened his mouth.

"My prince! Is it true the Lyseni are part fish?" he asked, eyes wide and full of ridiculous wonder.

Gods help me.

The two Alans snorted at Laenor's absurd question, but then the little Beesbury went on to say something equally ridiculous. 

"That's nonsense, Laenor. But I heard they bathe in wine instead of water." 

Alan Tarly scoffed. "That would be an unforgivable waste of wine. And far too expensive."

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I would rather fight a thousand half-fish Lyseni who bathe in wine than listen to the three of you spout idiocy for another minute. Don't you have any training to do?"

But the brats only laughed, delighted as if he were paying them compliments instead of insults.

"Speaking of training…" Beesbury leaned forward, a devilish grin forming. "My prince, are you aware that Laenor's been skipping sessions lately? Always disappearing when you're not around."

Daemon raised a brow.

"It's true," said Alan Tarly, jabbing Laenor in the ribs. "He spends all his time with Joffrey Lonmouth these days."

Laenor flushed, suddenly bashful. "I just enjoy talking with Joffrey. That's all."

"Talking," Beesbury repeated with a singsong tone. "They like to talk together. Is that what you call it?" 

Daemon tilted his head, recalling all those moments he'd seen Laenor and Joffrey whispering together, lingering in one another's presence a little longer than necessary. A knowing smirk crept across his face.

"You do seem awfully fond of him.  You spend a lot of time together," Daemon said casually.

"I do not," Laenor snapped far too quickly, his entire posture stiff with embarrassment.

"He does," Tarly confirmed, beaming. "Like they're tied together with rope."

"You're all insufferable," Laenor muttered, crossing his arms as the other two burst into laughter.

Daemon raised a hand. "Enough. I've no use for lazy squires who spend their time giggling like maidens. Go find something useful to do."

Alan Beesbury sprang to his feet, chest puffed out with theatrical resolve. "Then let us train, my prince! The sun shines, the wind is tame, and our swords yearn to clash in glorious battle!"

Daemon glanced skyward. The clouds were a heavy gray, and the wind had only grown sharper. He gave Beesbury a flat look.

"You've been reading too many heroic tales, boy."

"But training is good for keeping warm!" Laenor added brightly. "You said so yourself."

"Did I?" Daemon raised a brow, feigning confusion. "I don't recall ever caring if you're warm."

Alan Beesbury grinned. "You spoil us, my prince, whether you admit it or not."

"I spoil you?" Daemon laughed. "That's a bold claim, boy."

"You gave us extra rations," Tarly pointed out.

"Growing children need to eat more," Daemon waved his hand dismissively.

"And when I was sick, you visited me and stayed for hours," Beesbury said with a smug smile.

"I was making sure you wouldn't die. The last thing I needed was your family whining about it." 

The three boys shared a conspiratorial look and whispered loud enough for him to hear, "He cares about us."

Daemon rolled his eyes.

A shrill cry pierced the air, and they all turned. Not far from them, Caraxes let out a warning hiss, snapping his jaws at Seasmoke, who was bouncing around him with relentless energy.

"Your dragon is pestering Caraxes again, Laenor," Beesbury said with disdain. "Aren't you ashamed? He's got no discipline."

"Seasmoke is just being friendly," Laenor huffed. "It's not his fault the glorified red snake is so grumpy."

"Would you like to become the next meal of the glorified red snake?" Daemon asked mildly. "I can arrange that."

"My prince, you cannot deny it. Seasmoke is being playful, he's not the bad one here. Caraxes has issues with every other dragon. He's problematic!"

"Not true. He and Syrax get along fine. Maybe the problem is your overly friendly lizard who doesn't understand boundaries."

"Seasmoke is sweet!" Laenor protested. "He's just playful. Syrax is the only dragon Caraxes likes to spend time with, proving my point."

"You cannot blame the Blood Wyrm," Tarly chimed in. "Syrax is a lady dragon, and beautiful too. Naturally, he would prefer her over Seasmoke." 

"Seasmoke is beautiful too. Look at him!" Laenor pointed to the silver-grey dragon who was still trying his luck with Caraxes. 

The older wyrm let out a low growl as the impertinent youngster circled around him and tried to touch his tail playfully. 

"But Syrax is a girl. And her rider is Princess Rhaenyra," Beesbury added, nodding sagely. "Prince Daemon's betrothed. Of course their dragons would get along—they're mimicking their riders." He said it with so much conviction, one would think him a specialist in dragons. 

Laenor smirked. "Well, prince Daemon does everything Rhaenyra wants, so I guess it makes sense his dragon would follow suit."

"Oh, that's true! He is already wrapped around the princess' finger now, imagine after the wedding!" Beesbury grinned.

These damned children.

Daemon inhaled deeply, resisting the urge to toss them all into the sea.

"If you've got so much energy," he said, drawing Dark Sister with a wicked grin, "then go get your swords and come at me. Let's see if you've improved, or if I'm still wasting my time training fools."

At least this will shut them up.

"Oh, and Laenor," he added, glancing towards the dragons, "I'd advise you to stop Seasmoke from pestering my boy. I'd rather not see Caraxes become the next Cannibal."

Laenor paled. "He wouldn't."

Daemon shrugged. "Want to find out?"

Laenor didn't wait another second, he sprinted towards his dragon, screaming like a madman. "Seasmoke! Stop it! Leave that temperamental snake alone—it's not worth it!"

Daemon laughed freely, and the Alans joined him.

They arrived at the clearing where they usually trained. Daemon watched as his squires prepared themselves, then stepped forward to meet them with his blade.

Beesbury, ever the overeager one, charged first. He came in swinging, strong but wild. Not one strategy in sight. Daemon sidestepped him easily and swatted his blade aside.

Tarly was more cautious—too cautious. He hesitated one second too long, and Daemon struck the hilt of his sword sharply against the boy's wrist. With a yelp, he dropped his weapon.

Laenor was better. Faster. His strikes were clean, and he moved with grace. He obviously lacked the experience, but was clever enough and adapted quickly. Still, Daemon parried his blows with ease, his smirk widening.

"You've improved," he said. "But not nearly enough."

The Velaryon heir narrowed his eyes and struck low, aiming for Daemon's legs. The prince laughed, deflecting it with a flick of his wrist.

They trained for more than an hour, until the boys were drenched in sweat and begging for mercy.

"Rest," Daemon ordered, sheathing his sword. "Before one of you collapses and I have to listen to more complaints."

The boys groaned and dropped to the muddy ground without a second thought. Daemon looked at them with a mix of fondness and exasperation. 

Rolling around in the mud like fucking pigs, he clicked his tongue.

His gaze drifted to Laenor. He thought again of Joffrey Lonmouth and how they interacted, about the way the Velaryon's eyes softened when he looked at him. It was the same way Rhaenyra looked at Daemon.

He stepped closer and spoke just loud enough for Laenor to hear.

"If you like the boy, then like him."

Laenor's head snapped towards him, startled. "I—what?"

Daemon didn't meet his eyes, choosing instead to watch the brooding sky.

"It's wise to be careful. But remember—you are not an Andal zealot, Laenor. You are Valyrian. We have always done things differently. Our culture and customs are not the same as theirs. And besides," he smirked, "you are the heir to the wealthiest house in Westeros. A dragonrider. Don't forget who you are."

Laenor stared at him for a long moment, then slowly smiled and nodded.

"I won't."

Storm clouds darkened the sky, making for a grim picture. The relentless waves of the Narrow Sea slammed against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones, howling like wolves. Perched atop Caraxes, Daemon stared down at the horizon, where the enemy fleet emerged—sails taut and defiant

Craghas Drahar's forces had lost nearly every single direct engagement—on land and at sea. Yet even after ten moons of defeat and heavy losses, the Triarchy stubbornly clung to Bloodstone, their final foothold in these cursed islands.

They had retreated underground like vermin, burrowing into caves and drawing out the conflict in the desperate hope that reinforcements might arrive to save them.

Fools. Stubborn, deluded fools.

The Three Whores were wealthy, and Dorne had lent its support to Drahar's cause. But even so, Daemon wondered how much longer they intended to bleed coin and men into this futile game of cat and mouse.

The enemy fleet was drawing closer now, heavy with provisions, weapons, and new men destined to bleed out in the sand or become ashes. It was clear—they meant to resupply the rats cowering in Bloodstone's tunnels.

Daemon wasn't about to let that happen.

From his elevated vantage point in the stormy sky, he watched the approaching vessels. Their sails billowed against the bitter winds. Though snow never reached this far south, the cold still gnawed at the Stepstones with unrelenting cruelty. The sea was treacherous, the storm unforgiving, and the wind screamed unnervingly. 

The ships were no mere fishing vessels either. They were large, reinforced, and bristling with weapons. Mounted on their decks were scorpions—massive crossbows capable of piercing the skin of younger dragons. Caraxes was far from being young, but he was no Vhagar.

Each ship carried at least one scorpion; the flagship boasted two.

Clearly, the Triarchy had learned something from their past defeats. They remembered all too well how vulnerable they were to Caraxes' flames—and they were praying for a repeat of Queen Rhaenys' fate at Hellholt. A lucky shot. A miracle.

It won't be that easy, he thought.

Visibility was poor, the rain fell in sheets, and the cold stung like knives. The cacophony of crashing waves and roaring wind would drown out the beat of Caraxes' wings. Their crossbowmen would find it hard to see, harder still to aim.

Daemon leaned forward in his saddle, fingers tightening around the reins. The Blood Wyrm responded instantly, cutting through the air like a blade as he dove towards the largest ship.

He saw panic erupt below—men shouting, scrambling across the deck, pointing upward and screaming 'dragon' in fear-stricken voices. Crossbowmen rushed into position, fumbling with bolts, hands slick from rain and terror.

"Dracarys."

Caraxes unleashed a torrent of flame that engulfed the vessel. Screams of agony pierced the storm as men ran blindly, their bodies ablaze, their cries lost beneath the roar of both fire and waves.

Daemon pulled Caraxes up sharply, just in time to avoid the flurry of bolts fired from more than one ship in retaliation. Massive scorpion bolts whistled through the air, their sharp tips gleaming in the dim light. One tore through the space where he had just been. He heard the deadly swoosh as it passed.

Too close.

He twisted in the saddle, guiding Caraxes in a wide arc away from the remaining weapons. One bolt grazed his wing—a shallow wound—but it drew a furious shriek from the Blood Wyrm, more rage than pain.

Daemon could feel the fury boiling beneath him, as if Caraxes could not believe these creatures had dared to strike him.

The prince urged his dragon into another dive. They barreled towards a second ship. This time, the crossbowmen barely had a chance to raise their weapons before fire washed over the deck. Caraxes' flames seemed to be fueled by his fury, engulfing the deck quickly.

Daemon watched as the remaining ships scattered, their captains breaking formation in panic. Staying together had made them easier targets, and now they scrambled to escape, rudders turning hard—but it was too late.

In the distance, a new force arrived. The Velaryon fleet.

Their sleek warships carved through the storm-tossed sea, silver seahorse banners snapping proudly in the wind. Aboard the vessels were archers, warriors and their deadliest weapon—Wildfire. 

Daemon watched as his allies moved with swift precision. Catapults were loaded with clay jars filled with the volatile green substance. One after another, they were hurled into the enemy fleet.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then—detonation.

Explosions of sickly green flame tore through the enemy ships, fire that clung to wood, flesh, sail—everything it touched. The Wildfire was hungry and devoured all in its path mercilessly, burning hotter than any natural flame.

More jars followed. The sea itself seemed to ignite. The Narrow Sea blazed with eerie emerald light, a hellish glow that illuminated the storm and reflected in Daemon's eyes.

Screams filled the air, tangled with the crackling roar of fire and the thunder of collapsing ships.

If the Seven Hells were real, Daemon thought, the place would look exactly like this.

Caraxes claimed another ship—the last one—his fire sweeping across the deck like it had a mind of its own.

When it was done, the sea was littered with wreckage and corpses. Burning ships groaned and sank into the deep. Crates, splintered masts, and scorched bodies floated among patches of green flame still dancing atop the waves, refusing to be extinguished, even by water.

It was chaos—but to Daemon, it was beautiful.

Satisfied, he guided Caraxes back towards the shore, where his allies waited for him.

The war was not yet won.

But this battle was over.

Chapter Text

Daemon POV 

The clash of steel rang through the air, mingling with the anguished cries of dying men, the distant thunder of dragon roars, and the relentless crashing of waves against jagged rock. It formed a dreadful symphony—raw, unrelenting, and inescapable. The sands of Bloodstone, once pale and coarse beneath the sun, were now stained deep crimson, slick with the blood of the fallen—foe and friend alike.

Daemon danced through the battlefield, Dark Sister singing in his hands as it carved a ruthless path through the chaos. The Valyrian blade drank deep, its dark edge slick with blood, as if the steel itself had developed a thirst. A soldier barely had time to raise his shield before Daemon's strike cleaved through it—and him. In the same breath, Daemon pivoted on his heel, parried a spear with brutal precision, and severed the wooden shaft in two before driving his blade deep into the gut of the stunned mercenary.

The Triarchy's forces fought like rats cornered in a burning barn—desperate, frenzied, lacking any discipline. The battlefield was a maelstrom of panic and violence. Shouts in multiple dialects of bastard Valyrian mixed with the guttural moans of the dying and the shouts of Westerosi commanders.

But this chaos—blood and madness—was where Daemon Targaryen came alive. Where others faltered, he thrived.

To his left, Borros Baratheon fought with the fury of a tempest. The heir to Storm's End was a brute of a young man, tall and broad, and he cleaved through flesh and bone with terrifying strength. He fought like a man possessed—unyielding, wild, and fearless.

To Daemon's right, Corlys fought with measured precision. Each attack was deliberate, efficient, lethal. Beside him, Ser Vaeryn Celtigar moved like a dancer, weaving between blows, his blade catching the sun with every strike before it sank into another foe. 

Further down the slope, Ser Garren Bar Emmon dueled two Myrish sellswords at once. He blocked one strike, pivoted low, and skewered his opponent in a smooth, practiced motion. Nearby, Ser Gyles Sunglass fought helmetless, his pale hair matted with blood, his face twisted in a snarl as he exchanged blows with a Tyroshi captain.

Once again, the battle was turning in their favor. The Triarchy was faltering.

But Daemon knew this pattern too well. He had seen it before.

And then—he saw it again.

Near the mouth of the cave that led into the heart of Bloodstone, a familiar figure raised his hand high. Craghas Drahar—The Crabfeeder—stood atop a boulder, face shadowed beneath his mask, as the guttural blast of a war horn tore through the battlefield.

Daemon's jaw clenched.

It was the signal for retreat.

"Cowards," he hissed.

Just like before, the Triarchy was fleeing into their tunnels. Every time the tide turned, they scurried back underground like vermin, denying their pursuers a final blow. It was a strategy meant to frustrate, to draw out the war, to bleed their enemies dry.

Not today.

"Fuck that," Daemon growled. He turned sharply to Borros. "With me!"

Without hesitation, the Baratheon heir surged forward at Daemon's side, and together they led a thunderous charge. They crashed into the fleeing soldiers like a tidal wave of steel and fury, cutting them down before they could reach the cave entrance. Daemon ducked beneath a clumsy slash, then came up fast, driving Dark Sister through a Myrish captain's ribs with enough force to lift the man off his feet. Borros roared as he cleaved through a retreating spearman, spraying blood across the sand.

But it wasn't enough.

Too many of them made it inside.

Daemon reached near the entrance just in time to see Craghas Drahar vanish into the shadows of the tunnel, his ragged cloak trailing behind like a mocking banner.

"Son of a whore," he breathed, his chest heaving.

His muscles burned, his blade dripped crimson, and yet his resolve was iron.

No more retreats. No more delays. No more hiding in caves.

This would end. Today.

Daemon found what he was looking for soon enough.

A Triarchy mercenary lay sprawled among a mound of corpses, his body trembling as he clung to consciousness. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the sand, and his face had turned the color of ash from blood loss. The man was on Balerion's doorstep, but it seemed as if he hadn't realized it yet. He whimpered as Daemon approached.

Without a word, Daemon knelt beside him, grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair, and yanked his head back with a violent jerk. The edge of Dark Sister pressed cold and unforgiving against the man's throat.

"You're going to tell me where every single cave entrance is," Daemon said, his tone quiet—almost casual. "Or I'll find out just how many pieces I can carve from you before you die."

There was no bluff in his voice. No need for theatrics. The blade in his hand, and the battlefield around them, said enough.

The mercenary's eyes went wide with terror. He swallowed hard, voice trembling. "I—If I tell you… will you let me live?"

Daemon almost laughed. The accent was thick and grating—High Valyrian twisted and butchered through the ugly dialects from Essos. This one in specific was from Lys. He sneered.

Bastardized Valyrian always makes me wish I was fucking deaf, just so I wouldn't have to listen to it. 

Still smiling, he leaned in closer, showing a flash of teeth.

"We'll see."

Driven by terror and the desperate will to survive, the man broke almost instantly. He spoke in a frenzy, words tumbling from his mouth in a frantic torrent. He listed every hidden path, every forgotten crevice, every concealed tunnel the Triarchy had used to burrow into the rock and escape justice. His voice cracked under the weight of panic, but he didn't stop until he had told Daemon everything.

Daemon listened in silence, nodding once when the man finished.

Then, with the same casual ease he might use to flick dust from his cloak, he plunged Dark Sister through the man's throat. The mercenary choked once, then fell still.

Daemon stood and wiped the bloodied blade on the corpse's filthy tunic.

"He wasn't going to last much longer with that wound anyway," he said, turning to his men who were staring at him, wide-eyed. "I did him the favor of making it quick."

There was a moment of silence.

Then Daemon raised his voice, sharp and commanding.

"Corlys—take half the men and cover the eastern cliffs. Borros, secure the shoreline. Vaeryn, Garren, Gyles—each of you take a detachment and hold one of the entrances. No one gets in. No one gets out."

His eyes briefly landed on Vaemond Velaryon. Daemon held the stare for half a heartbeat, then looked away in dismissal.

He didn't bother giving him an order. He wouldn't trust that man to hold a chamberpot, let alone a strategic position.

Daemon turned away and headed for the ridge where Caraxes waited.

The Blood Wyrm stood tall against the horizon, crimson wings partially unfurled, golden eyes burning like twin furnaces. Daemon climbed into the saddle, his fingers tightening on the reins as Caraxes let out a low growl, sensing his rider's intent.

Together, they soared towards the nearest cave mouth, the main entrance.

Daemon hovered just above the rocky slope, glaring down at the dark opening below—the same passage where Craghas Drahar had slithered away moments earlier.

"Dracarys."

Caraxes obeyed instantly.

Flames erupted from his jaws in a torrent, white-hot and searing, engulfing the cave mouth. Rock blackened, cracked, and collapsed under the assault, stones tumbling in a thunderous roar as the tunnel entrance was sealed under a wave of rubble and fire.

Daemon flew to the next. And the next

One by one, every known entrance was buried beneath smoldering rock.

By the time he was finished, smoke coiled from the cliffs like incense from a battlefield altar. The Triarchy was buried alive in their own warren, their escape routes destroyed, their final refuge turned into a tomb.

Daemon hovered in the sky above it all, his lips curling into a cruel smirk.

Let's see how they like their little caves now.

Daemon waited.

Patiently. Silently.

Five days passed.

He sat by the fire, legs stretched out, methodically cleaning Dark Sister with a cloth as dark as the blade itself. Sparks cracked in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across his face. His men stood watch, grim and alert, posted at every cave entrance.

And then, just as the sun began to climb on the sixth day, the silence shifted.

A faint sound echoed from the main cave's entrance—thin, strained. A scream, half-muffled by stone and distance. Then another. Then a third, rasping and broken.

The Triarchy's mercenaries had run out of food. Out of water. Out of options.

Those who had once mocked him from the shadows were now trapped in their own tomb. Their bravado had rotted with their strength.

A hoarse voice cried out from within.

"Mercy! Please! We surrender!"

Daemon rose to his feet, brushing ash from his tunic. He took a few measured steps towards the entrance, the wind tugging at his cloak as he did so.

"Surrender?" he repeated, tone sharp with mockery. "Weren't you all so eager to die for your masters?"

"No! No, please!" the voice begged, cracking with desperation. "There was fighting among us! Those who still wanted to resist—they're dead! We killed them! Please, my lord, open the entrance! We surrender! We don't want to die like this!"

Daemon tilted his head slowly, considering.

"And Craghas Drahar?" he called out.

A pause.

Then the voice answered, "He's yours, my lord!"

Daemon's lips curled into a smile—cold, satisfied.

It took longer than expected to clear the stones, but eventually the way was open.

Daemon stood before the main entrance as the final boulders were dragged aside. Behind him loomed Caraxes, wings partially unfurled, red scales blazing in the morning sun. The Blood Wyrm's nostrils flared, smoke curling as if he too was eager to see this finished.

Daemon's men flanked him on both sides, blades drawn, eyes hard with suspicion. They were ready for anything. A trap, a final act of desperation—it wouldn't matter. It would be met with steel and fire.

From the darkness, they emerged.

One by one, the surviving mercenaries stumbled out into the light, their faces gaunt, hands raised in surrender. Many limped, some had bloodied bandages wrapped around their limbs, others bore the dazed look of men who had been too long in the dark. Defeated. Hollow.

Then, one of them shoved a figure forward.

Craghas Drahar.

The Crabfeeder had been beaten near to death—his disgusting face, free of the Ghiscari mask, was swollen, one eye shut, lips split and crusted with blood. His hair hung in greasy clumps. A broken man. Yet that remaining eye—milky and bloodshot—still burned with loathing.

A sellsword stepped forward, offering Daemon two items: Drahar's warhammer—and the Ghiscari mask that once hid half of his face.

Daemon circled the kneeling man like a hawk circling its prey, Dark Sister gleaming at his side. Then he seized Drahar by the filthy strands of his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look up.

"You cost me too much time, Crabfeeder," Daemon said softly, as if speaking to an old friend.

Then, without hesitation, he swung.

Dark Sister sliced clean through flesh and bone.

Craghas Drahar's head hit the dirt with a dull thud. The body collapsed beside it, twitching once before going still.

Daemon exhaled.

The flames, the blood, the endless skirmishes, the games of cat and mouse—all of it, done.

He looked down at the corpse, then turned to his men, eyes sharp and bright with fire.

"It's finally fucking over."

Daemon spared the surrendered mercenaries.

They were sellswords—men who fought for coin, not for loyalty, not for honor. Tools of whoever filled their purse. Daemon saw no point in butchering them when he could send them back to Essos with a message.

As they boarded a battered old ship, some limping, others too weak to meet his gaze, Daemon stood on the shore, arms crossed, Dark Sister sheathed but ever close.

"Tell your masters what happened here," he said, his voice carrying over the wind like a curse. "Tell them what will happen again if they dare return."

No one argued.

They cast off in silence, vanishing slowly into the horizon, leaving behind nothing but the stink of blood and smoke.

Daemon turned back to the men who had fought beside him—the ones who had bled for this victory and stood tall at its end. 

"Let's take a look inside those damn tunnels." he said.

They entered the caves.

The tunnels were narrow, winding, cut deep into the rock like veins through stone. Their torches flickered against damp walls, casting long, ghostly shadows. Every step echoed loudly in it. The stench of blood lingered thick in the air, mingled with the salt of the sea. Flies buzzed over rotting bodies, some half-starved, others torn apart in madness or desperation. The deeper they went, the colder it became.

After what felt like hours of walking through that claustrophobic darkness, they came upon a chamber so vast it made them stop in their tracks.

A silence fell over them.

Gold.

Not scattered coins or forgotten treasure chests—but mountains of wealth. Heaps of it. Staggering in scope and scale, like something pulled from myth. Coins from every corner of the known world glimmered in the firelight: Westerosi dragons, Volantene honors, the oval Lyseni ones, and other currencies long forgotten. All thrown together like sand on a shore.

Jeweled goblets peeked out from beneath the piles, their gemstones catching the firelight like stars. Ornate crowns—some ancient and dulled with time, others still gleaming—sat atop the mounds. Strings of pearls coiled lazily around treasure chests, and rubies the size of a man's fist gleamed blood-red among the gold.

Daemon let out a low whistle, eyes flicking from one pile to the next, taking in the sheer magnitude of it.

Behind him, Corlys gave a breathless chuckle. "It seems we've won more than just a war."

Daemon crouched, letting his hand sink into the sea of coins. Gold trickled between his fingers, pooling at his feet in soft, musical clinks. It felt weighty—not just with wealth, but with possibility.

From deeper in the chamber, a man laughed in stunned disbelief. Another whispered a prayer under his breath. Even the most seasoned among them couldn't hide their awe. They had expected spoils—but this was something else entirely.

This wasn't loot.

This was power.

The kind of fortune that could raise fleets. Fund armies. Build cities from dust. It was a king's ransom a hundred times over.

Daemon exhaled, slow and measured, eyes still fixed on the gold. Already, ideas were forming. Plans. Possibilities. With Viserys' blessing—and his own ambition—this place could become more than just a wartime conquest.

It could be something lasting.

A stronghold. A port. A new seat of power carved into stone and soaked in the blood of his enemies.

A territory of his own.

Daemon Targaryen, Lord of the Stepstones.

He smiled, quiet and to himself, as he rose from the treasure pile.

Heh. I suppose I'm no longer a second son with nothing to my name.

Rhaenyra POV 

In the clearing before the heart tree, Rhaenyra moved with deliberate steps, her wooden sword slicing through the air with every practiced swing. Opposite her, Syrano the Shadowstep barely seemed to move at all—slipping just out of reach each time she struck, as though his feet scarcely touched the ground. His footwork was so fluid, so impossibly light, that he seemed to flicker in and out of existence like a shadow dancing on water.

Shadowstep, huh… one cannot say he didn't earn that name. 

"Too slow, princess," he chided in a thick Braavosi accent, easily dodging another of her lunges. "And too stiff! You move like a man in armor—not like water." Before she could react, he slid in close and tapped her shoulder with his wooden blade.

"Again."

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply through her nose, jaw clenched. She forced herself to remain calm, to focus. The cold didn't help—her fingers ached and her breath steamed in the air—but she refused to complain. Not aloud, at least.

She adjusted her stance and lunged forward, aiming a sharp thrust.

Syrano deflected it with elegant ease, then tapped her ribs with a teasing flick.

"Seven hells, Syrano! That hurt!" she hissed, wincing and rubbing her side.

He smirked. "Then don't let me touch you, princess. It won't hurt if you block the blow."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. Gods, he's insufferable.

"Remember," Syrano added, raising his blade once more, "the water does not complain when it meets the rock. It flows around it." He gestured for her to try again.

Not far from the heart tree, a small group of girls sat nestled in thick cloaks, comfortably sprawled on cushioned chairs. They sipped hot tea and nibbled on pastries while watching Rhaenyra's training session unfold like a play.

The princess had invited them to join her training before, but they had laughed it off—dismissing the very idea with waving hands and amused glances.

Johanna let out an exaggerated sigh, blowing gently on her steaming cup. "I admire her determination, I do… but what madness possesses her to do this in the dead of winter?"

"Stubbornness," Rosamund said dryly, not even glancing up.

Elenda bit into a honeyed apple tart, her tone thoughtful. "Well, she is improving. Master Syrano hasn't knocked her flat yet."

Beatrice grinned. "Which only means she's overdue for a proper fall."

Rhaenyra shot a glare in their direction. "You know I can hear you, right? You're the worst kind of spectators!"

"We're the best kind of spectators!" Johanna chirped, lifting her pastry in mock toast. "We watch, we comment, and we eat in your honor!"

Rhaenyra gave them a deadpan stare, then turned back to Syrano. She inhaled deeply, tightened her grip on the wooden sword, and focused.

Okay. I need to center myself. No distractions.

At the edges of the Godswood, a handful of courtiers and attendants lingered, pretending not to watch while doing exactly that. Whispers passed between them like wind through leaves, their eyes flicking between the princess and her Braavosi instructor.

Some were scandalized. Others merely curious. A few knights snorted in disdain at the sight of a girl wielding a sword. But not all. A handful watched her with something closer to respect

Don't they have anything better to do? Honestly…

Then the atmosphere shifted.

A hush fell over the onlookers as a new figure entered the clearing.

King Viserys, dressed in thick black leathers trimmed with fur, strode across the frost-bitten grass with a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The courtiers quickly bowed as he passed. Rhaenyra brightened the moment she saw him.

"Father!"

Viserys smiled warmly. "If my daughter is training, then I should train too. Wouldn't want her thinking she could best me."

Syrano dipped into a bow, mischief in his eyes. "Your Grace, do you wish to dance?"

Viserys chuckled and accepted the wooden blade the Braavosi offered. "Well, I may not dance, but I can still fight." He turned to Rhaenyra, raising the sword. "Shall we, daughter?"

She grinned. "You're getting old, father. Don't blame me if you tire before I do."

Viserys laughed, full and warm. "That sharp tongue won't save you in a duel, my sweet girl."

Her heart thudded with excitement. It was her first time training with him. He had been too busy before—meetings, scrolls, lords. But now, here he was. Her king. Her father.

All around them, onlookers watched with wide eyes. A princess with a sword. A king sparring with her. It would be a tale whispered in the halls for weeks, if not years.

We're giving them enough gossip to last a lifetime, Rhaenyra thought, amused.

"Come then, daughter," Viserys said, lowering into a stance. "Show me what Syrano has taught you."

She didn't hesitate.

She darted forward, fast and light, aiming a quick thrust at his side.

Viserys parried with ease. "Good speed," he said, "but predictable." He swept her back with a single strike.

Gritting her teeth, Rhaenyra tried to move like Syrano had taught her. She feinted, sidestepped, and struck low. He blocked it and countered. She barely kept her footing.

The cold bit into her lungs. Her muscles screamed in protest. But she refused to stop.

Again, she attacked. Again, he deflected.

Desperate to land a hit, she lunged one more time—but Viserys sidestepped and swept his leg out.

The world tilted.

With a startled yelp, Rhaenyra hit the ground hard, flat on her back, staring up at the pale winter sky.

Beatrice clapped with glee. "Finally! The fall we were waiting for!"

Johanna laughed behind her hands while Rosamund and Elenda exchanged mildly amused glances.

Rhaenyra groaned and propped herself up on her elbows. Viserys loomed above her, grinning smugly.

"Predictable," he said, voice light with teasing.

"You tripped me," she growled. "That's not fair."

He laughed and offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet. "I fear no enemy you'll face will ever fight fair, sweet girl. Better you learn that now."

From the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra spotted Alicent standing among the onlookers, her hands folded, her expression conflicted.

Viserys followed her gaze and lowered his voice, slipping into High Valyrian.

"I've noticed you spending more time with her. Be careful. She may not have acted against you, but she's still her father's creature."

Rhaenyra's smile faded. She nodded slowly. "I know. Don't worry. I just… I have a feeling Otto told her to get closer to me so she can—well, seduce you."

Viserys blinked, stunned.

"She always looks guilty and tormented when you're near," Rhaenyra added. "I'm trying my best to make her see that Otto is asking her to sin in his name. That's why I spend time with her."

Viserys stared at her, jaw slack. "That man has no shame! I'm a married man—and she's barely older than you, my own daughter! Ridiculous."

Rhaenyra tilted her head innocently, batting her eyes. "But father… didn't you consummate your marriage with mother when she was Alicent's age?"

Viserys sputtered, his face flushing crimson. "I—I have things to attend to, sweet girl. I'll see you at supper."

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead and turned on his heel, escaping with the grace of a man thoroughly defeated.

Rhaenyra watched him go, a wicked little smirk tugging at her lips.

Heh.

"But… to learn swordsmanship?" Alicent asked hesitantly, her fingers nervously toying with the hem of her sleeve. "It really isn't a woman's place to do such things. Aren't you afraid of angering the Gods?"

Rhaenyra had to fight the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes.

Instead, she smiled—sweet and patient, the way she was taught. "Alicent, we Targaryens are not like everyone else, are we? You mustn't forget the Doctrine of Exceptionalism."

She gently clasped Alicent's hands between her own.

"The Faith has already agreed that we, as descendants of Old Valyria—the only dragonriders in the world—are different. That's why it's not considered a sin when we marry brothers and sisters. The laws that bind others don't apply to us. It was confirmed by the High Septon himself in 54 AC. I am simply following in the footsteps of my ancestors. Take Queen Visenya as an example, she was the wielder of Dark Sister and a great swordswoman. My grandmother, Princess Alyssa, was also fond of swordsmanship, combat, and anything that was traditionally for boys and men. She is often described as someone who had a 'warrior's heart'. It's my House's tradition."

She tilted her head slightly, as if comforting a fretful child. "So, truly, there's no reason for you to worry."

Alicent looked unconvinced but nodded, her mouth tight.

"And… your father, the king, has approved..." she said softly.

"Exactly!" Rhaenyra said brightly. "He was thrilled when I asked him to learn swordsmanship. Did you see us training today?"

Alicent gave the slightest nod, her gaze lowering. Guilt and something close to shame already tugged at her features at the mention of Rhaenyra's father.

"I was so excited," she continued, a playful lilt in her voice. "It's been hard to find time with him lately. Even Mother has complained multiple times that she doesn't get enough moments with her husband."

Rhaenyra giggled, light as silk.

Alicent's hands clenched tighter. "The king and queen do seem to have a… a very good relationship," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, Alicent, you have no idea," Rhaenyra gushed. "It's like something out of the poems we used to read as little girls—true, deep love. Mother says her happiest memory was the day she and Father were joined before the Gods. She told me she could feel the Seven blessing their union."

Alicent's discomfort was written all over her face now. She began picking at her fingernails without noticing.

"The king clearly adores the queen," she said weakly. "I-it's plain to see."

"He really does." Rhaenyra leaned in a little, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've noticed some noblewomen lately trying to get close to him—dressing in their finest silks, dripping in jewels, flaunting themselves, even though they know he has a wife."

She gave a soft, scandalized gasp. "How shameless, don't you think?"

Alicent nodded mutely, her knuckles pale.

"But Father is loyal. He's never touched another woman since their wedding day. Isn't that romantic? In a court like this, where everyone whispers and schemes? And yet—he remains faithful to my mother."

Alicent looked like she might faint on the spot. Her lips parted, but her words came out in a stammer. "Y-yes. It is… very romantic. Their marriage is truly… blessed."

Rhaenyra beamed, radiant and innocent. "Would you like to accompany me to the sept today? I plan to light a candle and pray for my parents' marriage—and to ask the Gods to protect my father from temptation."

Alicent clutched her Seven-Pointed Star so tightly it left indentations on her skin. "I-I would love to," she replied, her smile so strained it looked painful.

"Perfect!" Rhaenyra said sweetly, already rising to her feet. "Let me just wash and change out of these leathers first."

She gave Alicent's hands one last gentle squeeze, then turned away—her smile curling just slightly at the edges.

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Chapter Text

Alicent POV 

Alicent's steps echoed softly as she entered the sept beside Rhaenyra, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, trying to still her trembling fingers. The air was thick with incense, the curling smoke embracing her like something familiar and once comforting. It had always been this way. The sept had long been her sanctuary—a sacred space where she could clear her thoughts and escape the weight of the world, even if only for a fleeting moment.

That comfort had become more precious after her father's disgrace.

Otto Hightower had always been a stern and serious man, but after being stripped of his title as Hand, something in him had shifted. He was no longer merely strict—he was unstable. Irritable. Quick to anger. Prone to sharp, impatient outbursts. Alicent didn't like thinking of him that way, but to deny it would be lying to herself.

She sometimes exchanged letters with her brother Gwayne, speaking of their father, of the change he went through. Gwayne seemed to have found peace where he was—contentment, even. Alicent remembered how much he had complained at first when he was sent to squire for House Celtigar, grumbling about salt air and strange customs. But his letters had changed. Over time, he wrote of new friends, of things he was learning, of the strange and liberating feeling of freedom. Alicent could feel his happiness through every word, every line.

She was glad for him. Truly, she was.

But somewhere deep down, beneath all the quiet smiles and well-meant wishes, a tiny part of her felt envy. He had found something she hadn't. A place to belong.

A life away from father. A tiny voice spoke inside her mind, but she shook her head as if to dispel the thought.

She was a good daughter. Good daughters didn't think such things.

Gwayne had once written that perhaps their father hadn't changed at all—perhaps he had always been this way, only better at hiding it. Alicent hadn't wanted to believe it then. But lately… the hope she clung to felt more like a fraying thread.

Today, the sept felt different.

The peace that had once embraced her now stood at a distance, like an old friend whose warmth she could no longer remember. Like she did not belong. She looked around the sacred space with wary eyes. The tall stone walls loomed above her. The statues of the Seven Gods stood cold and still, their eyes carved deep and unblinking. They were ever-watchful, ever-present, and that thought brought Alicent comfort once.

Now, it felt like they were judging her. Like their eyes were piercing through her, seeing every secret, every doubt, every fear she kept deep within her heart.

She was laid bare before the Gods' eyes, and her chest tightened under the weight of their scrutiny.

Alicent paused, breath catching, and gazed at the flickering candles scattered around the feet of the statues. The soft golden light bathed the cold stone in a glow meant to soothe, meant to calm. It was supposed to bring her peace, like it always did. But now, it felt false.

How can I pray with honesty, she thought, when every word feels like a lie? Like a betrayal? Like sin?

Beside her, Rhaenyra stood calm and composed. Her figure a stark contrast to Alicent's own. Hands folded, lips moving silently in prayer. Her posture was serene, almost regal, as though this moment belonged entirely to her. Her very presence made Alicent feel smaller. Insignificant. Rhaenyra always looked so sure of herself, so certain of her place in the world—while Alicent felt lost. Adrift. Torn between conflicting loyalties.

She tried to focus on the prayer. To let the rhythm of the words carry her away, like it used to. But they felt empty. Hollow. Like a song whose meaning she had forgotten. Her father's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Find a way to make Viserys see you, until he realizes what a perfect woman you are."

It hadn't been a request. It had been a command. A decree.

Alicent had tried to ignore the chill that crept into her bones, the twisting in her gut. She had loved her father. Admired him. Trusted him. But now… now she questioned if she had ever truly known him.

Her father had asked her to be something else, someone else entirely. He hadn't asked her opinion. Hadn't wondered how she felt. He had simply decided. She was to seduce King Viserys. To become his mistress. To bear a son with Hightower blood. A prince strong enough to rival Rhaenyra's claim.

He said it was her duty. Said it was the only way to save the realm. But hidden in the deepest parts of her heart, Alicent knew the cold truth.

It was not duty she would be serving—it was ambition. 

She closed her eyes, trying to drown out the memory of his voice. Trying to silence the storm of guilt pounding in her chest.

Mistress.

The word echoed in her mind, sharp and cruel.

She could still see Otto's eyes—cold, unyielding—as he gave her that task. It had never occurred to him that she might not want it, or how it might break her.

Alicent opened her eyes and glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, who remained deep in prayer, her lips steady, her expression untouched by the tempest raging beside her. She had no idea what Alicent had been asked to do. No idea of the burden her father had placed upon her. How could she? Alicent was the one who stood to lose everything. While Rhaenyra—the daughter of House Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne—was safe from it all. She was the one who was loved by her parents and family, the one who would inherit the most powerful position in the realm. She had everything. She was safe.

Alicent was not safe. She was a pawn.

No, she thought desperately. I'm not a pawn. I'm his daughter. He loves me. He must.

The weight of it all pressed down on her like stone. She couldn't breathe. The walls seemed to close in around her, the holy air of the sept turning cold and heavy.

She wanted to run. To flee this place, this burden, this burden that was mercilessly placed upon her shoulders. But there was nowhere to go. There was no escape. She could never escape her duty to her family, to her father, no matter how much she wished for it… right?

Rhaenyra shifted slightly beside her, and without meaning to, the words escaped Alicent's lips—a trembling whisper she hadn't planned to speak aloud:

"Rhaenyra… do you truly believe the Gods have blessed your parents' marriage?"

The words hung in the air like smoke. Alicent immediately regretted it.

Rhaenyra turned to her, pale brows knitting in confusion. She studied Alicent, searching for meaning beneath the question.

"Yes," she said softly, after a pause. "I believe they did."

Her voice was steady. Certain.

"My parents love each other deeply. My father's duty as king demanded a male heir, and my mother was unable to give him one. Any other man in his place would have married again. It's in a man's nature to want his line secured through sons. But not my father. He broke tradition—for her. Because to him, she is the only one. The only woman he wants to grow old with."

Rhaenyra offered a small smile, gentle and assured.

"If that isn't blessed by the Gods…" she left the sentence unfinished. She didn't need to say more.

Alicent's lip trembled. The truth in Rhaenyra's words stung more than any slap.

Their marriage was blessed by the Gods.

It had been, hadn't it?

Alicent herself had witnessed it multiple times—seen the way King Viserys and Queen Aemma looked at each other, the way they shared that unspoken bond. She always thought it was something out of a book. Something pure. Sacred. Real.

And now, she was supposed to be the one to destroy it.

The guilt swelled in her throat like bile.

She glanced up at the statues of the Seven, and for a moment, she was certain they were staring back at her—disappointed, condemning. How could she ask for their protection while plotting to undo a union they had blessed?

Her voice cracked when she spoke again, this time more to herself than Rhaenyra. "What if… it's not the Gods' will?"

Rhaenyra's expression shifted, concern deepening. She stepped closer. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Alicent swallowed hard. "What if my father is wrong? What if… I'm wrong? How do I know what is wrong?"

The words burned. Bitter. Shameful.

Rhaenyra was silent for a moment, then replied with a softness that surprised her.

"The Gods' will is not always clear. Nor is it something we're privy to. We are not meant to know it. But sometimes, if we try hard enough, we do feel it—in our hearts. Feel what is right and wrong. So… if something does not feel right to you, Alicent, then perhaps… you do not have to do it."

The simplicity of the answer struck like thunder.

Rhaenyra didn't know what Alicent had been commanded to do. But for a single breath, it felt like she did. Like she understood the impossible position Alicent had been placed in.

Alicent turned away, placing her hands on the cold stone of the sept, seeking something to anchor her. She had no words. No answers. All she could feel was the weight of her guilt. The weight of her father's expectations. The Gods' silent judgment. The fear that she was being used, not loved.

They all pressed in.

She closed her eyes, feeling the burn behind them, and whispered a prayer—trembling and desperate—asking the Gods for strength. Not strength to do what was asked of her.

But the strength to live with the choices she would have to make.

Whatever they would be.

Alicent closed the door behind her, her breath shaky and uneven as she sank against it. The walls of her chambers felt smaller than before, closing in around her, pressing down on her chest like a weight she couldn't shrug off. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears—a relentless drumbeat of guilt, fear, and confusion. She had gone to the sept searching for clarity, hoping that prayer might bring her peace. She had thought that it would soothe her, as it always did. But instead, it had only highlighted the ever-growing distance between what was expected of her and what her heart felt was right.

Now she was more lost than ever. The time spent in the sept left her feeling even more disconnected from herself and the Gods.

The Gods had once felt so near. Now, they felt far away—silent and judging.

Her fingers brushed the cool surface of her writing desk as she stumbled past it, but even the touch of familiar objects felt strange, foreign. This room, this keep, this life—none of it felt like it belonged to her anymore. She longed for something else, something untouched by men's ambitions. Something not soaked in manipulation and quiet betrayals. Something pure.

The soft sound of footsteps outside her door pulled her from her thoughts. She didn't have time to steady herself before the door creaked open, and her father stepped inside.

The last person she wanted to see at the moment.

She went rigid. Her body instinctively stilled, like a rabbit sensing a predator's shadow. She didn't speak, didn't move—barely even breathed.

Alicent had never been able to explain why she feared her father. He had raised her, taught her, clothed her, praised her when she excelled. But after everything he'd asked of her, everything he expected her to become, she could no longer meet his eyes without feeling a deep, gnawing dread in her bones.

It was as though he no longer saw her as his daughter, but merely a tool to be used at his convenience. And the thought of it—of what he wanted her to become—sickened her.

"Ah, my daughter," Otto said, his tone smooth but edged with that quiet, steely command she had grown up obeying. "Come. Sit. We have much to discuss."

She obeyed—even though she could already feel the exhaustion deep in her bones—moving slowly to the edge of her bed. Her hands clenched in her lap. She tried not to pick at her fingers—he hated that habit. She couldn't lift her eyes to meet his.

Otto didn't seem to mind.

"Tell me," he said, folding his hands behind his back, "how is the plan progressing? Have you gotten close to Rhaenyra again? Has she softened?"

Alicent swallowed hard. Her throat was dry, her voice thinner than she wanted it to be. "Yes, Father. She's been kind. We've spoken a little. She… trusts me again, I think. Though she's often busy with her duties."

Otto's gaze sharpened, and he leaned forward slightly, the intensity of his stare slicing into her. "And the king?" he asked. "Has he begun to look at you differently? Has he shown any… interest?"

Alicent's heart gave a sharp, painful thud. She had known this part of the conversation would come. It always did. But it never felt less wrong. She hated it—the implication that she was to use her body, her presence, her innocence to sway the king. That she was supposed to become his mistress in order to secure a male heir—it repulsed her. She hated how easily her father spoke of it, like it was no more than court politics. Another step in a plan.

But it wasn't. It wasn't that simple. It didn't feel right.

"No," she answered quietly, her voice barely audible. "He hasn't shown any signs of that. He's polite, but nothing more."

Otto's mouth curled into a thin, calculated smile. It chilled her to the bone. "As expected. Patience, my dear. You must make him want you. It must feel natural to him. As if the desire were his idea all along. He can't feel as if you were pushing for it." His tone was smooth, practiced—like a man discussing a game of cyvasse. "Only then can we secure what is rightfully ours. Only then can we save the realm from catastrophe." That last part came out like an afterthought.

Alicent flinched. She wanted to say something. To protest. To scream. But her throat closed up with the weight of his words. They were like chains, wrapping around her, suffocating her, leaving her unable to breathe.

Her silence seemed to satisfy him.

"You must understand," Otto continued, as if explaining to a slow child. "This is for the good of the realm. The Gods did not mean for a woman to rule, to lead men. A woman on the throne will fracture everything, weaken us all. We can't allow that. A male heir is needed. One who will rule as a king should. As is right. As it was intended by the Gods. That is why this must be done."

Alicent's hands trembled in her lap, her chest tightening with each passing moment. She had heard these arguments before. But today, they felt colder. More cruel.

They didn't feel like truth. They felt like poison.

She couldn't reconcile what he was saying with what she had felt in the sept. In that sacred place, she had tried to pray, to ask for guidance, but all she had felt was the weight of the Gods' judgment, their disappointment. How could she believe in the righteousness of what her father was asking when everything inside her screamed that it was wrong?

Then something in her—small and frightened but angry—finally pushed back.

"Father," she said, barely above a whisper, "are you certain this is the Gods' will? Is… adultery? Birthing a bastard? Is that truly what the Seven command of me? Are such things truly aligned with their teachings?"

Otto's eyes narrowed.

He leaned forward, his voice low and venomous. "Alicent," he hissed, "a girl like you could never understand the will of the Gods. You don't have the capacity for it. Your mind is too soft. Too clouded and easily swayed by your petty emotions. The Gods have blessed our house with the knowledge of what must be done. With this path. And you—you need only walk it."

His words cut deeper than she'd expected. To hear him say that she couldn't understand her Gods, that she was too naive, too weak… it crushed her. She had always believed her faith was hers to feel, to embrace. But now, her father was telling her that it was nothing more than childish ignorance.

He didn't just dismiss her faith—he mocked it. And for the first time, a small part of her wondered if he had ever believed in the Gods at all.

"Father, please," she whispered, voice shaking. "In the sept, I felt… I felt like the Gods were watching me. Like they knew. And they weren't pleased. It didn't feel holy. It felt like… I was betraying everything I believed in."

Otto's expression twisted into something cruel. "Enough of your girlish fantasies," he snapped. "Do you truly think your feelings matter? Do you think your discomfort has any weight compared to the future of our house? Of the Seven Kingdoms? You know nothing of the Gods. You know nothing of sacrifice, child. You know nothing of what must be done."

Alicent's throat tightened, her vision blurred. She didn't know what to believe anymore. All she knew was that nothing felt right.

"I don't think we're doing the right thing," she said, barely audible. "I think we're acting like villains. We're betraying the Gods and everything they taught us."

Otto's eyes flashed. And before she could move—

CRACK.

His hand struck her across the face.

The force of it knocked her back onto the bed, her cheek flaring with pain. Her gasp was sharp and breathless, the sound of it muffled by the pounding in her ears.

"Silence!" Otto roared. "You will not question me again. You will do as you're told. You will make the king see you. You will bear him a son. And you will never speak such foolishness again."

Alicent curled into herself, one hand clutching her stinging cheek, the other pressed tightly to her stomach to keep herself from vomiting. The tears came fast, hot and helpless, spilling down her cheeks as her whole body shook with silent sobs.

Otto stood, his voice low and seething. "Read the Seven-Pointed Star. Pray. Reflect on your sins. Reflect on your rebellion against your father. And remember your place."

He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

And just like that, she was alone.

The pain in her cheek was nothing compared to the pain inside her chest. Her father had struck her before. With words. With coldness. With expectations. But never like this.

Never like this.

She folded in on herself, curling up on the bed like a child, weeping openly now.

"What should I do?" she whispered into the silence. "What should I do?"

But the Gods gave no answer.

Viserys POV 

The whistle of Caraxes split through the cold air blanketing King's Landing—a shrill, unmistakable sound that sent ripples through the Outer Yard of the Red Keep. Heads turned upward in unison. The Blood Wyrm's crimson shadow could easily be seen against the pale sky. The dragon was a terrifying sight—a long-necked, serpentine beast that moved with unnatural grace.

Viserys stood at the forefront, his eyes locked on the sky, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His heart thundered in his chest with anticipation.

Nearly a year had passed since Daemon had flown to war in the Stepstones. Now, at last, he was returning home.

I missed the annoying pest.

Aemma stood beside him, regal and composed, though her blue eyes sparkled with barely restrained warmth. Rhaenyra, just to her father's side, shifted restlessly—unable to contain her excitement. Her purple eyes gleamed, betraying her emotions.

Rhaenys stood with arms folded, a smirk tugging at her lips as she gave Rhaenyra a knowing glance. Beside her, little Laena craned her neck, wide-eyed with awe while looking at Caraxes .

Vaegon stood a few paces back, his face as impassive as ever. But his fingers tapped impatiently against his side, betraying the anticipation he would never voice.

Nobles clustered around the courtyard behind the royal family, every one of them craning for a better view. They had come not only to witness Daemon's return but to watch—to dissect every glance, every gesture. Some were wary. Others intrigued. But all of them understood one thing:

The Rogue Prince who had left would not be the same man who was returning.

Caraxes circled once more before descending, wings beating hard against the air. With a thundering gust, he landed in the Outer Yard, his elongated body coiling slightly as his wings folded in. Dust and cold dirt whirled through the air from the force of it.

Daemon dismounted from the saddle in a fluid, practiced motion. His boots hit the ground lightly. His hair—shorter now, silver windswept—framed a face hardened by battle. His dark armor gleamed in the pale sunlight, and Dark Sister rested at his hip.

He scanned the gathered crowd with his cunning lilac eyes, his expression unreadable—until it landed on Viserys. And then—

Before Daemon could utter a word, Viserys surged forward.

He cupped Daemon’s face in both hands, turning it left, then right, inspecting it like an overprotective mother hen.

Daemon scoffed. "Did you think I'd return in pieces?"

Viserys ignored him, brushing a thumb over his brother's jaw, then his brow, his cheek—searching for injuries.

When he saw none that was too concerning, when he was satisfied that his brother had returned whole and mostly unharmed, he pulled him into a fierce embrace.

There were murmurs from the nobles.

But the royal family only smiled.

Daemon stiffened at first, bracing as if he meant to resist. But Viserys felt it—the steady thump of Daemon's heart beneath the armor, the breath hitching as his arms slowly, almost begrudgingly, rose to return the embrace.

"I missed you, valonqar," Viserys whispered against his brother's shoulder.

A beat.

Then, low and nearly inaudible, "I missed you too, lēkia."

Viserys pulled back, resting a firm hand on Daemon's shoulder, pride shining in his gaze.

Then, turning to the gathered nobles, his voice rang clear through the courtyard:

"Welcome Prince Daemon Targaryen, my dear brother! Prince of the Blood, rider of Caraxes, wielder of Dark Sister, and future King Consort—who returns victorious from the Narrow Sea!"

The court erupted into applause.

Some clapped with genuine fervor. Others followed dutifully, lips pursed, eyes sharp and calculating. But there was no mistaking the undercurrent of respect in the air.

Viserys wasn't finished.

"As of this day," he declared, voice strong and exultant, "the Stepstones are a part of Westeros. They shall no longer be lawless, ruled by pirates or the Triarchy. They will be a new domain under the rule of my brother—Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Stepstones!"

Cheers rang out louder this time. Cries of "Prince of the Stepstones!" echoed loudly.

Daemon's chest puffed slightly.

He does love an audience, Viserys thought, biting down a smirk.

"You look pleased with yourself," he teased, nudging him lightly.

"I am," Daemon replied with a devilish grin. "I won."

Viserys chuckled. "Come. Let's not freeze our arses off out here."

They returned inside, warmth and formality waiting for them.

In the Great Hall, Daemon presented his spoils: among them, Drahar's mask and his warhammer—bloodstained and brutal. A relic of the man he slew to win the war. Viserys ordered the weapon melted and reforged into the Iron Throne itself—a symbol of unity, conquest, and the end of that annoying campaign.

Daemon spoke of strategy. Of battles won, of the allies he forged and the enemies crushed. He explained that his garrison remained behind, maintaining order and guarding the islands while waiting for the construction of fortifications to begin. He noted that Corlys Velaryon and other commanders were sailing back and would arrive in the coming days.

When all was said, Viserys rose from his throne.

"In a few days, once the remaining brave men return to King's Landing, we shall celebrate their heroism," he announced. "Though it is winter and supplies should be used wisely, the Crown will host a feast in honor of this historic victory—an exception, and a well-earned one."

The nobles broke into excited murmurs. At once, the court came alive.

Feasts meant wine. Food. Scandal. Whispers behind goblets and silk fans. There would be music, laughter, and tales of war exaggerated around blazing hearths.

But most of all—there would be opportunity.

And Daemon Targaryen, triumphant and newly returned, stood at the heart of it all.

Later, in Viserys' solar—far from the court's ever-watchful eyes—the atmosphere was warmer, quieter. Intimate. The royal family had gathered for a private welcome, stripped of ceremony and pomp. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting a soft glow over the chamber. Cushions were pulled close, goblets of wine passed from hand to hand, as did all kinds of desserts.

Daemon had barely set down his cup before Rhaenyra launched herself into his arms.

"Kepus!" she cried, laughter bubbling in her throat as she wrapped her arms around him.

Daemon caught her effortlessly, his face breaking into a rare, genuine smile as he embraced her.

"You missed me that much, princess?"

"More than you can imagine," Rhaenyra replied, looking up at him. Her purple eyes sparkled, the candlelight catching on the joy in her gaze.

Daemon smirked at her—fond, familiar. But then his eyes lingered, as if noticing something for the first time.

And Viserys saw it.

Oh no.

"My betrothed," Daemon murmured, still holding her hand. He bent slightly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "You have certainly… grown."

He gazed at her a bit too long.

Viserys' eye twitched.

Rhaenyra tilted her head, a playful gleam in her eye. "Did you truly think I'd remain a child forever, my prince?"

Daemon chuckled, low and amused. "Of course not, zaldrītsos. I just did not expect you to grow up this quickly."

... What the fuck?

What happened to 'she's still just a child in my eyes'? It's been less than a year, Daemon. Less than a fucking year. Gods, you fucking rogue...

Viserys felt the urge to drink.

Fucking Westeros. Fuck this world and its damn lack of fucking common decency. 

Daemon was already standing slightly closer. Looking a bit too long.

Viserys shot him a sharp, venomous glare.

Daemon, catching it, cleared his throat.

"But," he added smoothly, "you are still far too young, princess."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, but Viserys—sweet, poor Viserys—exhaled in relief.

Only for Daemon to shatter it a breath later.

"…even if your figure says otherwise."

This motherfucker.

A faint blush dusted Rhaenyra's cheeks. Daemon smirked, entirely too pleased with himself and his ability to drive Viserys insane.

Across the room, Aemma closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose.

Vaegon took a long sip of wine, unmoved by the scene unfolding.

Rhaenys quirked a brow, visibly entertained. Laena giggled behind her hands.

And Viserys?

Viserys wanted to throttle his brother right then and there.

I'll have to keep an eye on those two, he thought bitterly. Better to keep them apart until Rhaenyra is older. Gods be damned, Daemon. I take back everything I said—I didn't miss this little shit at all.

He glanced at them again—Daemon and Rhaenyra, talking animatedly, standing too close, smiling too much.

Gods help me.

Viserys tossed back his entire cup of wine in one long swallow, the dull ache of a headache already pulsing at his temples.

Chapter Text

Daemon POV