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Chapter Text

The first thought she had was of drowning.

Something pulled her upward, and she strained to keep herself in place. She could hear muffled talk at the edge of hearing. Someone was yelling, while other voices whispered and talked in hushed tones, but the yelling was the clearest of them all. Every time it sounded, the pulling started, and Visenya wiggled to stay in place.

Yet despite her efforts, the pulling was stronger. Her body felt sluggish, clumsy. Darkness had enveloped around her like an overly warm blanket in the height of summer. It smothered her like nothing else.

Another pull and she was out of the dark waters. In the next moment light burned behind her eyelids, and she cried out in pain. It had been so long a time she had seen anything brighter than a torch Visenya was hardly accustomed to it. Then she noticed she was not breathing anymore, but a flash of pain irradiated from her back, and she gasped for air greedily.

The voices were still sounding around her, but the yelling had stopped. Visenya floated in whatever bright place she was until something surrounded her, soft like silk, and she settled against a surface. It was warm and soft, and it had a wonderful smell of honey, flowers and milk, with the underlying scent of blood and sweat. Visenya relaxed against it. It felt right, somehow, and readily something poked her mouth, and Visenya drank from the sweet drink pouring over her mouth.

Faintly, she heard her name being said, and Visenya had never felt so much loved before.

Visenya would wake and sleep at random moments. Sometimes she dreamt she was at Winterfell, playing in the snow with her siblings- cousins in true, but they were her brothers and sisters in all but blood. Eventually, she would wake up to the same bright space. Sometimes the light was stronger, other times it was weaker.

After some time of this dizzying routine, Visenya was able to finally understand where she was.

Bars surrounded her, and a cushioned floor was underneath her back. Beyond them, lied more cells in a spacious room with walls the color of pale red stones that Visenya was somewhat familiar with.

Visenya was still a bit sleepy, so it took sometime for her eyes to adjust to the clarity coming from a nearby window. She saw now that, the cell weren’t actually cells, but cribs. Painted gold and black and red, each one. They were carved with such mastery and painted so richly in a manner Visenya had never seen before. The closest thing she had for comparison was the crib provided for her own child. . .

As much as she tried, Visenya could not heave her body to a sitting position. The sluggish feeling still remained, and she herself felt heavy and soft on her own skin. From her lying form, she could just make out portions of the room. Her crib was positioned so she could see straight ahead the doorway to the other room. She did notice the dragon carvings on the frame, as well as the snarling face of a dragon just above her head made of wood and painted black and red.

She could not explain to herself why everything seemed to be bright and magical. She took every detail available in the room with great interest.

From beyond the doorframe voices were coming, and Visenya tried to look who was walking by. Again, her heavy body stopped her from moving much in a way to see more.

Two women walked in; arms crossed while they talked in hushed tones. Both had brown hair, one lighter than the other. The shorter one wore a dress and hat of light blue with little falcons made of pearl sown in the fabric. Her companion was taller by a whole foot, Visenya thought, and wore a light dress of gray samite with white silk on the hem of her skirt, around her collar and inside her dagged sleeves. She wore no hat, and let her hair fan around her head freely in waves of dark brown. The woman in grey was paler than the other one, and her stomach was larger, even if she was a skinny thing with small breasts.

“Oh look! What is this princess doing awake?” The woman in blue spoke in a tiny voice. Visenya remembered hearing something similar when Lady Stark held a younger Rickon. The two ladies approached her crib with love-filled faces. The one dressed in blue reached inside and lifted her as easy as opening a door. She set Visenya close to her chest and again the smell of honey, flowers and milk filled her nose. It quickly became her favorite smell.

The other woman looked at her with adoring eyes. “She is such a beautiful princess! And she is so big!” Visenya’s eyes snapped open and she glared at the woman. Strangely, she looked like Arya. Her eyes were a steely grey, lighter than her father’s but not as dark as hers. She did have the long face of the Starks too, but she was breathtakingly beautiful, just as she had heard of her mother Lyanna.

Visenya wondered if that was the face Rhaegar Targaryen fell in love.

The woman holding her chuckled, Visenya felt the vibrations on her chest. “I don’t quite know how she came out too. This lovely princess seemed to fight to stay inside my belly with tooth and nail.” What?

‘Arya’ laughed as well, passing a soothing finger on her cheek. “I remember my brother Bennard glaring like that. Sometimes I though he was an old man born in the body of a babe.”

“My Visenya is no old man,” the mother said with faux irritation. “She is the loveliest princess to have ever lived.” Visenya looked up, and saw the woman’s eyes. They were a blue so haunting they seemed purple in the light, like the shadow of a form. There but not entirely. Her voice took a sadder tone. “I wished my mother was here to see her granddaughter.” She looked like close to tears and to Visenya’s vision, she looked even more younger, like a little girl lost on what to do.

“I’m sure Princess Daella would have loved to see the both of you, Princess Aemma,” the Stark-like girl said sympathetically.

Wait, Aemma?

Visenya’s days were long and short at the same time. She slept too much and when awake did nothing but gasp and coo at this moat of dust or that shiny thing. Most of the times both ladies- who she had learned were Aemma Arryn and Lyanna Stark- visited her and played with the babe. It was quite strange for Visenya to come to gripes of how in the hells she was a babe, and even worse to remember who was her mother while Lyanna Stark stood next to the Arryn girl. They were both young, though her mother Ly- Aemma was two years younger than the Stark girl, she reckoned. It was nice to have them. Those times were seldom dull. Somehow her baby mind made the adult Visenya enjoy silly games like hiding and shaking something noisy.

One day- Visenya imagined it was a week after her birth, though she couldn’t be sure. It was hard to keep track of time when you sleep most of the time and what rested of it she was glued to her mother’s breast- five people came to visit her. They were clearly all kin, and she reckoned they were all Targaryen somehow. The oldest wore lavish robes of black, red and gold with a great red cape lined in ermine on the inside. His hair was long and looked the silky silver-gold of the valyrians with a royal beard reaching the middle of his chest. The woman to his side had graying hair that once had been gold. Her face was aged and weary, but she looked handsome and might have once been beautiful. Two men followed the couple, and the family resemblance ran strong with them. Both were tall, the size old the old man, and had his silver-gold hair. The elder of the two wore a simple golden circlet not a finger think atop his short-cut hair. His face too looked tired and lined, but wrinkles of smiles could be seen at the corner of his mouth. He was broad-chested and strong.

The second man was just as tall as the other two but not nearly as strong as the former. Visenya saw he was starting to grow a mustache and wore an unbridled smile upon his face. He carried a blue egg on his hand.

They all rounded near her when her mother took her from the crib. “A beautiful great-granddaughter!” the old man proclaimed. All laughed and smiled while looking at her. She could see the broad-chested man giving hearty slaps at the young mustached man’s back. “I am proud of you, son. What a great treasure you and Aemma made! Though I’m still at a loss to why name her so.”

He looked sheepish. “Aemma and I read stories of our House while little Visenya was in her mother’s womb. I remember hearing Vhagar roaring when the birthing began, and I was told she fought fiercely with great screams like a warrior. I thought it only fitting to honor one of the conquerors’ wives. Besides, we already have a Rhaenys.”

“Let’s hope she is as lovely as the latter, then,” said the broad-chested man. “This castle would not remain standing if we have another wild child amongst us.”

“I thought the children had all grown up,” said someone outside the room. All six adults turned to the entrance to see another man coming in. He was tall as his fellows but not nearly as broad-chested. His hair was long, reaching his shoulders in a curtain of silver. His smile cheeky and roguish. At his hip, he carried a sword Visenya knew all too well.

“Doesn’t matter if you are man grown or a suckling babe, Daemon. You will always be my wild child. Now come, meet your niece. Your cousin and brother worked hard to make such a precious jewel.”

The man called Daemon to approach and he followed in assured steps, though he kept a distance the others hadn’t kept. “I see her just fine. She looks like all the other babes I’ve seen.”

Visenya glared at him for his answer. Couldn’t he see she was different? Where is Arya to compare me with her? The young man, Daemon, narrowed his eyes to her.

The other laughed. “Don’t worry, son. You will find the joy of having a babe at your arms when you have your little one.” She noticed how both Daemon and the old man stiffened.

“Be sure to not abscond to a cabin in the woods once your son is born, Daemon,” said the old man in a regal tone. “I’ve had too many wars in my kingdom for my taste. The northmen are hard to please, and even harder to forget slights against them. Remember that it is your duty, as well as that of Princess Lyanna to heal these. . . misunderstandings before another skirmish is sparked in the Riverlands.”

Daemon’s face was hard while he looked at the old man, a king for what he spoke. “The children have understood, Jaehaerys. Young love will make mistakes when their blood still run hot. But age and a child of their own will temper both wildness,” the woman to the king’s side said, mediating the quarrel between the two.

The young man’s face was hard still, but a flicker of gratefulness passed over his lilac eyes when he looked at the queen. His piercing gaze passed over back to Visenya. “I’ve never seen a babe so quiet,” he pointed out.

“My little doll hasn’t cried since she came to us, goodbrother. Visenya is an easy child to take care, and she is always eager to see me.” Her mother, Aemma bounced her once and laid a loving kiss on her little head. Visenya melted against her chest. “She has taken a liking to Lyanna, if you must know Daemon. I think she somehow knows her little cousin is coming soon to play with her.”

That wasn’t true, but Visenya had no way to deny her mother. It was just the uncanny resemblance that Lyanna Stark had with herself and her sister Arya.

They eventually put her back into her crib. The egg was passed to the king, who placed it at her side. “May it hatch with you, little dragon. Soon you will know the beauty of this world from atop your mount,” King Jaehaerys said, while who she presumed was Queen Alysanne nodded encouragingly at his side. One by one they filed out of the room, her mother, father and grandfather laying a farewell kiss on her head. The last one was young Daemon, who looked at her quizzically and left without another word.

Visenya kept her attention on the new egg. It was dark blue with hints of purple swirls on it and slashed with copper. It was a beautiful egg, and when she laid a chubby hand on it, she felt something moving inside. She couldn’t help but let out a giggle after that.

Visenya delighted herself with the life holding inside the egg. It reminded her of Ebrion, and when she found her egg in the crypts of her family’s home. The patterns were even similar! She wondered if it was the same egg that was kept hidden for a hundred and fifty years. She had to grant much of her fascination to her baby mind. It clearly had a weak side for shiny things, and this egg was a show of light when sunlight hit it just right.

Grandfather and father visited her frequently enough, and sometimes the king and queen came too to coo at her and pepper her with kisses. It was rather staggering that the King Jaehaerys was her great grandfather and Alysanne her great grandmother, but what truly amazed her was the feeling of receiving such love and adoration.

True, she had been loved by her father Eddard, but he never gave her much physical proof of it, courtesy of living under the same roof with Catelyn Stark. Robb had been a loving brother, but even he knew when to stop his affections, even if the both of them wanted more. That feeling grew when they discovered her sire was actually Rhaegar Targaryen. The greatest show of love and devotion came from Aegon, the lost brother that turned out to not be her brother, but he made her feel loved like none had made before. It was because of that why she eventually forgave his unknown mummery, and treasured his memory in her heart.

She did not know how much her little heart could take more, if she was honest with herself. Visenya was a woman in the body of a babe, with terrorizing memories no newborn should have. Sometimes in the middle of the night, her young mind would conjure thoughts of pursual, of Daenerys hunting her throughout the Riverlands after she slaughtered her dragon with her black beast. Sometimes she could still hear Aegon’s screams at the edge of hearing. The screams of a burning man that shrilled out until the voice gave out and his blackened bones broke into themselves in a pile of ashes.

Visenya rarely cried then and rarely cried now, but on those nights she would wail in terror. Many a night her mother and father came to her, holding her tight to their bodies and whispering assuring words in her ear. Her heart soared with the amount of love they poured on her.

As the days passed by Visenya went on to learn when exactly she was in history. Jaehaerys the Conciliator still lived as well as the Good Queen, so she was certain it was before the Great Council of 101. Baelon the Spring Prince, her grandfather, was alive as well so that meant his elder brother had already died on Tarth, yet no sign of his daughter was seen by Visenya. Was she already married to the Sea Snake? She couldn’t remember. Her knowledge was grand about the Targaryens, but not expansive enough to know for certain the dates of when this one married that one or that person died. She saw no other children in the nursery, Visenya deduced she was somehow Viserys I’s firstborn daughter instead of Rhaenyra. Did that meant she would never exist? Visenya didn’t know what would change just for the mere fact of her presence being there, when she clearly died on her own time, along with the rest of the world.

Weeks later Lyanna’s visits lessened, even if every now and again Daemon, who if she understood correctly was her husband (somehow) sneaked inside the nursery to spy on her. He wasn’t subtle in his staring, so Visenya spared no chance to always glare at him. “It’s not normal for a babe to glare, niece,” he would say, and she would childishly stick her tongue at him. You are the weird man staring at a babe. He would scoff and chuckle at her anger and leave her be only to come back on the other day.

Even so, Lyanna now rarely came along with her mother, and she was sure Aemma noticed her spinning her head left and right. “Your aunt Lyanna is almost due, my darling. Soon your cousin will keep you company, and she will come to visit you both.”

Only a part of this was true, however. Again, fate had a weird way of defying itself and falling back to its vices.

Visenya never heard a scream or the scrambling of boots, but rain heralded the tragedy that would follow on that day. She woke up on the dead of night. Grandpa Baelon stood still as stone at the entrance with a candle at hand while a maid laid a bundle on a neighboring crib.

Visenya crawled ungainly to the other crib’s direction. In the darkness she could hardly see what was on the other side of the room. When she was near the bars, she was lifted and settled back on her back, on the position she started. Her grandpa looked at her from above. His face was filled with hidden hurt. “Go back to sleep now, my bright dragon. The morrow shall be bright and the air crispy in the leaves. Sleep now sleep child, and worry not for your cousin.” He laid a kiss on her forehead and took the lamp away with him, closing the door of the nursery.

No whimper came from the other crib. None that Visenya could hear, that is.

As Visenya would find out later, Lyanna Stark had died that night after giving birth to her cousin, just as she had died the first time when giving birth to Visenya, back in the future. Grandpa Baelon, father and mother visited often the two of them, but their comings were more contained than when they first met her. Even the king and queen came carrying the shadow of death on their shoulders when visiting the little boy.

She discovered they had named him Aemon, in honor of their uncle. She did not know if Rhaenys Targaryen felt honored, but she sure thought her cousin didn’t, as he seemed to have been born with the soul of a dead man. He never cried, never laughed, never smiled. The king had put an egg near him too even, and little Aemon never once moved to touch the thing, an orb of sparkling white like snow in the sunlight with bloody slashes. It seemed like an egg of the weirwoods, an egg that had Ghost’s colors.

Once she had the opportunity to look at him. Her mother carried her toward her cousin’s crib, and leaned down to introduce the two of them. “Hello there, Aemon. Look here who’s here? Your cousin. Say hello to your cousin, Aemon. Say hello, Visenya.” From where she was, she could see almost everything of the still boy. Pale skin like theirs, a tuff of brown hair covered his head, but what struck her the most were his eyes. They were a grey so dark they looked black in the shadows. Worse still, he had the eyes of a haunted man. He has my eyes.

Who was this boy?!

The moons passed and she got to know better the mystery of Aemon Targaryen. Or rather, the questions that sprouted from his mere existence.

The first thing was that she discovered was that Visenya didn’t look like her mother- that is, she didn’t look like her first mother, Lyanna Stark daughter of Rickard and sister of Eddard. No, this new version of herself had the appearance of a Targaryen princess. Silver-gold hair, purple eyes, pale skin. Once she had the appearance of her mother, Eddard Stark had said to her. Now it was this new stranger had her looks.

Aemon continued to be rather unresponsive. The only reaction they took from him was when Aemma, hurting with pity, she though, gave him her own breast to feed. It was already uncommon for a lady to feed her own child. She had maids and wet-nurses for that kind of service. So it was a shock she gave from her own body to this boy. And it seemed he loved it. She even thought she saw him shedding tears while feeding. Visenya hated him for stealing her mother.

The thief continued to live there, and more often than not her mother fed the both of them with what milk she still had. Visenya did not know why she did it, but by the way she caressed his little head Visenya suspected her mother loved him too, almost like her own son.

After the day Aemon arrived, Daemon never once appeared in the nursery to irritate her, so at least the thief was good for something, if all the rest he did was steal her mother and her milk.

As much as shiny stuff beckoned her attention, being a babe was quite dull. Most of the time she just laid there and thought to herself of how she would deal with her new life. Visenya was quite sure the moment she died by the spear of that Other, that world was doomed. She wasn’t sure if wasn’t destined for doom ever since the Wall fell and the dragonriders began to hunt each other. Despite the horrid things that happened in her past, she still missed her family. Visenya had just found Arya after she had been missing for years, as well as convincing Sansa that she never usurped the kingdom of the North and regained her allyship. Bran had called her in her dreams to the deep north and gave her the mission of saving the world, along with the sword to make that dream reality. She missed having Dark Sister in her hand. Its weight, shape, balance, it all felt right; as if it was made for her hand alone. Aegon had wielded Blackfyre (quite a hint she hadn’t catch the first time), and together, she hoped they would remake that broken kingdom.

But as it tended to happen with those with hope, something went wrong, and destroyed all that she was trying to do. Her hope was dashed against a wall and burned to cinders, then true winter came and froze it to death.

In her dreams, the Stranger had blues that sometimes flashed a haunting purple.

The thief still enjoyed her mother’s visits, crying silently as he fed ever since the first time until her mother ran out of milk. After that, both were fed by a wet-nurse in the employ of their great grandfather, but the pervert didn’t continue with his act when the giant teat of the servant was on his mouth like he did with her mother’s breast.

Her egg grew in the amount of heat it emanated, and one day on a fine morning, it hatched. Inside lied her old friend Ebrion, just like she was when Visenya first saw her years ago. That was a day of great celebration for all, except for the sullen Aemon. His egg remained untouched.

Then came the day both of them would be presented to the court as the two new princelings of House Targaryen, but the night before was more intriguing, in Visenya’s opinion.

When most of the Red Keep slept, Daemon entered the nursery that housed she and her cousin. Visenya awoke with the sudden noise of her uncle trying to quietly close it and watched as he, instead of tease her with his usual stupid remarks, marched toward Aemon’s crib, hunching over the sleeping babe.

He spoke quietly to the babe and had his back to her, so she couldn’t understand what he said. Not until he brought the babe up and hugged him to his chest like a desperate man. “I love you, Aemon. Never forget that, my son.” Visenya almost couldn’t hold a gasp. How could she forget that detail?!

She remembers seeing the little face of her cousin, peeking over his father’s shoulder. He had his dark grey eyes closed, and tears silently streamed down his cheeks.

The next morning the maids prepared both of them for their presentation. They wore matching tunics of black silk heavily embroidered with red dragons snarling around them with starry eyes made of pearl; though hers had more frills to mime a skirt. Both had to wear little caps. Visenya hated hers. The maids had tied too tightly on her head and she kept shoving her fat little fingers under the knot to ease it a bit. Every time she did it and managed to dislodge the accursed cap, her mother would look down and push it back to its place. “Stop fussing, darling or your cap will fall.” To seven hells with this cap, mama! she wanted to say, but she only managed to whimper dejectedly.

Aemon kept quiet, of course. Visenya could bet that he didn’t even know what he was wearing, or what was happening right now, but unfortunately she was still not allowed to be close to gold dragons.

In the end, the ceremony was quite terrible, at least for her. Both her father and uncle lifted them up in the air as the proud voice of King Jaehaerys announced their names, and the crowd of nobles cheered to a deafening yell. They cried so loud her ears were in pain, and unfortunately she wailed and fussed. Those emotions were really problematic. How could she think when anything she did or heard could cause her to inexplicably cry?

Soon they were carried back to the nursery to play and spend the rest of their days in idle baby activities. Despite her previous tendencies to brood and plan, as Aegon and Robb had many times charmingly pointed out to her, thinking was  a boring activity too, and her baby mind yearned to do something. In the end, she wound up teasing one of the maids. Every time she knelt to grab something Visenya had, in her clumsiness, thrown down or far from her reach, she would blow raspberries as if she was blowing wind. At the start they found it funny and charming, but her insistence of doing it every time grated their nerves, she was sure. It only made her giggle more.

Some days after their little presentation, her mother appeared on the nursery, all content and smiling. “You will have a sibling, my little darling. Then you three will be the best of friends!” Aemma said as she spun Visenya around. She giggled the whole time.

Later she would think on what this sibling would be. Was it a he or she? Would it be the original Rhaenyra, the one who became Maegor with Teats like the histories said, or someone else? Visenya remembered how Aemma never had another child that survived birth before or after Rhaenyra until the last one that took her life, so it was possible this one sibling would never survive long enough for her to know.

Also it made her think of Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa and Arya. Should this babe survive, was she allowed to love them? Would that make her betray the image of her beloved original siblings?

All of this made her sober up to the idea of having a brother or sister.

They celebrated her nameday a moon later. Not much happened, as it was simply her first nameday, but it was nice to see so many happy faces about when her celebrations in Winterfell had all been quiet and unimportant.

Her mother gave her a new cap with dragons sewn in blue thread. She loved her mother, but she couldn’t understand how the woman didn’t know she hated those things. Great grandma Alysanne gave her a pretty little silver chain that wound up around her chubby wrist, and Great grandpa Jaehaerys gave her a jeweled rattler. Quite excessive for a babe, but Visenya didn’t complain. Her grandpa Baelon gave her a miniature of Vhagar stuffed full with geese feathers. “This little princess is a fighter, I could see it since the moment she took her first breath. Only right of it for her to have her own Vhagar.” She loved it, of course her baby mind loved it, but still the real dragon on her crib was more interesting.

There was a moment she spotted Aemon while she happily bounced on her grandpa’s knee. The quiet boy stared at her with keen eyes while being held by a tiny girl in a blue dress. She was daintily beautiful, but her eyes were vacant. When the celebrations ended and the king and queen left, the girl hastily followed Alysanne, gluing to her side.

Some months later, something quite strange happened to her.

It was in a lazy afternoon. Aemon and her played with blocks on the ground being watched over by a maid when a strange old man in plain robes entered the nursery. His eyes twitched from one place to another as if looking for something in a crazy manner, then they focused on her. He hastily grabbed Visenya and raised her to be at his eye level and rasped incoherent blabber, his body twitched with every word and the crystal pendant he wore about his neck shone on her face. “The gods brought you here! The Father almighty, judge of all, has found you lacking in life; but it is you who was promised to save us! Please, do not fail him, or else the Stranger’s black hands will smother us all!” He then laid her gently to the ground next to the panicked maid and made for Aemon, but the guards had already made inside the rooms, and hastily dragged the man away from them. “Your eyes!” he yelled in the distance. “I’ve seen them before! Terrible and cold! Mother have mercy on us all!”

Not long after Grandpa Baelon, her father and mother appeared, followed by Uncle Daemon. Her mother pressed her close to her chest and shuddered at what could have happened. Visenya was scared as well. Daemon did the same for Aemon, but the boy’s eyes never left the doorway by which the crazy man left.

The next morning they heard from the maids speaking between each other that the Lord Hand, Septon Barth had passed away peacefully during the night.

On a fine morning, her parents presented Aemon and her to her newest sister, whom they named Rhaenyra. Visenya did not know how, but her sister looked like the prettiest babe to have ever existed. Her purple eyes were bright and keen, and she had a little beauty mark near her eye on her right cheek.

It seemed the tales of the Realm’s Delight were true, and they were bound to happen again.

Not that Visenya care that much. She had never been vain; a bastard could not afford to be vain. But she did feel a bit jealous as every one started spending more time with her little sister.

First it was the little thief, now Rhaenyra occupied most of her mother’s attention.

Not long after the girl in the blue dress, Gael as she later found out, her aunt; had died.

After that, Alysanne’s visits were rare, and the queen had aged ten years in days. Her once gold hair had turned all white, her skin leatherier and bags grew under her eyes. Then came a day she didn’t come, and little was spoken of Queen Alysanne.

Visenya soon started to be able to talk and walk. Since some moon ago she could form simple words in her feeble baby mouth, but the age-old custom of babes talking to themselves worked well for her too. Aemon too started to talk early along with her, but he rarely spoke anything at all so she didn’t consider it true learning.

A maid read stories from a book to her and Aemon, and even to a more often than not sleeping Rhaenyra. Most of them were stories of her own House, and others like Symeon Star-Eyes or Serwyn of the Mirror Shield were close second and third. But comparing to her Old Nan back in Winterfell, this maid was an amateur in storytelling. There wasn’t none of the scary stories and the way Old Nan made them scarier. Visenya wondered if Old Nan was a maid now. Should she call her Young Nan when she finds out?

It was no surprise, but Rhaenyra’s egg hatched eventually, and the self-same bright yellow dragonling emerged from the shell. They had taken to each other quite fast, she noticed. Visenya wondered if Rhaenyra was that special with dragons as she was at the first time. Many new dragons hatched at the time she was alive, maybe one of the Mage’s theories had a kernel of truth to it.

When Visenya was three namedays old, the maids had allowed Aemon and her to play with parchment and charcoal sticks. Quite a dangerous playtime and expensive, letting toddlers play with such stuff; but Visenya, as was her custom, didn’t complain. She was already trying to practice writing for some time, and to have something to write onto would help much.

Aemon on the other hand kept drawing strange things. Once she saw him drawing quite an elaborate scene- in the ability of a toddler, that is- of a dark forest with blank spots between the trees almost resembling eyes. The most common of his drawings were of two figures hugging each other, but instead of being a happy scene, it looked like one of those figures was motionless on the other’s arms. The figure more often than not had a long spear or an arrow lodged in its chest.

“What is this?” she asked him once in the curiosity of a child.

“My dreams, my fate,” he answered, and looked at her with haunted eyes. He would then look back at his drawing and drop the charcoal stick, flexing the fingers of his right hand in a repeating motion.

This boy was quite the mystery to Visenya. One day she would find out what was wrong with him.

Her sister Rhaenyra was a delight, truth be told. Visenya loved to play with her of dolls and dragons. She was too young to play anything seriously, and too clumsy for delicate movements, so most of the time she just hit her stuffed Vhagar against a pile of wooden blocks. Visenya was surprised she enjoyed it as well.

Aemon never joined them. He was too busy brooding in his little corner, now hugging the white and red egg.

On his third nameday, Aemon was showered with attention. Great Grandma Alysanne didn’t appear though. It was only she, her mother and father, a quick appearance of the king and their grandpa, who wore a chain of hands about his neck, and his father Daemon. It was in those little moments the coaxed a little smile from the sullen boy.

He was sitting on his father’s knee when he asked something unexpected. “Father, when can I start training with a sword?” Viserys and Aemma were impressed by how eloquently the quiet boy spoke, but Daemon made no mention of it, only ruffling his son’s silky brown hair. “Only when you are big enough, my boy. But no need for despair, it will be soon enough. By then your father will train you himself,” he said with a loving smile on his roguishly handsome face.

The boy nodded and looked at the wooden blocks at the center of the room. “That is good to hear,” he said in a calm voice. “I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.”

The way he spoke those words, words that had been told to her long ago, haunted Visenya. It was worse when she noticed what exactly he was looking. From up high in her father’s arms, Visenya recognized the vague shape the wooden blocks had been placed.

It looked like Winterfell.

A moon before Rhaenyra’s second nameday, Queen Alysanne was pronounced dead, less than a year after the death of her last daughter.

By then the king had become a whisp of the man he had been when Visenya first saw him. Tall, elegant, and strong for a man of his age. Now his hair did not shine like it used, gone all white and limp. He became worse the next year, when their grandpa Baelon died suddenly.

It was the first time both she and Aemon cried for the death of someone in their family.

Within the year, ravens flew to announce a solution to the matter of succession, and in the eighth moon of the hundred and first year after the conquest, their whole family journeyed to Harrenhal.

Uncle Daemon took both she and Aemon in turns atop his dragon Caraxes, a great drake with a long snaking neck and blood red scales and fiery orange eyes. He was terrifying and beautiful in how dangerous and fierce on how he looked.

From atop Caraxes, Harrenhal looked much the same as she saw it when winter came, though it wasn’t choked with fallen snow now as it was when she first saw it.

Visenya had. . . less than favorable memories of the monstrous castle. In the last days, this was Daenerys’ fortress after her attack lit up the hidden caches of wildfire in King’s Landing, burning almost all of it to the ground. She and Aegon had fled the city when it was destroyed, but were captured while trying to reach the Neck. Above the Gods Eye, Drogon had slain the smaller Ebrion in a terrible combat that left the Black Dread come again blind of one eye; and it was here that her love met his end.

“I love you!” she had desperately said, trying to reach him despite the unsullied holding her still.

Aegon stared back with determination. “I know.” Then black and red flames engulfed him, and he was no more.

“Don’t worry, niece. Your uncle is here with you,” Daemon said behind her, his strong hand gently caressing her shoulder. Visenya hadn’t noticed she had started trembling. She straightened her spine and steeled her heart. That was the past, and she was a Targaryen. She would not let anyone see her cry for a past she was unable to save.

They spent many moons just idling in their chambers. The adults came in and out in odd times, but Visenya knew vaguely what this was all about. The lords of the realm were hearing the claimants for the throne, and soon they would choose one to be Jaehaerys’ heir.

Her uncle ran up and down the castle. Left in the morning only to appear a week later in the middle of the night in his black armor. “He gathers support for your father,” Aemon would note it out strangely. She nodded and remembered the tales. But did Aemon know about it?

At the end of the year, the votes had been cast and counted. The reveal was about to happen, and Visenya wasn’t surprised when she heard her great grandfather announcement that Prince Viserys, son of Baelon and Alyssa, would be his heir, confirming the lords’ decision. She stood in front of her father, his hand comfortingly at her shoulder while her mother stood at his side and his brother and nephew at his other side. The whole of Westeros stood in front of them, applauding and congratulating the new heir to the throne while the twice-now rejected Rhaenys and her family stood quietly at the other side of the dais.

Visenya caught sight of her mother’s growing belly and grew wary of it. After Rhaenyra, there were other times she announced pregnancy, but many times the babes just came out dead or were born too early, never to live more than a year. Two of them were brothers.

Visenya knew one day her mother would have a brother that would take the life from her, and Visenya could do nothing to keep that piece of her life that she never had before, but now it was as important to her as breathing itself.

When she wrenched her eyes away from Aemma Arryn, she noticed Aemon looking at her, and he smiled faintly with pity in his eyes.

How could he know what it felt like losing something he never had!? That stoked her ire, and she ignored the little thief for the rest of the day.

When they were making ready to depart, some two days after the results were out, Aemon managed to whisk her away to a secluded corner. She was surprised the boy made something more active than just stare for once, but she was wroth for him to just pull her away.

“Let go of me!” she yelled and he released her arm.

Aemon, the tone-deaf boy that he was, ignored her glare and stared deep in her eyes. Too familiar grey orbs pinned her to a standstill. “We need to talk about our past, princess.”

Chapter Text

Visenya stared at the silent witness that had seen much throughout the years, both before and after her second existence. Ink black feathers fell from the sky as Visenya noticed an inquisitive raven perched on the white limbs of the weirwood and among its leaves.

The first time she stood in front of this particular hear tree, it had thirteen horrific slashes to its trunk. Red sap gathered at its roots near the slashes, but by the time Visenya arrived in Harrenhal, winter was at its full force, and snow blanketed the twenty-acre godswood and the Riverlands outside the castle walls.

The Red Keep had no weirwood in its godswood, so the memories never came to her, but it was in front of this very same tree that Visenya married her beloved Aegon. At the time he was little more than a stranger, a spirited brother saved from certain death, grown and tutored to be the best king Westeros ever had.

Despite all of it, he was rash and impatient, haughty and convinced of his own prowess and military strategic. But even with all of it, he was a loving brother, and an even better lover that she managed to make into her husband. He was loyal to his friends and loved ones, just when necessary and smart when needed.

That one year had been the best of her life amidst all the horror she had witnessed.

Her uncle hadn’t made those slashes yet, and so much of what happened was washed away from existence with the simple willing of the gods. Visenya was stranded in a strange time full of dragons, the flying ones and the silver-haired ones, but she was afraid to be stuck in the same cage of fate; to love and see those people be taken away from her, while the world died in ash and snow around her.

“I doubt the Starks will visit the heart tree after the choosing is already set and done. Starks had never done well in the South,” her strange cousin commented while he looked about their surroundings. For a time he had been speaking in a strange manner, too well for a child of four namedays. Is he letting out hints?

“What do you want to do here, Aemon? Papa and Mama are ready to go and Nuncle Daemon is soon to arrive,” she asked, trying to conjure the most childish reasons and manners for her to speak.

He wasn’t convinced. “You should be glad to not be born a mummer’s daughter, cousin. You are too well-spoken for a child your age. But it’s no matter. We must be done with this quickly before any guardsman or one of the white cloaks come here in search for us.” Again he made a circle around the heart tree, looking for anyone spying on them, and returned to her side, pulling Visenya closer to the weirwood’s raging face. “Here will be enough, I think. Bran should be able to hear us talk, and mayhaps help us in our predicament.”

“What are you talking about?”

He raised a dark eyebrow to her. “Don’t play coy, cousin. I know you are more than just a four nameday old child. Your eyes belie the experience of someone who has lived before.”

She was taken aback at his words. Worst yet, she understood what he meant, as his own eyes told a similar tale. Despite that, she tried to deny him. “I- I don’t know what you are saying, cousin. Stop speaking of such things or I’ll tell Nuncle Daemon you are scaring me.”

She heard a low growl come from him. Aemon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, releasing the air through his mouth seconds later. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. He spoke again after a few heartbeats, his voice was hard and cold like ice. “Just drop the act and be honest, Visenya. I didn’t drag you here for some foolish notion of child’s play or jest against you. I know you are not simply a child born almost five years ago. I just want to understand why I am like this too. The proof is that Rhaenyra isn’t like us, she’s just a normal babe who cares only to play; yet you look out the window or stare at the ceiling like it would suddenly give you all your answers need. Clearly something happened after we died, but I don’t know what.” He eyed the weirwood’s face with a child’s suspicion. “And I think it was Bran, but I don’t know how and why.

Visenya sighed and sat between the tree’s white roots. “So you are a strange boy.” This life of hers was getting weirder by the day. She took a deep breath and faced him back. “Yes, I lived before, but I know less of why we’re here than you apparently already know.”

Aemon scrunched up his face in thought and stared down at the roots. It was quite strange seeing a toddler acting like an adult. “The fact is that I don’t know, only suspect.” He looked back at the weirwood, apprehension filled his face despite his attempts to hide his emotion. “But I fear Bran will not be of help to us here.”

It was strange that he continued to refer to her brother while looking at the tree, but it was impossible for him to know of her brother, and of what he had done throughout the years. “What do you mean ‘Bran won’t help us?’ Who is this Bran you speak of?”

Aemon looked back at her with sad grey eyes. “Bran was a brother of mine- cousin in truth, but I was raised believing he was my father’s son. Well, rather I was raised by my uncle, believing him to be my father and his children my siblings. No matter, he was my brother in all but blood. I loved him fiercely.”

Visenya felt like a pail of cold water was dumped over her head. “I- I had a brother named Bran too. And. . . my uncle raised me as well.”

Something flashed behind those grey eyes. “Ned Stark?” he asked.

Visenya nodded.

“Bugger,” he muttered, and shoved his hands to his face while sitting at her side. “Gods damn it, Bran!”

She was rather lost, but Aemon seemed to know something. “Should I ask you again what does Bran have to do with this?”

He looked back up and to the red leaves of the weirwood, suddenly looking tired. “Bran told me our lives are like boats on a river. Normally we can only float down its flow, always ahead. But Bran managed to defy this nature by simply jumping between boats across rivers.” He chuckled to himself. “I first thought him mad, but his eyes told he truly lived those lives, again and again dying only to go back and force the events meant to happen be in order. But clearly his maddest act was bringing us here, despite our own boats being far down the river, and possibly being two entirely different rivers.”

She blinked at him. “I think you lost me, Aemon. Or you are truly maddest of all.”

He scoffed at her. “It doesn’t matter if you understand its complexities. I don’t even know half of it and I’m here, stranded with you. The matter of fact is: you and me are the same person, but from different rivers. Two boats, identical in shape and origin, but sailing parallel rivers.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How is this an answer to our problems? You can be just creating this- this. . . river idea and making a fool out of me!”

“Are you usually that suspicious of others?” She shrugged at him. “Do you want proof? Well then, how many sisters did you have? Before.”

“Do you mean Starks or-“ she asked and he nodded. “Both. Whatever number you can remember.”

“Well, it would be three counting Rhaenys.”

“See? As it happens, I had three as well. Rhaenys, Sansa and Arya. Do those names sound familiar to you?” She nodded warily. “Let me give you another one. Humm let me think. Who were your parents?”

“Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“And what name did they give you? Aemon.”

“Visenya.”

Aemon blinked. “What?”

She huffed. “My sire named me Visenya, for his third head of the dragon. It was in a letter of his he sent to my mother while marching in the Riverlands.”

“I thought you were a man.” She glared at him. “So Lady Catelyn kept you in Winterfell?”

She sighed, remembering those strange times. “Not entirely. Uncle Ned went south with Sansa and Arya when he accepted the king’s offer to become his Hand. Bran stayed after he fell from the Old Keep. For a time me and Lady Catelyn could hardly stand to be in each other’s presence, she feared I would seduce Robb and bear him a inbred bastard,” not that she was that wrong, only her son approached me and we never took things further than kisses, “but then the library tower burned when I was inside of it.” Aemon’s eyes grew wide. My dear Ghost. . . “When the fires died down, It was only me amidst the cinders, with my dragon perched in my shoulder. I carried that egg everywhere I went. . .”

“You mean you had a dragon egg? Where did you find it?!”

“It was hidden behind Cregan Stark’s tomb. Some alcove a portion of the hot springs fed into, keeping the place warm.”

Aemon looked amazed. “I never knew that.”

“By your reaction, I take it you never had an egg of your own. How did you prove your parentage, then?”

Aemon smiled sadly at her. “I bonded with Rhaegal, one of Daenerys’ dragons. He was quite majestic and fearsome, even close to his bigger brother Drogon.”

Her mood darkened at the mention of Daenerys Stormborn. Yet she was impressed. “You managed to ride one of her children? And how did you manage it without burning or being stabbed to death?”

“Well, I found out to be Lyanna’s son quite some time later than you.” Aemon had a strange look to his face, bringing a hand to scratch at his chest. “After some ordeal I had at the Wall, I reunited the broken North, and due to a decree Robb had made before his. . . passing at the Twins, I was named his heir and thus King in the North. I already knew the dangers that lied beyond the Wall, so when I heard Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons landed on Dragonstone, I sailed in search for an alliance. What better weapon than fire against creatures of ice and death?” He looked away with fondness and sadness in his eyes. “It was more than an ally that I found in Dragonstone.”

Visenya was incredulous. “You fucked her? That murdering, lunatic whore?!” His head snapped back to her, his dark eyes a freezing storm, but Visenya wasn’t deterred. “She murdered my husband and maimed my dragon! Were it not for Ser Barristan, I would’ve been dead by her hand as well. Well, not that it helped me much. Some moons later I died anyway to the white walkers of the woods.”

“Dany was a kind soul. She freed slaves from Astapor, Meereen and Yunkai and all along her way to the Narrow Sea. She could have had me in chains the moment I set foot before her, but she heard my case,” Aemon defended his lover.

Visenya scoffed at him. “Maybe before, but when my ‘sweet aunt’ arrived in Westeros and found me and Aegon in King’s Landing, sitting on ‘her throne’, she had no love left for her niece.”

Her counterpart looked at her curiously. “Aegon, do you mean the supposed son of Rhaegar and Elia?”

“I mean Blackfyre.” His eyes widened a bit, but it seemed he already knew about Aegon’s hidden heritage. “You met him?”

“Fought him, actually. It was quite obvious he was a Blackfyre, as he held the sword Daemon Blackfyre wielded as well as the support of the Golden Company. He had managed to take King’s Landing from the Lannisters, but after we discovered his true identity, he denied vehemently and vowed to kill the ‘thieving bastard’ and his usurping aunt.” He shook his head. “I may have wanted to kill him, but conflict between ourselves was the last thing we needed. Too much time wasted in the quarrels of the South when the true enemy marched from beyond the Wall. Sometimes I wished Stannis Baratheon survived, and was by my side when the true war began. As misguided as he was, he was the man to truly see the most important thing first, and he died for that ideal.”

The red leaves of the hear tree rustled in the wind above them, filling the air with whispers. She thought of Bran again, and if the boy she found beyond the Wall was truly the same she left in Winterfell or if was the strange sage Aemon spoke of, jumping between versions of himself to accomplish something. She remembered of how he said he would always be with her, even if his cave filled with the bones of the dead was overrun with whights. Did he continue to live inside the weirwood? Did he look after her with the gods’ eyes?

Visenya did not know, and trembled to know what kind of existence he was having, if he truly survived the attack of the Others in some manner. If not, then surely he was amongst the hundreds of thousands standing aimlessly in her dead world, waiting for something to waste them away as their masters ruled a dead land.

Aemon was the first to break the silence that settled between them. “It is useless to discuss who we hated or loved in the past. Clearly our lives lead us to different paths. If we exist and remember our choices, then who is to say more versions of our selves do not exist. The same boat, with only different changes to its shape, sailing similar rivers that lead them to other places.

“But alas, wondering what could be and what was is of no use. I spent too much time thinking of mine own mistakes to be idle while a new chance is given to us.”

“Chance to what, Aemon? Do you seek to right some wrong you did? I’m sorry to say, but you are two hundred years too early.”

Aemon looked down to his own hands in a melancholic way. “Mayhaps. But we could ensure a step is made so that others can save their lives against the threat beyond the Wall. It stands to reason it is bound to happen again.” His hands closed into fists. “I failed my wife, I failed my child that grew inside of her, I failed my family.” He looked up to her, determination burning in his eyes like cold fire. “I will not fail them again.”

Visenya got up from her seat between the roots and walked up to her brother- cousin- whatever she could name this male version of hers, and grabbed his hand. “That’s quite an honorable goal to pursue,” she said with a sad wan smile. “But fate has shown its true face, and this life will proceed as it had done before in history.”

“How can you be so sure?” he asked quietly.

“Lyanna Stark died birthing a child of a Targaryen. Our new aunts, grandparents and great grandparents died the same way they did before. Every time they visited us in the nursery my heart grew to fit them inside of it, but I’m afraid of having more only to be taken away when I’ve tasted the sweet honey of love.” She let go of his hand. “One day my new mother will die, as I see how she withers at every child that dies from her womb. And one day, a brother or sister of mine shall take her along with them to the long sleep.”

Visenya started to walk away when she heard Aemon say. “If you have no hope, then why do you still live?”

She turned to him mid step. “I. . . I do not know it myself.”

Aemon caught up with her and took her hands with his. “Listen to me. I know it is hard to love again after all that happened to us. It’s difficult to continue when we left all our loved ones behind, but we still live here!” he exclaimed, touching her arms. “To live is to wage between life and death, and it gives us the opportunity to love again, and do our own choice, our own destinies.”

“You just spoke of fighting the Others. Isn’t that what fate had given to you?”

He nodded. “It was, but just as back then and now, I am making the choice to follow through.” He brought one hand to her face and caressed it gently. “You can leave this life behind and make your own destiny. Whether you stay or move on is your choice, your life. You made that same choice in your first life, come to think of it. You chose to stay and unite with Aegon while I only saw a rival and enemy. And we chose to fight for our lives, and those of our loved ones. Now, we can do it again, or choose another path.”

“I don’t’ know if I can. . .” she replied weakly.

“We will not live forever, despite our second chance. And despite the losses we have suffered, we loved the people that crossed our lives. I saw how you reacted to Baelon’s presents, and your mother Aemma’s kisses. I felt much the same. Can we truly throw all of this away, just to hurt for longer and for certainty?”

His words rang softly on the chords of her heart. She did love this new mother, this new life. Despite her fear of losing, wouldn’t she lose it all if she abandoned it all?

Aemon didn’t need to hear her answer, and simply brought her closer to the heart tree and embraced her. He was warm, and smelled of woodsmoke and pinetree. Snow and the cold northern air. It was a familiar smell. Visenya had missed it.

They sat back at the roots in joined hands.

Chapter Text

Fate followed its known course for the two of them.

Two years after the Great Council, Jaehaerys I passed away in his sleep at the age of nine and sixty. Many kings, both before and after him would never reach the mark of his long reign, nor its peace and prosperity. Aemon remembered thinking on those rare peaceful nights in bed with his wife that, had his father lived, then the Conciliator could have a contender for his achievements. But Aemon knew this was just his wishful thinking. A dream of a false spring that ended up in more winter.

For him, Dany and their little one, winter had been the farthest they had gone.

For Viserys I, it was spring, and it promised a bountiful and long summer for lords and commonfolk.

Ser Robin Shaw, an ancient member of the old king’s white swords, passed in the dawn of the Young King’s reign in the hundredth and third year after the Conquest. Viserys started his reign in the same manner as he would conduct its entirety: with feasts, tourneys and many celebrations. On that same tourney, the second son of Lord Darklyn was chosen amongst many skilled knights to be the newest member of Viserys’ kingsguard.

The whole ordeal made Aemon remember of the start of Robert Baratheon’s reign. A time of change heralded by celebration and an open-handed king. Aemon knew what that reign heralded, and read what this one heralded as well in the first place. He prayed they could avoid such a tragic fate.

Him and Visenya, who were once distant cousins now became rather inseparable. As they reached their fifth year each they started their teachings with one of the maesters in the Red Keep. Due to their previous education, the two of them were heralded as prodigies by their tutors. It was rather unfair to gain the fame of two smart princelings, but Aemon saw their hours with Maester Benedar as a boon. This way, they would fill in their education what once was not fit for bastards. In Visenya’s worst days, Aemon did make this point known to her, so that he could manage to drag her out of her bed.

Sometimes, his cousin (as they had agreed to call each other out, both to avoid any strange interactions in public and to avoid the rabbit hole of thinking what they truly were to each other. Twins, siblings? The same person?) was hard to deal with, as bouts of melancholy would come from time to time and hang over her head like some storm cloud. In those times, Aemon would feel his anger come inside of him when Visenya was specially stubborn; but he never became as enraged as he once had been, especially after his. . . resurrection. Was it age? By all accounts, Aemon ought to be a man of seven and twenty right now, but he still wore the skin of a little child.

Other times, he felt his cousin’s frustrations. It was difficult to see the world move on while their lives had been turned upside down and thrown to the wind, or because they, unfortunately, were still children and could not do much to change the events of history for their benefit at the moment.

Moons after their studies began, Rhaenyra started following them around. He was pleased to say to himself he quite enjoyed her presence. It was a breath of fresh air to see a true child living without the immense worries both her sister and himself carried. He even envied her for a bit.

It also helped that Rhaenyra’s whining was all about unimportant stuff, usually solved with meaningless promises that the little child would forget the next hour.

It didn’t always work. As it happens, Rhaenyra had pretty good memory, and her scorn was terrible to behold. Who wants to be hated by such a beautiful child?

Despite the rocky start, Aemon had garnered a decent relationship with his father. Yes, he was a busy man, and yes he wasn’t the best of fathers, but he secretly loved spending time with Daemon. The Rogue Prince had no qualms for praising him and he was known to often speak of his son’s achievements. His acts of affection were public and assertive. A rather stark contrast to what Ned Stark was willing to do.

Aemon did hold the memory of his uncle fondly, but he wasn’t blind to his shortcomings.

He would never be a bastard. Aemon would never tolerate to be called as such, when by rights he was noblest of all.

But he caught himself in the spiral of anger before he made a slip. At the Wall, he met good people from humble beginnings, and terrible people from august lines dating back to thousands of years. Stannis had the right of it, marked by his finest act of knighting a smuggler surprisingly attuned with what was right or wrong.

Since the start of his uncle’s reign, his father had been appointed as the commander of the City Watch. Aemon wasn’t stupid to not know what methods Daemon Targaryen used to train the guards and suppress criminality in the city. All in all, Daemon was an effective commander, and had brought peace to the city. That was the reason the smallfolk loved him.

Who did not love his father was the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, and that sour treatment Aemon inherited from his father as well. He already suspected what were the numerous reasons for that. The rather hasty marriage of his father and mother, his mother’s origin as a Stark of Winterfell and the mere fact that he was Daemon’s son. If Aemon was honest, never did like the Hand as well. Such an uptight southron with too many high opinions of himself.

Daemon usually trained him at the break of day and Aemon loved the routine of sweating and actually doing some work. As important as it was to sit and listen to Maester Benedar, Aemon did agree with his cousin that there were times he wished to die than keep with the droning of the old man.

Today was one of those very same days. Aemon woke with the break of day, springing out of his bed and rushing through his clothes to find a decent tunic. Aemon was still that very same man that once was elected Lord Commander of the Wall, so it was no surprise black and grey were his usual colors. It did help they were the Stark and Targaryen colors as well. Said tunic was grey linen to which he paired simple black wool trousers and his fine leather boots, also died black. Over it came a belt studded in silver with a little dagger tied to it. It had, of course the head of a silver dragon on its pommel.

He avoided the doublet and leather jerkin. Usually he enjoyed the crisp morning air in spring. The last cold winds whistling through his hair and shirt was a soothing balm to the heat of the day King’s Landing usually suffered.

Well, he suffered. Visenya and the others enjoyed the hot air and cursed the lightest cold wind.

Next to my last days, this is just spring’s kiss. They never felt true cold. Aemon shivered. Visenya had felt it though, and he prayed they would never need to feel the bite of the cold winds blowing from the Heart of Winter.

Aemon ran through the corridor and took down the stairs two steps at a time, almost sending a poor maid carrying clean towels down the steps. Across another corridor and down the central stairs and he would be at the entrance of Maegor’s Holdfast, but before he could reach it, Aemon balled over a big form.

Aemon went to the ground with a grunt, while the object he stumbled hardly moved “Prince Aemon, you must be careful where you run! The spiked moat is just a few yards from here. It would be a shame to lose you,” a strong and confident voice sounded before him. A hand appeared in his line of sight and Aemon took it. Effortlessly he was pulled back to his feet.

“Sorry, Tom! Didn’t see you there,” Aemon said, embarrassed, the way a child would be. He and Visenya were needed to keep at least a semblance of mummery about their ages.

“No matter, my prince. I understand your eagerness,” the steward said. Tom was a long-standing servant of House Targaryen, having served King Jaehaerys for twenty years now. He was a tall and elegant man, with short dark hair and a moustache over his lip. He usually was stern as a master-at-arms, but he had a history of being forgiving to the children. “Now run along, princeling. Your father already awaits you in the inner bailey.” With that, Aemon took off again, but heard Tom yelling behind him. “And be careful at corners, Prince Aemon!”

He crossed the drawbridge laid over the spiked moat that surrounded Maegor’s Holdfast, greeting in short calls Sers Steffon Darklyn and Robert Redfort standing at the entrance. Across the yard and close to the armory, was his father, Prince Daemon. He was dressed in a red gambeson sown with dragons in flight outlines in black thread. The buttons were gilded and the cord that held the coat closed was cloth of gold. The tall and handsome prince had his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. Dark Sister was valyrian steel, spell-forged and highly durable. One of two swords owned by his House and once wielded by Queen Visenya herself. It was no surprise his cousin coveted to have her back in her hands.

“You are late, Aemon.” Those were the words Prince Daemon had for greeting his son.

“Sorry, father. I ended up meeting with Tom on the way here,” he said, with hands on his knees as he cached his breath.

The Rogue Prince only yawned. “I returned from the barracks near the Old Gate almost an hour ago. If the keep is under attack, will you wait the servants knock at your door to gently wake you or have the rooster make the call?”

“Neither, father. At the signal of the horn I’ll be on my feet, with a sword at my hip.” Aemon had lived that routine for a long time by now. One had no need to wait three blasts of a horn to expect an attack.

The elder prince chuckled. “Let’s see if the sword is of some use if not only to make you trip and fall.” His father walked toward a rack of training swords and selected his own, while throwing him a small wooden sword. Aemon noticed it was different than other swords of its kind.

“It’s heavy,” he complained.

“Now we will start with heavier arms to build up your strength. Once you have this one you will be as quick as lightning,” Daemon said, patting Dark Sister at his belt.

“Visenya will have something to say about this.”

His father laughed. “Then let her come to me and say it. My grandfather the king gave me Queen Visenya’s sword for my prowess, not because I had the name of a conqueror.”

Aemon chanced a quick glance at the lightening yard. Thankfully his cousin was nowhere in sight. They quickly started their training not long after, with slashing exercises directed by his father, pointing where his leg should be or how high he should raise his elbow. They were few instances, truth be told, but Aemon needed to keep the mummery.

When his arms felt leaden like the sword at his hands, his father commanded him to grab another one, this time lighter. “Now, your goal is to hit to me in the chest. For every mistake you do I’ll counter it with a flurry of my own. Be hit and you will run the length of the walls one time. Ready?” Then they started. Aemon tried faints and thrusts, many never once fooled his princely father. He chanced a step forward to slip inside his guard but Daemon’s hand shot out and pushed him back three feet away, then the flurry came. Left and right then overhead and into a thrust. Narrowly he evaded the last strike, stinging against his shoulder. “Already one, boy? I’ll see you counting the number of stones on the wall when I’m done,” he said, smirking. Aemon wouldn’t allow that. Again he tried a thrust, sliding his sword inside his father’s guard but it was pushed away with a flicker of the wrist. Daemon stepped forward and sent another flurry. This time it was slower, but he pushed Aemon toward the armory’s wall with each step. When the sword came too high he rolled under it and stopped at his father’s back with a quick slash. Daemon stepped away quickly. He could see his father’s smile.

Aemon survived the onslaught of attacks without a new hit. He tried again. Each strike he sent was meant to make his father’s sword occupied, and with each strike his arms got tired. When he slacked and buffed like a bellow, Daemon chanced a quick strike at his right shoulder. Aemon waited for it. With a quick step to the left, Aemon slashed at his father’s knee and quickly pulled back for a strike to his shoulder. His father avoided the second stroke and gained some distance. “You are still to hit me, Aemon. It was the chest I said.”

Aemon huffed and puffed. “A warrior without his foot can hardly guard against his chest.”

Daemon smirked at his answer.

In the end, Aemon had to run three times the circuit of the entire wall of the Red Keep, passing by runny-eyed guards ending their shifts and yawning ones entering. He hailed them all, as in had become quite common for him to be up there. Once he returned, drenched in sweat his father was ready. “Come Aemon, pick up the sword and let’s go again!”

Of course he didn’t manage to hit his father, but the exercise was to train his breathing and fighting under tiredness. The second bout had him sprawled in the ground, gasping for air. Daemon grabbed his hand and pulled him up, guiding his son to a nearby bench and handing him a water skin. “You did well, Aemon. I remember the first time I did this exercise with my father. Could hardly raise my arm for the whole week,” his father said, pride shining through with every word, and Aemon loved it.

“I’m too small to defeat you,” spoke Aemon between breaths.

“For the nonce you are, aye. But you should use that to your advantage. That strike you did, using my sword to get inside my guard. It was quite ingenious.”

Aemon preened with the praise. That was a strike he had used to defeat an Other. They were tall and surprisingly strong, so he needed to keep them on their heels with those quick slashes darting between strikes and parries.

The rest of the training his father spent drilling Aemon on simple slashes. By the end of it the sun was already waltzing in the sky. Early morning was already over. Daemon kissed the top of his head and sent him away. “Go on now. Wash yourself and break your fast. I know someone is already waiting for you,” he said teasing him, and Aemon blushed despite himself.

Said person was his cousin, standing nearby in her red and black samite gown. Her face was impassive, something between calm, jealousy and genuine content. One of her father’s kingsguard stood a few paces behind her, silent and steadfast. “Did you manage to hit him this time?” was what Visenya asked.

Aemon frowned and the girl chuckled. “Good morning Ser Harrold,” he said first to the knight, who greeted him in the same manner. Aemon Targaryen never forgot his courtesies. He turned back to his cousin. “I must at least appear to at least try and fail before I can succeed,” he said to her in excuse, transitioning to High Valyrian that none of the servants knew. At first it was hard for both of them to learn a complete knew language, but the advantage of having a family that naturally spoke the almost dead tongue of the dragonlords helped in their development. The mesh of adult and child minds both made learning it harder and easier somehow.

“Oh, so was it not because of your baby hands? I have told you, they are too soft for a hardened warrior who fought against wildlings,” Visenya said with a laugh that Aemon answered with a glare.

“Aren’t going to ask the king to allow you to join me in sword training? Even my father has noticed your presence in the yard every time my lessons are over.” Though he thinks you’re there for another reason, Aemon thought the last part but didn’t voice it.

“Not yet. Haven’t found a proper time to ask papa about it, though I doubt he will be happy to hear it. I must remain pure and demure, you see. A princess of the blood must not sully her perfect nails or her delicate ears with the grime and uncouth speech of the training yard,” said his cousin, reciting an old argument of Lady Catelyn when Arya insisted on her own sword lessons. Her playful visage fell and Visenya looked apprehensive. “There will be news in court today. Mama’s pregnant again.”

Aemon sobered up at his cousin’s warning. Both had no special knowledge of House Targaryen’s history, courtesy of their similar circumstances in upbringing, but both knew of Aemma’s fate in their old time.

Still, he wasn’t so sure now was the moment they knew would sooner or later come. “You don’t think. . .”

Visenya swallowed and grabbed his hand in a deathly grip, they remained walking toward Maegor’s Holdfast. “I don’t know. But I remember that it happened early into my father’s reign.”

If Aemon was honest to himself, he would say they were lucky it hadn’t happened yet into their lives here in this new past. But they could not rely on luck to further their plans of securing a swift transition of power between Viserys I and his heir. And if his gut was right about it, then soon it will be a matter of helping Visenya keep hold of her new title.

But Aemon hadn’t the heart to tell his cousin the truth, not this one at least. Most times, truth was a bitter drought to swallow and it was best done quickly rather than delaying the inevitable. But could he make such a reveal to Visenya about something not even he was certain it was come to pass, no matter what?

“It might be and it might be not. Maybe our mere existence will change your father’s decisions and your mother’s fate. With two daughters, he aught to be less desperate for a son and heir, so soon into his reign.” He gave her a soft smile, trying to sound and look convinced.

He hoped she believed his words. Visenya gave him a wan smile and nodded her head. The wind blew on their hair and Visenya had a light shiver, curling her nose. “You reek like a sack of ripe onions left out in the sun. Go wash this stink before joining me in breaking our fast, Ser Aemon or I’ll have you sand Ser Ryam’s mail shirt for a moon. We must be ready for Papa’s court,” she said in common with the best imitation of a haughty princess. Considering their life, she was getting quite good at it, judging by Ser Harrold Westerling’s light chuckle behind him.

Aemon chuckled and breathed a kiss on her pale wrist. “As my princess commands,” and took off back to his rooms. On the way he made sure to have a servant ready a bath in his chambers. When he got back to the rooms, the maids were dumping the last two pails of water in a tub of beaten bronze. Boiling, as he learned to appreciate. Aemon didn’t remember having a tolerance to so high temperatures in water before, but he too didn’t have much of an opportunity to ask Winterfell’s servants for one.

He dismissed the maids after the water reached a satisfying level, took of his sweated clothes and entered the steaming water. After scrubbing his shoulders, hair, face, under his arm and on his parts, Aemon remained thinking in the tub, his knees drawn close to his chest. Eight years had passed since he started this new journey with his cousin, since a sour defeat took everything he held dear and separated Aemon from his family even in death. He wasn’t as caught up in his head as when he was born again, cursed to bear the shroud of a dying Lyanna Stark again for the rest of his life; but it didn’t mean her ghost, and that of Dany, their child and his siblings didn’t revisit Aemon from time to time. Just last week it was announced at court the death of Lord Benjen Stark, the man he briefly met four years ago in Harrenhal and the father of his mother. Aemon was lucky this time to have met both grandfathers, but he had such a short time with them he sometimes thought it barely made a difference in his once cold heart.

It was a lie, of course. He didn’t feel Benjen’s death as heavy as he felt Baelon’s, but they did affect him. Sometimes he caught himself drifting toward Visenya’s words of hurt and pain. Of ridding himself of the worry and simply not chance the risk of feeling.

To this moment, his resolve was greater than that. If the worst comes to pass, Visenya will need me.

Aemon jumped out of the water and readied himself for the day.

Hours later, Aemon to the king’s right in the throne room, a mountain of barbed iron and slag separated them as he watched his uncle perched atop his seat. Visenya stood to his left, closer to her father and holding her mother’s hand while Rhaenyra fidgeted at his right. The little girl was a bundle of energy ready to me released. Her eyes shifted from the colored window panels to the skulls of Balerion and Meraxes at the walls, feet tapping in an endless rhythm, just waiting for Aemon to leg of her hand.

It was rather cruel keeping such a child stuck in one place, but it was needed.

His father stood tall behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other resting on the flaming pommel of Dark Sister. A cape of cloth of gold hung from his shoulders, proudly displaying his rank and position as the commander of two thousand men.

To the king’s left was the council table, where its members sat. Grand Maester Runciter was a bald man with the white beard, an elaborate chain with links of iron, pewter, gold and bronze, tin, black iron and many more other metals wound up around his neck over robes of grey wool. To his right sat the glowering Ser Imry Blackbar with his salt and pepper beard. At the other end of the table was old Lord Lyman Beesbury, checking his notes every now and again and crossing his fingers over them. Between the two reachmen bedecked in grey and green clothes of satin and silk was the Lord Hand, Otto Hightower, sporting proudly the golden pin of his office that held a half-cape of emerald vellum.

Of that man’s disloyalty Aemon was certain, even more if what Visenya feared transpired in the near future. Both he and his cousin had started watching the Hightower knight for any early signs of his future plans, unfruitful as they have been seeing as his grandsons weren’t even born yet. Yet Aemon wasn’t about to let that worm wriggle out of his sight anytime soon. A man doesn’t simply wake up and decides to become overly ambitious overnight.

It gave him relief when his father noticed his reluctance to view Ser Otto with nothing but mistrust and softly praised him; though this could mean others have noticed his frosty demeanor. Aemon should be more careful not to make himself open for other to read him so easily. And place trust in fickle men.

He had learned it the hard way.

Below the dais and before the knights of the kingsguard, noblemen and women stood in attendance looking with curious eyes toward his kingly uncle, Viserys the first of His Name.

Viserys Targaryen is a man of many tastes and pleasures, Aemon found out. His uncle wore a purple overcoat with filigree sown in golden thread over a doublet of plum samite, all tied with a large belt of gold silk encrusted with tiny gems that mirrored that of his own crown. The same crown of seven different color that his predecessor King Jaehaerys wore. He now sported a well-groomed silver-gold moustache over his lip. Viserys was a singularly tall man, reaching past six feet, but a few inches taller than his own father. But different from Daemon, the king was starting to grow a little belly that showed on his bright clothes.

The most common thing in King Viserys’ court was merriment and feasts. His open-handedness was well-known throughout the kingdoms, so it stood to reason many knights and lords resided in the royal court, either from close castles and holdfasts of the Crownlands to far-flung keeps and hedges of the Riverlands and Reach.

Lord Tymond Lannister had been a familiar face in King’s Landing as of late. The lion of the Rock had frequented court any time he visited the city when in ‘business of trade’ he had heard, often traveling between Casterly Rock and the capital to negotiate deals with tyroshi and pentoshi magisters more common here than in Lannisport.

Of course, ambitions of having a position in the king’s Small Council had been weighted in the Warden of the West’s mind, Aemon had no doubt.

All eyes were fixed on his uncle as he spoke making exaggerating gestures and great hearty laughs at his own jests. “My good and loyal subjects, I have a declaration to make in this joyous day. My beloved wife and cousin, the Queen Aemma is expecting a new babe. Soon in the moons to come we shall have the addition of another prince of House Targaryen!” The crowd clapped and jubilated. Some appeared to be genuinely optimistic of the queen’s ability to produce the king’s long-awaited son and heir, putting the matter of succession to rest. Others were. . . less hopeful.

Queen Aemma had been pregnant a number of times before, ever since the reign of the Old King, and many were already coming to see the patterns of children that not lived long in the cradle or never breathed their first breath once out of their mother. Only Visenya and Rhaenyra were the two that proved victorious against that battle.

The king smiled and made a signal with his hand for the crowd to quieten. “And as a celebration of the coming babe, I announce a tourney is to happen here in King’s Landing, set to be in the eighth moon of the hundred and fifth year after Aegon’s Conquest!” Again the crowd applauded but with a bit more gusto. Men could be heard over the din of celebration making shouts of “seven blessings to Queen Aemma and the new prince!” and “hail King Viserys!”

His aunt smiled with grace, looking at her husband atop the giant throne who stared back with love-filled eyes. Princess Rhaenyra clapped eagerly at the thought of having a little brother and that of the coming tourney, showing a dazzling smile that could melt the heart of any man. His father Daemon clapped as well, but without much enthusiasm and full of his usual swagger. Aemon and Visenya followed him, but theirs were fueled with apprehension. A smile grew on Visenya’s lovely face, but her indigo eyes showed only fear.

May the gods prove us wrong. Even as he wished, Aemon didn’t believe his words would be heard.

Chapter Text

“Four and sixty,” she whispered to the warm morning air, stifling under the royal box’s silken cover. Four and sixty until all is done, and Uncle Daemon is the sole victor. Her right foot bounced up and down in the wooden floor, her hands grasped her chair’s armrests in steely flingers. Aemon’s hand was caught under her right one.

The morning began gloomy and overcast, and Visenya’s mind inevitably had taken it as a bad omen for the day. Just an hour before they were to take the carriage ride to the tourney grounds her father received the news that her mother had started her labors. That made them leave the Red Keep an hour later just to see if the queen had all she needed before the royal entourage made their way.

That was on the second day. Yestermorn started with an archery competition, along with a shorter section to crossbow, held in haste due to a surprise arrival of a tyroshi company of crossbowmen. The day before was axe throwing and horse races. But all entertainments would pale in comparison to the main event that were the jousts.

“At least this is more entertaining,” Aemon muttered at her side. His eyes flittered back to hers, sending a small warm wave of levity and confidence. Visenya could almost say she loved him for it, but her heart was still too weary. She did not speak, but she squeezed his hand in response. He was her best friend, her only ally capable of understanding the strange position she lived in.

“Of course it is!” said Rhaenyra to her left. “The best knights of the realm ride for the champion’s purse and win honor and glory. Uncle Daemon rides with them, as does the gallant Ser Criston! I hope one of them wins, so they can crown me Queen of Love and Beauty,” she spoke with wonder in her eyes. Her sister was a lovely thing. Bright enchanting purple eyes, a small mouth with plump lips that made her look pouting and hair equal parts silver and gold, different from her own more silver mane. Her beauty was enhanced by a delicate beauty mark under her right eye. She had a small elegant nose with a light turned-up tip. It was a marvel how she could look so majestic yet so young. Many knights and ladies had complemented her own beauty, of course but never to the extend as Rhaenyra received their praises. Most of it was due to her rather aquiline nose, she thought.

She wore her hair in that favorite style of hers of twin braids Queen Visenya famously wore. Her gown was a silken dress of light pink with white lace that cut perfectly the image of the Realm’s Delight. Her own gown was dark purple samite that complemented well with her own dark eyes. Different from her sister, she let her hair fall freely down her head, along with a thin silver circlet with chains of light gold in it.

“You are right, my most dear daughter! You are the loveliest lady in the realm, I’m sure your uncle shall crown you should he win,” Viserys spoke with a great laugh from behind and above them, seating in the king’s chair. “But you must expect competition to win your crown, my sweet Rhaenyra. You do have a lovely princess at your side.”

Visenya smiled at her father’s words, but tried to ignore the little whisper of jealousy. She knew she was beautiful, and her sister was that as well. She was more than certain her father loved her just as much as Rhaenyra. It was just nice when she was the only of Viserys and Aemma’s child, and received all their praise.

It was childish of her to be jealous of her wonderful sister. The irony didn’t escape her.

Trumpets rang down the twin quintains announcing the start of the jousts. With a magnanimous and joyful speech, the tilts were open to begin, and quickly four knights entered in atop their destriers, coursers and rounseys for the less wealthy knights. Visenya saw the four of them make their way toward the royal box, dipped their lances in salute and moving to their positions; the winged chalice and crescent moon over trees to the east, checky lion and fallen leaves to the west.

Visenya had not the time to remember the knights’ names before her father signaled the master of games, and trumpets sounded lively. Horses sprinted toward each other, digging shallow holes in the dirt as the armored men spurred them into a gallop. Lances coached and ready in the crook of their arms, pointed towards their competitor with shield ready before both sides bet into a clash of wood, metal and horseflesh.

CRACK.

The checky lion knight was on the ground in a heap of metal, woodchips rained over him and the winged chalice knight, still ahorse with a shattered lance in hand. Smallfolk and noble born cheered and clapped at the scene, a wave of voices. The other pair were wheeling their horses around the quintains and charging back with great speed. The knight of fallen leaves followed his sigil, and went to the ground. The crescent moon and trees knight had his lance intact in hand, doing a victory lap around.

Quickly the fallen and victorious riders were ushered in and four more presented themselves before the royal box, just as the previous two pairs did before. Six moons ago her father had announced the tourney in court, and the ravens flew from the Grand Maester’s tower in a pack of hundreds, delivering word of the festivities to the lords of the realm. Many came as early as the fortnight after the announcement, and others arrived as the first games were begun. Four and sixty were the number of knights that came and placed their names to compete for the champion’s purse of ten thousand gold dragons in the jousts. If they were to watch every joust one pair at the time, it could take as much as a whole moon’s turn to see a champion emerge, so it was suggested by Lord Otto that, at least for the first three rounds of each participant two pairs of jousters would ride at the same time.

The suggestion was heard and accepted, and not a day later new quintains were brought and set just a few yards to the side of the first one. Visenya had to admit, it was the better way forward, but she didn’t sing the Hand’s praises. She was still wary of the man.

Mushroom sauntered into their line of sight as the knights down in the lists made their second ride out. The fool was as she had read before in her first life. Little, annoying and uncouth, with stunted legs and a squashed in face beneath a heavy-set brow. He wore quartered motley of black slashed with red underneath and yellow squared paired with green, jumping from one exaggeratedly pointed shoe to the other, the bells on his little hat rang with the movement. Ding di-ling. Ding di-ling.

“Such a long face, my prince? Wouldn’t it be better if a handsome lad like you to smile a bit to brighten up your cousin the prince’s tourney?” said the dwarf in a sing-song voice. All the while he jumped from one foot to the other.

Aemon glanced at him in stone-faced. “I would if I had a wish for it, Mushroom. Move away and bother me no more, I’m more interested in watching the tilts than indulge you and your senseless jests,” her cousin spoke with a cold as winter voice a boy could muster, waving the fool away with a hand.

Mushroom feigned thinking his next words, one stubby finger tapping his haired chin. “On second thought, you are right, my prince. Best not you smile and steal away the all the maids about the tourney and leave none for poor Mushroom here.” He eyed Visenya with quick glances, switching between her and Aemon while raising his eyebrows in a rhythm.

Visenya felt a little heat come to her cheeks. “Listen to my cousin and begone with you, little imp. No one wants to spend their time with you while better entertainment is about,” she reinforced her cousin’s answer, turning her nose up and purposefully looking at the knights jousting. Wood fell from the sky in pale flakes as a seahorse and warhammer knights met in clash. Ser Erryk had already left the field, having defeated the knight of golden cranes.

The dwarf feigned sadness at her rebuke and looked at her sister. “Would at least the Realm’s Delight give the honor of seeing her favorite fool away?” he pleaded in a moping sad voice.

Rhaenyra didn’t even deign to look at him. “My uncle is about to ride, Mushroom, and Ser Criston after him! Be back when we have nothing better to do.”

Their father noticed his court fool wasn’t successful in getting laughs out of the children, so he intervened. “My daughters are right, Mushroom. Be gone and find some refreshments for yourself. Take a moment to delight in the tourney’s attractions for the nonce,” he said, not in an unkind way.

The dwarf in motley bowed so low he almost kissed his own feet. “At once, Your Grace. The king’s desire is my will,” said Mushroom, cartwheeling to the side and leaving the box while standing on his hands, almost bumping with a nearby cupbearer.

“It’s better that creature to find himself inside the cellars and into a wine barrel again,” Lord Staunton commented two rows behind them. The master of ships shuddered while leaning next to Lord Lyman Beesbury. “I stayed away from wine a whole moon after I heard what the fool had done last year.”

“That was why old Lord Darry died so sudden, I think. He could not believe he may have drunk Arbor red cured with the dwarf’s underclothes, and his heart was too weak for such revelations deep in the night and in his cups.”

Some in the box laughed at Beesbury’s tale. Her father did too.

The royal box was largely occupied by the Small Council members and their families, though most elected to seat without their wives at side, like Ser Imry. It was made so the entrance was on the highest level along with the last row of seats. As it came down with each step the rank of the person seated was higher, with her father the king occupying the centermost seat along with Ser Otto, who was at her father’s right; and ending up with their own row.

Visenya looked back at the tilts below and saw that Rhaenyra had been right, as she got sights of a familiar dragon-winged helm. Thirteen knights stood abreast on their mounts before the closest quintain, while her dashing uncle pranced about on his black courser, the coat dark as sin. Daemon Targaryen wore silver plate over a gilded mail hauberk, the crest of House Targaryen was etched in his breastplate, lined with niello and lacquered red. She could not see his face under his helm, also of silver and with dragon wings flaring out about his temples and a stream of red plume falling from the top; but Visenya was sure he had his signature self-assured smirk at his lips.

Visenya observed the sigil of the knights’ arms as her uncle passed before them. There were silver eagles, black stags, golden lions, a field of nightingales and ten clumps of coal. Red huntsman, blue towers with a bridge, silver trout, black ravens and a white tower. Her uncle passed the last knight, doubled back, and silently pointed the lance at his hand to the white tower knight. The master of games named her uncle’s choice. “Prince Daemon chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, son of the Hand of the King, as his first opponent!”

The crowd and the royal box clapped to the announcement. Visenya chanced a sideways glance at the Hand, and saw that Ser Otto had a placid reaction on his face, but she did notice his firmer grip on the chair’s armrest.

The other knights filed out of the field, leaving just another pair to ride along the prince’s first tilt, but Visenya did not pay attention to them. Her eyes trailed the scarlet shield of Criston Cole, the would-be Kingmaker. Ever since her father’s ascension to the throne and the tourney that celebrated it happened, the stormlander knight had wormed his way inside court with a prestigious duty. Everything Rhaenyra asked her father was very glad to grant it, and so was the case with Cole. Her sister was so enchanted with the knight that she insisted he would be made her sword shield, and Viserys accepted. His prowess with the sword and flail well-known after that. Visenya grimaced at the sight of Rhaenyra’s red handkerchief embroidered with the image of Syrax’s bright yellow scales tied around the knight’s lobstered gauntlet.

Visenya had to plan a way to separate her dear sister from the traitor’s side. She would sleep better knowing that Rhaenyra was safe away from Cole. Once she proposed poisoning him just to be done with the cunt, but Aemon dissuaded her from her course. “How anyone would believe a fit and healthy knight simply died in his sleep, cousin? And how would you get your hands to the poison?”

Eventually she did accept that her plan was folly. If Cole was lucky, he would be far away back in Blackhaven by the time she ascended the throne. If they were not so lucky, then perhaps a simple mishap with Ebrion or Caraxes would be enough.

No! Your brother will survive, as well as your mother. Mother and child will leave the birthing bed with their lives, and this folly of a war will never have reason to exist.

Anyway, they all would need to grow before planning anything and putting them into action.

Before any of the riders could charge at their opponent though, Daemon changed the direction of his mount and rode toward the royal box. His voice echoed inside the silver helm. “I’m fairly certain I can win these games, my dear niece. Having the favor of a beautiful princess would all but assure it.”

Visenya got up from her seat and serenely walked to the railing, staring at her uncle with a calm gaze. She clutched the handkerchief in her hand for a moment before deciding. Her uncle stretched his armored arm inside the box as Visenya tied the silk and lace fabric the color of his horse’s coat with tiny blue and purple dragons flying on it at his wrist. “Win me a crown uncle, and my favor shall always be yours.” She could see his eyes through the slit of his helm. He blinked at her and spurred his horse off to his position.

Aemon glanced at her funnily as she walked back to her seat. Visenya ignored him.

The trumpets blared, the knights put spurs on the flanks of their steeds and rode hard against each other. Wood showered competitors and spectators as lance met shield in an explosion. Both pairs remained ahorse in their first lance. Quickly they made their turns, catching new lances from the hands of squires and galloped hard to meet again at the center. The Tully knight managed to hit the shoulder of his opponent with the silver unicorn and crow shield, sending him out of his saddle, sliding over the quintains as his horse continued running the course. He thudded to the ground, his foot safely out of the stirrup. The crowd cheered and applauded.

Her uncle made his third pass. He raised his lance for the hit but Hightower lifted his shield, guarding his side. The lance slid off without shattering. Her uncle slowed down and after a heartbeat, galloped back but slower than before. Ser Gwayne’s lance met shield, exploding into tiny pieces and covering the ground. Daemon pressed his horse into a hard gallop in hopes of catching Gwayne before he reached the middle of the quintains. The Hightower knight was surprised by the horse’s speed and raised his shield. “Too high,” she heard Aemon whispering under his breath. It proved to be true, as his father coached his lance low, hitting Gwayne square in the chest just under his elbow.

The Hightower lad was launched out of his saddle and landed with a metal thud on the ground. He was motionless for a few heartbeats, then moved fast as if woken in surprise. Squires went and helped him back to his feet. The white tower on his surcoat was had turned a shit brown where it touched the ground. The crowd vibrated with the Prince of the City’s victory within and without the royal box. Visenya sneakily looked back at the Hand and saw his jaw tense, almost shattering his teeth.

She let out a tiny smile. Perhaps the day could be entertaining.

When Cole’s time came for his tilt Rhaenyra squealed in delight at his fast victory. Visenya did not catch all the knights’ sigils, but she remembered seeing lions, golden and red both. Cole defeated Lord Boremund Baratheon and his cousin Roger, advancing in the phases like a man possessed.

Daemon did much the same, defeating the Tully knight and having his horse prance around the fallen opponent, who angrily left the grounds after he threw his silver trout-crested helm on the up-turned dirt. After him it was a Royce of Runestone who Daemon also put to the ground in shame. He defeated both Cargyll twins, one after the other and advanced to the final, where he would face Rhaenyra’s champion. At every victory of Prince Daemon, her cousin’s smile grew larger. He was quite pretty when he smiled, she oddly thought.

As both men rode, a servant spoke in the ear of Ser Otto, whose face betrayed nothing. The Hand passed the whisper to her father, who paled for a moment and straightened in his seat. A few heartbeats later he got up and marched out of the box with Ser Otto and Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne behind.

It’s begun, she thought. Her heart started pounding on her chest. A drum so loud she could hardly hear anything else. Her right foot started bouncing again.

Her mother was at the final stages of her labor, Visenya was certain of that. And there lied the dangers. She could not stop her mind from going wild, the great joust ahead of her all but forgotten. Her mother needed the best maesters, the best healers to guarantee she would live. Visenya wanted to jump atop Ebrion and ride hard for the Red Keep, make Grand Maester save Aemma Arryn at swordpoint to help her. She wanted to barge inside her room and sit by her mother’s side, holding her hand to ensure her that her daughter was there, lending her strength.

The best possible fate would be for her brother to never live and make her mother barren. It was kinder even. One would not need to live through this hell full of traitors and murderers, and the other would never suffer the heavy weight of pregnancies, to never feel threatened by the possibility of dying in the act. Visenya did not believe in any gods, not anymore after what she had seen, yet she now prayed for the seven, the old gods, the bearded god and mother Royne. She even prayed for Bran, the little god inside the tree. You have worked a miracle by bringing us here, Bran. Please do something easier and save my mother.

Visenya did not deserve to live, not after her failures in her first life. But Aemma Arryn deserved a second chance, a way to live with her precious daughter Rhaenyra and ensure she became the best queen possible.

Visenya felt a warm hand envelop her right hand tenderly. She followed hand to arm to shoulder and met Aemon’s eyes, a grey so warm never before seen.

She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed it back, reassuringly.

Down in the field, Daemon had his back on the ground. His sword sent away from his hand as he yielded to Cole.

Two days later, Visenya stood stone-faced in a grassy field just some miles north of the Iron Gate and off the Rosby Road. Members of the king’s council stood around her father. All wore black. Ser Imry walked toward Viserys and spoke quiet words before walking back to his place, without getting a reaction out of the king. The Lord Hand stood nearby, gently caressing the shoulder of his daughter, a seven and ten maiden with hair of white-gold and blue eyes.

Looking at Alicent Hightower was more interesting than thinking of why they were there in the first place. It was safer for her heart, but the constant weeping and wheezing Rhaenyra did while her face was buried at her chest always pulled her mind to their situation. Her mother, Queen Aemma Arryn had passed after giving birth to Baelon, her little brother. He died a day later their mother did. Visenya could hardly stand to look at the two bodies, prepared and embalmed by the silent sisters, ready for the pyre to be lit.

Aemon stood a few feet to her side with her uncle behind him. One large hand splayed over his shoulder. Daemon had an impassive look to him. Her cousin looked back at his father and spoke something she couldn’t hear. Daemon nodded and allowed Aemon to approach her and Rhaenyra.

“I understand the feeling,” he spoke softly in High Valyrian.

She did not wish to respond him, but that went away fast as he tried to grab her hand. “Did they burn Aunt Lyanna as well?” she asked instead.

“No. Grandfather accepted Lord Benjen’s demands to have his daughter rest with her family. She is in the crypts of Winterfell, beside her mother and father.”

“Then don’t dare say you understand. You barely knew your mother when she died,” Visenya snapped at him, and saw his grey eyes turn a shade dark before he softly exhaled, looking only at the pyre.

It was so unfair. Why would the gods give such a gift, a mother she never had, and take her away from them in the next moment?

No, that wasn’t right. The gods had no hand in this. Bran was the person who sent her here, supposedly to save the world from a freezing death, yet he made no effort of granting her the one wish she ever had. Keep my mother safe, she remembered her asking, knees on the grass in front of the heart tree of the Red Keep, an oak planted by Queen Rhaenys said to have been the first thing she did when landing on that hill along with her brother and husband, Aegon the Dragon and Visenya’s own namesake. She hoped her words would reach Bran, wherever he was, and he would grant her that one boon.

But in the end they were just words, lost in the wind, or reaching stone ears.

Visenya heard the rustling of clothes behind her and stop. Her uncle’s voice sounded behind her in their ancestral tongue. “Your father needs your help, little dragon.”

“No, he needs a boy. For years he had me and my sister, but always looked for his promised prince. I’ll never have what he wants, and that took my mother away from us.”

He remained silent for a moment. “But he needs you now, niece. Sometimes we are not what it is expected of us, but we stand up when it is demanded, for our blood.” She turned to him. His eyes were strangely soft. “You must be the son he never had, at least for now. You are his eldest, his pride and joy.” Little Aemon, just under his father, gave her a little confident nod of the head.

Her father stood alone, looking at his wife and son without moving a muscle. His shoulders looked rounder and they seemed to be shaking. Her father seemed weak, devastated by the loss of his wife and son. Lords spoke to him but he gave no sign that he heard any of it.

Visenya swallowed heavily and blinked away the tears in her eyes. She gently pushed Rhaenyra away, caressing her cheek before leading her sister to her uncle and cousin. The eldest daughter of Viserys I walked to her father’s side with a straight spine and glanced at him. No response.

Atop a hillock to the side of the pyre was her dragon, Ebrion; the mount she knew ever since her life changed forever, who since Visenya found her in the egg held a piece of her heart and being. The closest connection she had to her father’s blood. With a look the juvenile dragon, still the size of a horse, walked awkwardly forward, groaning and releasing smoke through her nostrils. Visenya swallowed again and froze her heart. If she was to be her father’s son, then needless weeping would not help her. Everyone loves to feel pity for a crying girl, but no one wants to be led by a weeping lady. Kings and lords, captains and commanders had to be strong and unfazed in the face of adversity, to be the bulwark of his soldiers, his people.

She inhaled sharply and gave the command to her dragon. “Dracarys!” she let out in a strong voice. The wave of heated air waffed over the spectators. Ser Otto, his daughter and many others gave a step back, away from the sunlit flame of her dragon.

Visenya stared as her mother and brother were consumed by the fire, burning brightly as wood, silk and hair burned away fast. The dancing tongues of purple, blue and orange writhed around each other. Smoke rose with sparks of heated cinders. Between the bends and shifting of the flames Visenya thought she saw the image of her beloved. Aegon stood in the black and red clothes fit for a king, on his head was a gold circlet set with square-cut rubies. Blackfyre was majestically at his hip, with its bright ruby pommel shining a red flare. On his arms was a babe, swaddled in black silk. Her son was beautiful, with a flock of brown silky hair and purple eyes. True purple, like Rhaenyra’s. Aegon smiled at her.

The seawind blew out of the bay, pushing the smoke toward the countryside, stinging her eyes. Scant tears pushed themselves out of their prison, running down her face.

Chapter Text

In his dreams, he lived for just four moons. Men were wont to say they could see their lives flashing before their eyes as impending death came to meet them. Daemon knew that such a notion was as stupid and plebeian as the magics of a countryside witch. Any man who could report to have seen such visions clearly died before he told his fellows.

No, Daemon saw only four moons of his life when he slept. He supposed death touched him every time he closed his eyes.

As was his wont most of the time, it was in the barracks that Daemon awoke that morning. After having spent a good amount of coin drinking and having fun in the city, it was generally not good to show up in Red Keep where his brother and the odious cunt Hightower could see him in such a state.

Secretly, he didn’t want his son to see him like that too.

Freshly baked bread was brought to him along with a mug of ale to wash it down. A couple of duck eggs were fried and brought to the commander of the gold cloaks on a plate with strips of bacon. Daemon cleaned his plate with gusto, but sunny and quiet mornings always brought a sour taste to his mouth. I had to keep remembering her. . .

Daemon cursed himself for the hundredth time in his life for keeping his mind on useless things. He also cursed himself for trying to forget Lyanna, but to his saving grace and bane, Aemon would always make him think of his dead wife.

She saved him from a terrible fate in a match his grandmother had devised, and in turn Daemon saved the girl from being tied to the loathsome Bert Tully.

In her final moments, she repeatedly said she would never trade the moons she had with him for a lifetime chained to a loveless marriage. Daemon always thought the fever had already made her delirious by then, but deep in his misery, he hailed Lyanna for the love she had so faithfully and utterly levied at him.

From his private quarters, Daemon dressed on the previous day’s clothes. An airy doublet of black velvet with slashes of crimson silk underneath, as if rivers of blood ran down his form. His golden cloak went over it, with a silver dragon with sapphire chips for eyes fixed the cloak over his shoulders. Crossing the corridor and walking over the open yard of the barracks near the Old Gate, sentries on shift saluted and bowed to their commander. Down in the yard, Ser Luthor was already drilling the men in the same way Daemon had once drilled the large knight.

Large was one way to describe his second in command. Ser Luthor Largent was barely highborn. The seventh son of a seventh son from a minor Crownlander house. Despite all that, he proved to be his best soldier, and being as large as the man was, Daemon had found in him the perfect sergeant. It did help he wasn’t just some mindless brute. That sort had their uses, but they would be prone to raise trouble when command is given to them rather than quell any in the city.

“Mornin’ Commander,” greeted the gruff knight. Daemon nodded at him and watched a bit the recruits. Already he could see chaff on this crop. Given enough time, they would make fine soldiers out of the wheat left. Ser Luthor was a hard taskmaster.

When the men scrambled for a run around the barracks buildings, Daemon finally spoke out of his silent spell. “With the queen’s passing, I’ll be needed more times beside my brother the king in the foreseeable future.”

Luthor pressed his lips in a thin line, though most of it was already hidden behind a bushy brown beard. “Understood, my prince. The city watch will run like you’ve never left.”

“Good to hear it,” Daemon said and turned to leave. He stopped himself midstep and spoke again. “Keep a good eye out for the Highcunt’s son. He might suddenly join the ranks after his pitiful display in the jousts and upon hearing I’ll be away. Tarly is a good choice.” The big knight answered with a nod, and Daemon left for the streets

The city was alive by the time Daemon ascended Aegon’s High Hill. Bakers yelled their trade, boys ran with wheelbarrows full of pastries and pies, calling prices for their goods. The mornings always brought the folk of the city out of their hovels for the day’s call, but that didn’t mean the nights were not lively. After Aemma’s funeral, Daemon and his companions from the city watch visited the brothels of the street of silk, and after that the gambling pits and winesinks of Flea Bottom. Those were the best and worst places to spend away one’s coin, with drinks and women of the city, to wash the pain away and live in the moment. The girls in the establishments in the street of silk were in many ways better, but the poorer ones were more eager in the trade.

Daemon even had the visit of an old companion of his. The one who taught him how to please a woman. He remembered the feeling the pale white skin supple beneath his fingers, but always came to a disappointment when he saw blue eyes instead of steel grey, and pale blonde hair where he wished to feel dark locks running through his fingers.

At mid-morning the gate to the Red Keep was already open, and the sight of his face by the guards ensured he easily passed the throngs of merchants and smallfolk crowding the path. Not that the folk would complain or seek his death. Daemon knew he was quite beloved by the city folk. His brother might not like his methods, but the washerwomen and the masons and bakers loved him for bringing them peace and safety inside the crowded walls of King’s Landing.

Guards wearing Targaryen livery bowed and saluted as he passed beneath the barbican. “Hail, Prince Daemon. How goes the patrols in the city?”

“To the point and efficient. The sun rises and the first patrol is out along with it. The Iron Gate has a nice view of the early misty morning, but I myself enjoy most the night patrols,” he said with a smirk to the laugh of the guardsmen. From the corner of his eye Daemon saw a man in grey running across the yard toward the Tower of the Hand.

Run along to your master, little rat. Soon you and your ilk will not infest this keep anymore. If the gods granted Viserys the wit they gave a turnip, then Otto Hightower would soon be out of King’s Landing, and Daemon granted his rightful title.

I won you your crown, brother. That’s the least you could do.

Daemon noticed the sun had made its path over the line of the horizon, already a third of its way into the morning. By this time Aemon would have already awakened, only to find an empty yard to train. But it was always good to cross swords with his son, it felt the best way to connect with the rather quiet lad he and Lyanna had made.

Daemon made his way through the middle courtyard and descended the serpentine stairs toward Maegor’s Holdfast. Daemon had heard that for others Maegor’s Holdfast was a veritable labyrinth of stone, but not for him. He grew up in these halls, running and exploring all he could with his brother and cousin Rhaenys. Sometimes the timid Gael would join them but she was always afraid to find herself in an undiscovered nook in the castle and be lost forever.

Once they snuck into the cellars, and by ascending a turnpike stair they found an iron gate, locked in place. The place was completely dark, with a single torch to show them a way. Gael and Viserys moaned for them to return to the light and reluctantly, Rhaenys, the unofficial leader of their little band due to her being the eldest and the daughter of Prince Aemon, acquiescence with their wishes. But Daemon wasn’t dissuaded easily. Later at night, he managed to unlock the gate using one of his mother’s hairpins. He was met with a circular room with many other passages and iron rungs for a ladder set in the wall. A mosaic of black and red tiles filled the ground in the image of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, illuminated by an iron brazier shaped like the head of a dragon with its jaws open.

For moons he explored the other rooms, leading to passageways throughout the castle. He never told a word of it to Viserys or Rhaenys.

It was when ascending the main stair that Daemon met with his little niece Rhaenyra, the lovely girl. Behind her came her obedient dog, Criston Cole, glued to his niece’s heels like a newborn puppy.

“Good morrow, Uncle!” Rhaenyra waved at him. He approached them, decidedly ignoring the knight behind her and kissing his niece’s hand. She smiled brightly at him. “Do you wish to accompany me in breaking our fast, uncle? I wish to hear more of your stories.”

“I’m afraid I’ve already eaten this morn at the barracks, my pet,” Daemon answered, which brought a pout to his sweet niece’s face. He caressed one rosy cheek with the back of his fingers, unearthing a sweet smile out from her again. “But soon I will be at the training yard instructing your cousin. Would you like to see your uncle and Aemon fight for some time?” She nodded eagerly. “Then be there in a moment, my pet. You shall not be disappointed.” He kneeled down and gave a kiss to her cheek, which made her blush prettily.

Rhaenyra gave her farewell and continued on her way and Daemon followed her with his eyes. Without seeing he felt Ser Criston near him. “What is it, Cole? I have no words for you.”

The black haired knight glared at him. “It’s unseemly of a married man to kiss his niece so openly.”

“Widowed. My wife died before you ever set foot in this keep, Ser Crispin. Nobler company had been before me in the time of my grandfather the King Jaehaerys.”

“It is difficult to think a vile and black-hearted man was sired by such a noble line. His Grace the Conciliator would be ashamed of your deeds and words, my prince. Running away and marrying a heathen was just the first sings of such rot.”

Daemon gave the back of his hand to Criston’s face. The knight quickly backstepped but could not avoid the whole of the blow. He drew steel as he felt blood coming out of a split lip. Daemon had Dark Sister in hand just as quickly. “Remember you speak to a prince of the Blood, Cole. I shall not hear any such talk of my lady wife by one as low as you.” Ser Criston sheathed his sword and Daemon lowered his own. The knight’s pale green eyes burned with fury. “The next time I hear of you speaking like this to your betters, it’s Dark Sister that your face shall meet, not the back of my hand. Now run along, Ser. Your charge has already moved away.”

Daemon looked at the form of the stormlander knight from above his nose until he was out of his sight, then moved to his rooms.

Once they were the king’s chambers, used by Maegor the Cruel once he had the holdfast completed. It followed the same display as his brother King Aenys’ old rooms were, as well as their father’s and thus named so. That was until his grandfather decided to shun the place and instead use his brother Aegon’s old rooms, thus turning them into the now-king’s chambers. Modifications were made throughout the years to meet the monarch’s standards, and for years Maegor’s Rooms were left unused.

Once Daemon had reached his sixth nameday, he decided to take them for himself. To shun such spacious rooms due to ghosts of the Cruel’s age was stupid, Daemon had though before. Now, it was a different ghost that haunted them.

He didn’t mean to stay and keep moping about his past right now. Daemon quickly got out of his from his clothes and hailed a servant to bring water for a bath.

Daemon stood on his balcony to the sea and watched with appreciating eyes at the weather. Barely a cloud in the blue sky, with a soft breeze in it to refresh. Daemon chuckled. Aemon will be complaining about the heat today, no doubt.

The maids knocked on his door with the water and he allowed them in. He could hear them stumble, but Daemon couldn’t care. The faster they filled the tub the better. Once they were done, all looking at the ground with red faces he waved them away and jumped into the hot water. Usually Daemon would spend his merry time washing himself and lazing in the warmth, but not today. His blood called for heat, like that of a dragon. But today needed to find his son, and compensate for his lateness. It would help take his mind out of the recent passing of his aunt and cousin.

After scrubbing the most vital parts he got out and dried himself, quickly pulling his black and red gambeson over a simple cotton tunic. Black wool trousers went along with black leather boots engraved with the likeness of scales.

His son’s rooms were a floor below, just next those of Viserys and Aemma, as well as their girls. When Lyanna carried Aemon they had chosen the room just next to them to serve as their son’s. Things did not go to plan however, and Daemon fell out into a dark place after his lady love died.

It was no use thinking about Lyanna Stark right now.

That was why he rarely spent the night here in the Red Keep. It brought too many uncomfortable memories.

Daemon knocked on his son’s door once, twice and then a third time. No guards were about his door, so he might not be inside. Aemon too liked to just send his guards away, loving the freedom of walking without a shadow behind him.

Not that Daemon agreed or liked this attitude, but he understood.

No answer came from the door, so Daemon pushed himself inside. The room was immaculate. Bed’s silk covers were neatly set, curtains around the canopy bed drawn up, sleeping robe set on its standing. Some wetness was still present on the stone floor, so it meant he left just moments ago after he had taken a bath.

Daemon noticed his father’s present to his son standing on a nearby desk. The egg’s colors were still enchanting like when he and Lyanna had first seen in the Dragonpit. It was Aemon’s mother who had chosen the egg in the first place between the options his father had available. “Our son should have this one. White and red. They are the colors of the old gods, the colors of the North. And Aemon should have a part of the North with him,” she had said, choosing their son’s name in the very same moment, along with an iron conviction that their child would be a boy. “They are also the colors of his parents’ houses,” his father butted in. “Red for Targaryen, and white for Stark.”

Different from his grandfather, Baelon had always accepted Lyanna since the beginning, he just lamented they had married while hidden away, and not with his family witnessing.

Daemon’s back hurt in a flash, but it was soon gone from memory.

Daemon looked at the white and red egg and grimaced. He had expected his son’s egg would hatch as soon as they were put together in the cradle, like both how both had happened with his cousins. Alas, the egg never hatched, and in those first few years his son held no interest for it, or anything else aside when Aemma fed him from her own breast. He had known since his son was born that a ghost hung over him like a shroud. Aemon had the eyes of a haunted man. Tired and hurt.

Daemon’s hand reached for the locket in his chest. The second most precious thing to his name, truly his own. It opened revealing two images. One was a painting of his father and mother, together smiling like idiots. On the other was his love, the one he failed to save. Daemon rarely opened it. It wasn’t worth to open and remember the color of her eyes when they could judge him so fiercely.

He left his son’s rooms and saw that Ser Harold stood guard at one of the doors. Visenya’s door. He approached it, but saw that other two kingsguards, Sers Robert Redfort and Steffon Darklyn walked down the corridor, towards him. Daemon raised a brow but ignored them. “May I speak with my niece the Princess Visenya, Ser Harrold? I fear the passing of the queen must still hold heavy in her little heart, and the words of a familiar face could help her a little.” He believed the first thing, but not the last. His niece Visenya was strong, rarely unphased. If she still shook from Aemma’s death as he had seen in the funeral, then it would take much more than just his own words to heal her. But he hoped it could.

Before the Westerling knight could speak, Redfort and Darklyn approached him. The older man spoke for both, bowing slightly in greeting. “Prince Daemon, your presence is demanded in the throne room by orders of your brother the King.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Orders? Viserys seldom sends his kingsguard for summoning to breaking his fast. And on the throne room? Does he plan to eat with a plate on his lap while sitting the throne?”

Ser Steffon’s brow scrunched up slightly. Ser Robert just looked at him gravely. “Please, my prince. Just accompany us without peacefully.” That made his hackles rise. Something was wrong. Just what had he done to tickle Viserys in such a bad way?

The throne room was empty, save for the five kingsguards at the foot of the dais, and the king himself, perched atop the massive beast that was the Iron Throne. A mass of melted barbed iron, with points and edges sticking at every direction, hunched over like some dark beast only held together by a slag, super-heated by the flames of Balerion the Black Dread. Above it was the black skull of the dragon himself, the once-mount of his brother.

Light slanted through the high windows at the walls, and the galleries were empty. There was only the seven of them inside the cavernous hall of the throne room.

Viserys sat quietly on his seat. Blackfyre laid naked over his knees when Daemon approached the foot of the throne. His brother had the crown of their grandfather about his head, and a fire in his eyes.

“Good morrow, brother. I fail to see the need of such presentations, as whatever I have to report about the gold cloaks could be said over the council table. But if I must indulg-“

“Did you say it?” Viserys interrupted him, speaking softly.

Daemon paused. “I fail to see your meaning, brother.”

“You address me as ‘Your Grace’ Daemon. ‘The heir for a day’, did you say it!?” Viserys’ tone was waspish and curt.

Daemon at once understood what he meant. That worm Hightower had spies of his about the pleasure houses while he and his captains indulged a bit. ‘The heir for a day’. That was something he had toasted for, but never in the tone his brother suggested. Daemon was drunk at the time, he was certain, but he clearly remembers never entertaining the thought of wanting to hurt his brother. Jokes were made and laughs left the mouths of many about half a hundred things that night. Daemon learned the by the worst way that it served no one, even less himself to feel sad and sit in the corner.

Daemon’s blood began to simmer in his veins. How dare that cunt whisper such lies, twisting words to suit his own agenda only to drop his poison on his brother’s ears? How dare Viserys trust that cunt Otto over his own flesh and blood?

Daemon grit his teeth, but swallowed the retort he thought first. “We grieve in our own ways, Your Grace.”

That seemed to incense his brother further. Viserys’ face twisted in anger as he spoke. “My family had just been destroyed. But instead of being by my side or my daughters’, you chose to celebrate your own rise, laughing with your whores and your lickspittles!” His grip on Blackfyre’s handle was tight, the knuckles on his hand were white. Daemon had never seen Viserys holding a sword so fiercely. “You live and act without consequence, and as your brother I only ever defended you! Yet what do I get for it, as you spit back in my face the chances I give!”

“You only ever push me away! All by the poison that council of yours spills in your ears. I first acted loyally as your Master of Laws and what do you do? You move me away to Master of Coin. Did I ever made a complain? No, not ever! Then it was to the City Watch and I’ve done the best of my abilities to serve you, and yet nothing of me is enough to you, Viserys! For years I’ve waited for you to name me your heir and yet not a word was made, even after countless babes die by your search!”

Viserys chuckled at him. “And why would I do such a thing?”

“Because I’m your brother! And by rights I’m the Prince of Dragonstone.” His brother looked incredulously at him, and Daemon’s blood boiled in his veins. “Don’t forget who put you on that chair.”

Viserys’ eyes narrowed angrily at his brother, sneering. He let out a huff and sagged in his seat. At first Daemon thought he had won, finally he was being given his due, but that was not true.

“I have decided to name a new heir.”

“I’m your heir.”

“Not anymore,” the king retorted. “In a week’s time you are to fly to Castamere and wed Lord Robb’s daughter Ellyn Reyne. Once you two are wedded and bedded there you shall remain until I have further use of you. And you shall do so without quarrel.”

Daemon almost blew up at his words. “I already have a son, Viserys.”

“The house of the dragon needs more, now more than ever. And you need a lady wife to tame that fire inside you, or else you shall do so in my dungeons,” his brother spoke coldly at him, volleying each word like arrows to his heart. Daemon’s nails dug into the palms of his hands. He made a step forward and the five white cloaks turned at him at once, their gloved hands hovering above their swords.

Daemon understood the message. His brother was banishing him, treating his own brother like a common criminal. For a moment Daemon wished to entertain his brother’s fears and cut down the five knights in front of him, just to see what Viserys would do. Daemon wished to hurt his brother, truly hurt him like he was doing it right now.

Without another word he turned and left the throne room and the Red Keep, toward the taverns and pleasure houses of the city.

He returned when the sun had already gone aground, in the Hour of the Wolf. Daemon used the secret passageways Maegor had constructed in the Red Keep to reach his rooms without causing alarm. He had spent the day drinking and whoring, trying to forget the low point his brother had set for him, and trying to cool down his anger.

It only ever got down to a simmer.

He gathered the most important things he had. They were not much, just some doublets and cloaks, along with a spare boot. The rest he would commission in the Free Cities with the coin he had left.

Under one of his fur cloaks (the few that he had), Daemon found something he hadn’t seen in a long time. Delicately he lifted the grey dress, feeling the silk slid around his skin like water. He wished to feel something warm underneath that cloth, he wanted to feel again his hands passing ghost touches over her hips, her legs, her breasts. To feel her rosy nipple getting stiff from his ministrations, freeing them from beneath their coverings and pull them to his mouth. Much of Lyanna Daemon had tasted. No sweeter honey had he ever felt in his tongue, no more intoxicating wine than that from betwixt her legs.

Daemon let the dress fall back to the chest he had found, blinking away the stray tear. It would not do for him, a deadly knight and trained killer to weep for a long lost love. Daemon had to forget Lyanna for some time so that he might heal again. His heart wept for the cruel words his mind conjured. He wished Lyanna was just a tryst he had made in the Riverlands, that would have made letting go and forgetting her easier.

Daemon left his rooms by the same passageway at his room’s wall and ventured into the darkness. Before he made his way to the Dragonpit there was two places he needed to visit before leaving.

Silently Daemon entered his son’s rooms. He let Dark Sister and the bag around his shoulders near the gapping maw of darkness that was his exit and traversed quietly across the darkened rooms of his son. A low fire burned in the hearth, far away from Aemon to not annoy him in his sleep with the heat. His son was a strange one. Much more his mother’s son than his own. Calm, collected and too much comfortable in the cold. Strangely Daemon had yet to see his son’s temper, that which was much present in him and Lyanna.

Aemon was abed, the coverlets only covering his legs while he laid splayed in the silken sheets underneath. A thin film of sweat covered his brow, and his eyes roamed wildly underneath closed eyelids. Daemon almost jumped from his kneeling position by his son’s bedside. A raven stood in the windowsill, croaking and looking at him curiously.

Daemon grimaced and walked toward it, shooing the damn bird away with a wave of the hand.

“Father?” he heard Aemon saying softly, rubbing his eyes.

He was at his son’s side in the next second. “Hello there, little dragon.”

He scrunched his face up and looked at him sleepily. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

Daemon swallowed. “I’ve come to say that I’ll be away for some time and won’t be able to train you.”

Aemon stayed silent for a moment, looking at every detail of his face. Finally he said. “When will you come back?”

“I don’t know son, maybe in a moon, maybe a year. But don’t you worry about that, trust that your father will soon return to you,” Daemon assured his son, gently pushing him back to lay back in bed. He noticed some apprehension in Aemon’s face, hidden beneath the surface. “I would never do something to hurt my own blood, Aemon. Do you believe me?”

For the longest time Aemon stared at him. This time his grey eyes were locked on his own lilac ones. After what felt like an hour, his bright son gave a tiny nod, and Daemon kissed his forehead once, then kissed the top of his silky brown hair three times. They stayed still, touching heads together for many heartbeats before Daemon got up and returned to the open passage. He tied Dark Sister back to his belt and brought the bag over his shoulder.

With one last glance at his son, standing between rooms, Daemon let the stone wall close behind him, and made his way out of the Red Keep and to the waiting Caraxes, but not before one last stop.

Chapter Text

Beneath the mountain it was dark. No other creatures dared venture inside for fear of never finding their way back to light. They feared finding their end there, and feared finding worse things.

He was a hunter, a master of stalking and killing. On dark nights he would venture out of the mountain and hunt at sea. Those were the best of days, as only he managed to free himself of his chains, the chains that forced him aground. Men in their hubris had forgotten him, forgotten that he lived deep inside the mountain. And now he was a shadow to them, almost invisible to their puny eyes.

Before he was forced to evade his bigger kin. Their temper was well-known, but now one is long dead and the others are always. When he was young, he had to fear and cower before them. Now he reigned the mountain. Form the shadows he was the overlord there. Supreme, deadly.

Only the yellow dragon and the midnight purple remained. Syrax and Ebrion he heard, somewhere behind him or to the side. He huffed annoyed at that voice. It almost sounded mocked him. Every time he heard it he couldn’t see the bumbling man who uttered it. He could never show the man how to fear him, to cower before his might.

The blood-red one, Caraxes once lived there with them. That was an annoying fellow that one. He thought he had rule over the mountain with Balerion dead and Vhagar and Vermithor away. But that was his mistake. The long-necked fellow had submitted himself to the valyrian masters, just as the others had.

But not him. He was the only one not to submit, not to cower. Not anymore. His was power, his was speed. He was freedom incarnate.

But even deep in his mountain he heard of bigger foes, one that patrolled the lands to the north-east, the island his blood yearned to see with his own eyes. He never had, and he would burn and tear at any one who ever thought to say it was fear that made him not look the island. A hunter had to know when to strike, and when to trespass his competitor’s territory.

He slithered through the darkened tunnels that only the vision of dragons could see. Crawling and rising as he made his way, he reached his secret perch where he could spy the plaza where the other dragons emerged to commune with the men they were bonded.

Silver hair and purple eyes, one and all. The smell of their blood distinct, like the familiar memory, only a whisper at the edge of hearing. They bore the mark of Valyria, that of the land dragons came as well, but which for a long time no one had seen with their own eyes, save for Balerion, who had flown there once when it was young and after when the weight of many centuries had taken its toll, in land and dragon both.

From one of the metal gates came Ebrion. She was not at all big, as was the usual way for young drakes. She looked brilliant her dark scales. Light shining off hitting the blue of a twilit sky with hues of purple. Her wings were burnt orange that hued to pink as it went further outward. Quite a dragon she would be, but still not big enough. Not deadly enough. If he wished, Ebrion as well as her drakeling sister would be food to him. Playthings for his pleasure. But there were further uses for them. He needed mates to dominate the mountain as a whole, but first they needed to submit.

Ebrion’s two-legged kin eventually left his mountain, and the dragon was herded back to her cell. That was unnatural. To live so confined, without the ability to stretch one’s wings. He had lived like this once, when the purple-eyed girl used to visit him. Back then he didn’t mind the confines, so long as the girl came to see him.

One day she never came, and deep in his being he knew why she would never come. Men were weak and fragile. Any fall, any hit and they break easily. If he was to be free, to truly be his own master, he did not need a man bonded to him, and him to the man.

Later when the sky darkened and dots of light, stars the voice said, popped up in the firmament, he found the little drakeling, curled around Syrax the yellow dragon. The two stood in attention, snarling and hissing at his approach. He was strangely curious about these two that so often kept to their company.

Light flashed behind the flame-colored eyes of Ebrion. A connection was there, something familiar and yet alien to him. The blue and purple dragon neared him in wary steps while her yellow partner stayed behind, spitting balls of yellow flame to the ceiling, trying to intimidate him.

He and Ebrion stared at each other’s eyes. Bright orange flame and haunting purple. It usually could freeze those lesser than him, but the little she-dragon stared back.

A shadow passed and the connection wasn’t there anymore. Ebrion threw a ball of orange and blue flames and scattered away toward her companion, slithering through smaller passageways. He forgot about it entirely when he reached back his perch.

Night fell and the moon shone high in the sky. It was risky to be out in such a bright night, but it had been too long a time since he tasted the air from outside his mountain, the fish from the bay and the sheep from the field. To eat simply to satiate himself was beneath him. He needed the hunt, for his blood to run hot and fast, and feel as the creature died between his jaws, bone popping and blood gushing in his gullet-

Suddenly he heard a voice. Not the same one, not the boy’s. No, it was softer, more feminine, in the way some of the valyrians were. He grunted, snapping at shadows wherever he heard the voice come, yet as always he couldn’t point out where the sneaky man was.

He growled loudly when he heard the voice again, more insistent. . .  mon. He slithered out of his perch and raced back to the deepest parts of his mountain, avoiding the blue solitary dragon. Once he tried to mate with her, but she almost tore him in half. At the time he was too small, and she too strong. But one day he would make her submit, one day when these voices ceased their ringing. Aemo. . .

He screamed and trashed in his alcove, shooting blasts of his smoke-filled fire at the walls.

His vision became darker. One time he was looking at the wall and then from it came silver tresses, purple eyes. He almost mistook her for the girl, but it wasn’t her. She looked down at him with a concerned look. He hated that, the feeling of being in the receiving end of pity. He was a dragon, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. The last dragon. He was no bastard. He alone would make them bend and bow to the dragon, or they would burn. The throne was his by his right, by his might. He would not let a Blackfyre pretender have what had been denied to him for years-

Aemon blinked away the visions, settling on silver hair and purple eyes. Dany? He almost let the words tumble out, but he held them in time. Visenya wouldn’t have like to hear that name.

“Aemon, you were growling, is there something wrong?” his cousin asked with concern. Aemon was sure she could understand what was happening, why would she ask that to him? The answer came to him when he spied Rhaenyra to her side, her beautiful face looking scared.

He sat up in bed and blinked hard. “No, it was nothing. Just a dream, is all.”

“It sounded like a nightmare, Aemon,” Rhaenyra spoke in a little voice. If it weren’t for her presence, Visenya and him would have already discussed what he saw and the implications.

He felt his throat dry and mouth full of slaver. His belly felt hot to the touch, like Aemon had swallowed a cup pf wildfire and it heated and sloshed inside his stomach.

The look on Visenya’s eyes confirmed his suspicions. She knew what happened.

His cousin turned to Rhaenyra, touching her shoulders slightly. “Nyra, go back to bed. I will stay and help Aemon get back to sleep,” she spoke in soft words. Aemon felt his cheeks burn a little but was glad neither girl paid attention to him.

Rhaenyra’s eyes filled with tears. “But. . . what if the thunder strikes again? Syrax is too far away and. . . I can’t reach her!” Her little fists shook in fear.

The sky rumbled with a deep sound, almost as if the biggest dragon ever to live was flying above their heads and sounding low roars. Aemon turned to the window and noticed the rain falling heavily outside. He hadn’t noticed it was raining. Wasn’t the sky clear? How did these clouds appear out of nowhere?

Visenya smiled. “The thunder will not hurt you, sister. Remember that you are a dragon, and we fear none.” A little courage was building up inside the little child, just seven by her last nameday. The same moon that her mother and brother died. “Run and wait for me in my bed, Nyra. I’ll return to you once this is done.” The sisters shared a hug, and Rhaenyra left, walking in the tips of her toes.

Visenya turned to him with worried eyes. So beautiful they were, even filled with worry. He shook his head and scooted up to the side, leaving space for his cousin to climb in the bed. Were these the eyes my mother fell in love? Was this how Rhaegar enchanted her and led her to their doom? It was mighty confusing thinking of which Lyanna he was picturing. Both had fallen in love with Targaryen princes, and both married in hiding. And both died birthing me.

“Wolf dreams again?” she asked him after settling next to him.

Aemon shrugged. “More or less.” He had told his cousin of the time when he skinchanged in his sleep inside a raven and spotted his father inside his chambers, once during the day and then again hours later, much time after night had fallen. They had tried to train their abilities since both had been wargs in their past lives. Only Aemon was mildly successful in this endeavor. He suspected because she had an Arryn mother she couldn’t be like it was before. Aemon remained half Stark. “There aren’t any wolves in them this time.”

“So it was the raven again?”

He shook his head. “No. Somehow I think I skinchaged one of the dragons in the Dragonpit.”

Her eyes grew wide like saucers. “Is that even possible? How was it like?”

“Strange. I could feel the strength in my wings, even folded. The fire that burned in my gut. I needed to get out of the pit and hunt, to feel blood in my mouth and smell the flesh blackening, skin curling and hair puffing in smoke. Incessant blood-thirstiness.”

His cousin looked amazed and somehow, familiar with the sensation?

“That’s impressive, Aemon. This could be useful to our goals should war come to us.”

Aemon wasn’t as excited as she was. “This could be dangerous. Whatever I felt was many times more intense than how it was with Ghost. Who knows how strangely the mind of a dragon works.”

Visenya sighed and laid down with a huff. Her dark eyes searched for something in the ceiling that he could not see. “Do you think war will really come to us? Because I just think we could avoid it entirely.”

Aemon sighed as well. “We will be able to make more moves once we are older. Right now we are tied to our fathers’ decisions.” He still remembered hearing just what was the reason his father was banished for all indents and purposes. “Do you believe me my son?” he had asked, and Aemon wanted to, but all evidence pointed to the contrary.

He and Visenya knew that Daemon Targaryen was a moody and mercurial man, ambitious to a fault, seeking the Iron Throne. The stories diverged on his most infamous acts, so they really didn’t have much of a certainty about his character. Was it wrong of Aemon to doubt of his own father?

That was why he lied, or at least he thought he lied. Maybe it was meant to fool Daemon or to fool himself.

An idea came to his head, and before he knew Aemon had already done. Visenya looked at him with a half-open mouth. Through the little light that came from outside he could see her cheeks darkened after Aemon had gently taken her hand and pressed a kiss there. “Don’t worry, cousin. I’ll be by your side, through whatever they decide to throw at us.”

They remained there, laying side by side with joined hands, mulling about their destiny and future. After a distant thunder sounded outside, Visenya remembered she had promised her sister to sleep with her while the storm fell. They parted with quiet nods between each other in silence.

The thought of liking his cousin more than he ought to came to his head, but Aemon stubbornly rejected it.

Morning came and he rose with the sun, just as was his routine. Although it was not with enthusiasm that Aemon arrived at the inner yard. Who awaited him there were two white ghosts, clad in their snow-white cloak and enameled scale mail. Ser Harrold, the new lord commander of His Grace’s kingsguard, was the knight his uncle had chosen for him to squire. A talented knight and experienced, it was almost a certainty when he was chosen as Ser Ryam Redwyne’s successor, when the old legend had passed away in his sleep a moon ago, despite the elder Ser Robert Redfort being Westerling’s senior by five and ten years.

Along with the greying bearded knight was Ser Steffon Darklyn, with his charge at his side.

“Good morrow Ser Harrold, Ser Steffon. Princess,” Aemon nodded to the two knights and bowed to Visenya.

She scoffed at him. “Stop with this, Aemon. I’m still your cousin. Nothing has changed aside from that.”

Aye, nothing changed yet everything did. His father had long coveted the title of heir to the Iron Throne, and in one action, his uncle had pushed him and Aemon down and after his two daughters in the line of succession. Aemon had no care for it. He was here in the past to help Visenya keep the dragons alive should war come to them, but Daemon had no knowledge of it nor care for what he perceived as his right.

It was not his uncle’s wont to displease and slight his brother in this manner or make decisions that should let to this falling out between the sons of the Spring Prince. Someone had put Viserys into doing it, pressured him; or Daemon really spoke what Aemon had feared.

Despite his logical part screaming at him that the Rogue Prince was capable of speaking the words, his heart and gut pointed him to another culprit.

“Have you finally managed to be bold enough and demand to be trained along with me, cousin?”

Visenya smirked. “That is one of your better ideas, Aemon. Would Ser Harrold take me under his wing as a squire as well? No, today I came here to only watch you, dear cousin. And to inform you of our visit to the Dragonpit.”

Aemon raised a brow. “Our? Was that a command, princess?”

“Would it delight you more if I said it was?” she retorted with a coy smile. “After my lazy sister awakens and joins us in breaking our fast with papa, I will invite her as well. It has been some time since she last saw her little lady.”

Aemon bowed to his cousin in an exaggerated gesture. “Your wish is my will, Princess Visenya. I shall serve as company to your outing.”

She neared him and slapped his shoulder. “Stop it you, or I shall make you our court fool, seeing as you are in a jesting mood.”

“But what about Mushroom? Your father and sister love his antics. I fear I would serve as a poor imitation of the dwarf, seeing as people tend to call me serious.” He was awarded with a nice giggle of Visenya. Their arguing was interrupted by Ser Harrold.

“I delight witnessing to the play of children, but now only steel must sing. We have not come here in the early hours of morning to spar with words, did we Prince Aemon? Please, grab a sword of your choosing and let us start with our training. The princess is invited to watch, should she wish to do so.”

Visenya accepted and remained to watch his training as Ser Harrold directed him through the basic positions. Much like Ser Barristan in his own time, the Westerling knight was an excellent fighter when it came to the basics.

Still, it wasn’t as fun as when he trained with his father.

“You should train me as well, Aemon,” his cousin whispered to him after the training was over for the morning. “For too long I haven’t held a sword in hand, and I fear my father would not be as accepting to this wish as I would hope.”

Her request brought Arya to his mind. She too wished to join him and Robb in the training yard, but Both of them merely entertained her in little plays of swordfight; not one real training. “It will be difficult. The godswood would be the best place, mayhaps just before noon. And it will be difficult to do just that without Rhaenyra knowing. She might be horrified and rat you to your father, or be jealous enough to demand the same.”

Visenya scrunched her face in thought, tapping a finger at her chin. “The late nights might be a good time. Rhaenyra tires quickly with books, and we already spend a lot of time in each other’s rooms. The kingsguard would not suspect if we add another activity to our studies.”

They looked at each other’s eyes and blushed a little, both deciding to study the dragons carved in the pillars of the Red Keep and the tapestries hanging between them in intervals. Why should I think of something like that? We are children! The adult in him knew just how scandalous could her words be interpreted, but the child saw no other meaning.

They went into their separate ways shortly after with a agreement of his own.  Aemon made a quick trip to his rooms to clean himself with a quick wash. Once taken his bath, he moved to the end of the corridor in Maegor’s Holdfast to break his fast with his uncle and cousins, as he had promised. Aemon did notice the presence of Criston Cole standing outside the door along with Ser Harrold. To both their dismay, Aemon and Visenya didn’t manage to dissuade Rhaenyra from supporting her sworn shield to the new position on the kingsguard, left vacant after the death of Ser Ryam.

Aemon was polite enough, but not nearly as warm as he was with other white cloaks.

Uncle Viserys remained joyful and healthy on the outside, but to the trained eye one could see the little tugs downward at the corner of his lips, or how less bright his violet eyes became. From time to time he would pass a thumb over a ring on his little finger that was rather less adorned than the others. He also noted keenly how much a goblet made its presence known on the king’s hand nowadays.

Rhaenyra seemed bubbly and happy as ever, but waned at every moment the memory of her mother was brought to mind. Aemon was happy to see her smile when Visenya brought up the visit to the Dragonpit. “Yes, I shall go with you two. My little lady Syrax has surely been fussing to see me just as I am for her. You can take the opportunity and find a dragon of your own, Aemon! Maybe one of the hatchings still growing there.

Visenya and Aemon shared a look before he answered. “Aye, I should. Maybe one will accept me.”

Cole and one of the Cargyll twins (Aemon could never know which one was which) accompanied the three of them through the city’s path to Rhaenys’ Hill. The Dragonpit was very different from how he and Visenya had seen it in their time. Back then (or would it be forward then?) it was mostly a derelict building, the dome parted and caved in like the shell of a boiled egg. Ivy had dominated the walls and in some parts it had completely vanished. Some of the rubble did, but there were walls that had stood for a whole century after its destruction, and the smallfolk had taken use of the abandoned stone laying about to construct their hovels.

But now it was pristine, standing firm and strong as a symbol of Targaryen power. A symbol that fell, along with our House, he could almost hear Dany speaking of it. She was very proud of her ancestors, but could be easily point out their flaws. I hope we can let the pit remain as it is, at least. The tall order was stopping a war from ever occurring, when fate seemed to throw them to the same paths.

Squires and other boys took care of the kingsguards’ horses as well as the carriage they came in. Knights in gleaming black armor with scales cresting their helmets greeted them inside the great stable of House Targaryen’s dragons. It was shaped like an arena, akin to that of the fighting pits of Slaver’s Bay with a great stone dome above them. The plaza in the middle was eight and eighty yards across forming a circle. Great iron portcullises closed passageways to the east and west, where it opened into a corridor that ran the entire greater circle of the Dragonpit, giving access to the dragons’ cells where they were enclosed. Many had tunnels burrowing into the brow of Rhaenys’ Hill, creating a dragon-made maze where most of them nested. It was even said some had quarreled for the best chambers deep in the hill.

Quickly the dragonkeepers brought Ebrion and Syrax. Both dragons had grown since they had hatched, Ebrion being slightly larger due to hatching as soon as Visenya was born, so two years older than the yellow she-dragon.

While both his cousins continued petting and pampering their future mounts, Aemon took to walk the great corridor where the dragons were kept. Many cells were empty, he noticed. Cells that would house dragons like Balerion and Vhagar, Vermithor and his companion Silverwing, whom had taken the Bronze Fury’s affections like those of their riders for each other, it was said. Meleys lived in Driftmark with her rider, Princess Rhaenys, and Caraxes was with his rider, wherever he was.

Thinking of what happened in the reign of his uncle the first time in their past always brought headaches to Aemon. Sometimes he cursed himself for not studying more history before and after discovering who was his mother. It certainly would have helped much roughly knowing what was to come.

Aemon noticed he stopped near one of the cells, empty and full of dust he saw. Maybe it was one of the cells once occupied by the vacant or deceased dragons. He too noticed that the chains locking the gate were rather loose. Despite his better judgement, Aemon slipped through the gap between the gate doors and entered the cell, walking up to the hole on the ground made by one of the dragons.

It was a bad idea to wander aimlessly into the dragon’s den, but he remembered Rhaenyra’s words. Maybe that was why his egg never hatched. He had bonded with Rhaegal, an already hatched dragon before. Was he meant to do it again? Aemon recalled that the green dragon had been rather friendly with him, and curious like a young child. They were young, after all, having hatched almost four years before they met each other.

But there were other dragons down there, ones that would not take kindly to his trespassing.

Aemon steeled himself. If he was to help Visenya, he would need a dragon. One powerful enough for his words to have weight. The child braved the dark of the cave and entered toward the heart of the mountain.

Throughout his striding he could feel something was close, almost watching him, waiting for him to falter. Most of his directions were made by touching the nearby wall. As the place had no light for him to see the path ahead. Many times had his mind screamed at him to turn back and flee the place, but Aemon soldiered on. He needed the dragon, for the world’s sake, the future. For Visenya’s sake.

He prayed he was not fooling himself into an early death.

He made a turn to the right and entered a chamber. He knew this for the wall circled back to the place he had started. It meant he had to let go of the wall and march aimless to the center, and it could mean his death. Aemon breathed deep. In, holding for three seconds before letting it out by his mouth.

He was to give the first step when he heard a low growl ahead of him. The earth shook slightly with the movement, then suddenly a fire started. It was blue shot with lines of silver, so bright and beautiful he was entranced by the dancing flames.

Until he noticed the cage of teeth around it.

“Lykiri, zaldrizes!” he shouted, trying to steel his shaking body. Be calm, dragon!”

It narrowed its eyes to him. Its neck recoiled, and shot up to the chamber’s ceiling a pilar of blue flame.

It was as enchanting as it was terrifying. The light the flames gave off allowed Aemon to see the dragon’s form in its entirety.

Light blue scales with silver horns and crests. Big and menacing, shot flames up to the walls and then ceased, giving a chilling gaze. A beautiful dragon, showing off its power.

From his recent studied, the only dragon still residing in the Dragonpit without a rider was Queen Rhaena’s own mount. Dreamfyre.

Her great head closed the distance between them, sniffing him. Aemon tried to turn his blood into ice, to not show fear at the incredible she-dragon. He extended one hand, to touch the dragon’s snout. Her great blue eyes studied him, and with a smoking huff, turned away and returned to her rest.

He was not chosen. The dragon didn’t accept him.

A feeling similar to how he felt in Winterfell’s crypt crept up to him. The voices of his ancestors were casting him out, unfit to be a dragonlord. Away with you. You are no Targaryen. You sully this place, little wolf.

Aemon made his way back.

Yet, the feeling of being observed remained, all the way up to the cell. Aemon was puzzled and decided to simply forget and return to the castle. He noticed his clothes were dirty with ash.

Aemon walked up to the gate. When he was already squeezing though the gap, something sounded back at the cave. He turned to see and was greeted to the great face of a dragon, just a few feet away from him.

It was terrifying. His face was full of jagged scales, grey as a winter storm cloud heavy with snowfall. Its brow was full of tiny black horns that paved the way for two great horns with smaller ones around it, almost shaping into a vison of a demon from the seven hells. Its teeth were black as iron, as well as its horns. His eyes were two orbs of violet flame, terrible to stare.

He was big. Smaller than Dreamfyre but a bit bigger than Daenerys’ Drogon in their last days. The wingspan must be just a few feet smaller than Caraxes.

The drake released a breath of hot air that scorched a bit his eyebrows, but Aemon stood his ground. He would face this dragon head on.

“Be calm and obey, dragon,” he spoke in High Valyrian in a commanding voice. The dragon responded with blowing smoke out of its nostrils. Aemon made a step closer, and the dragon showed its teeth, holding a ball of smoke and violet fire in its maw. He wants to scare me. Aemon smirked and made one more step. The dragon reared the same distance. The boy continued, one step at a time.

His hand hovered over the dragon’s great snout. The dragon’s eyes seemed almost to soften, he though. Aemon was about to close the last inches between them when he heard someone screaming his name.

“Aemon! Where are you Aemon?!”

A child’s voice, he noticed. To the left and right of the corridor he could hear metal boots hitting the stone floor.

When he turned back to the dragon it had reared away from him, snarling and showing a row of deadly black teeth. No, no, not now!

Rhaenyra appeared at the other side of the gate. “There you are Aem-LOOK OUT!!”

A ball of fire and smoke shot to his direction, and Aemon rolled under in the last second. His back was terribly hot. Dark smoke filled the cell and he coughed. Aemon made a run to the gates, squeezing between them and pulling Rhaenyra with him. She screamed.

The two of them only stopped when one of the dragonkeepers found them a minute later. In a matter of minutes the three of them were before the king in his solar. “What were you three thinking! I could have lost the three of you and for what?!”

“A dragon, papa!” exclaimed Rhaenyra, her beautiful face marred with ash, along with her dress. “T’was for a dragon for Aemon that we sought the Dragonpit. He ventured into the tunnels in search of Dreamfyre and found another!”

Viserys despaired at hearing his daughter’s words. “Oh gods! It was only for a miracle you didn’t turn into food for dragons, nephew. Why seek a grown dragon when an egg sits safely in your chambers? Why seek to risk your life?”

That incensed him. “For a dragon of my own. My birthright as a Targaryen, uncle. No egg hatched either for you or my father. Nor even to grandfather. You all tamed and bonded with grown dragons, so I naturally sought the same.”

Aemon remembered the look on that dragon’s eyes. That nameless dragon. Neither Rhaenyra or Visenya had ever heard of that dragon, and when he asked the dragonkeepers, the oldest of them just looked disturbed. “He never had a name of his own, my prince. He was hatched the day Princess Viserra was born, so they shared a connection. His Grace had never allowed her to claim him, for a reason unknown to us, so he remained here. Once the young princess died in that horse race accident, he went rogue and attacked anyone. One day we went into his cell and could not find him, but for the tunnel he had dug. After that his appearances were short and barely noticeable. Now he lives like a ghost, skulking down the tunnels, quarreling with the others what not.”

If it wasn’t for Rhaenyra he would have claimed him, Aemon was certain. He almost escaped with a wound to show, but only his cloak singed a bit. He looked worse than he actually was.

Visenya was the only one in pristine fashion.

“I almost had him, uncle. A dragon I had never heard before! Scales grey as a storm cloud, eyes of violet flame. He was terrible and amazing!” Rhaenyra nodded in assent at his side.

King Viserys looked to his eldest daughter. “Have you seen this dragon also, my dear daughter?”

His cousin shook her head, silver locks flying to the left and right. “No, papa. I had never heard or seen of this dragon. The dragonkeepers tell a tale of the time of the Conciliator, though I cannot attest to the truth or falseness of its telling.”

His uncle grabbed his chest as if his heart was about to explode. “Gods! One day you children will be the death of me.” He calmed down and massaged his temples with long fingers. “From this point on Aemon, you are not to visit the dragonpit without one of the kingsguard at your back at every time you are inside that building.” He made to protest, but his uncle silenced him. “Am I clear? This is a command from your king.”

Aemon took a few calming breaths and nodded slightly. “Very well. Now you two look filthy. Go clean yourselves and be present at the Small Hall. We shall dine there, along with the court and Lord Otto.”

“Ser,” Visenya said under her breath. Viserys didn’t seem to have heard.

After a hard scrubbing by the maids on both he and Rhaenyra, the three cousins met in the Small Hall where his uncle had promised a feast was to be had. “Just a small one. There’s no need for the grander ones when court is so quiet,” he was heard saying, though Aemon suspected that his heart still ached for his dear Aemma.

Music played merrily by the players in the gallery above. The long tables were filled with knights, freeriders and guardsmen. The night was certainly joyous to the lower ranks of the castle. Closer to the high table sat the nobility visiting court. Just below the salt were where he and his cousins sat, along with Roland Rosby; Alla and Careleen Strong, both daughters of the new Master of Laws Lord Lyonel; and Martyn Lannister, nephew of Lord Tymond.

“When will Prince Daemon return, my prince?” the lads asked him from time to time, and Aemon had to grit his teeth to not snap at them for their ignorance. “I do not know,” Aemon would say every time, and it chafed him to admit he did not know when his father would return to court.

In the previous past, Prince Daemon had returned only years later, when Rhaenyra was a flowering maid near the age of marrying.

He hoped his father did nothing stupid, and that he wouldn’t take much time to return.

Aemon danced with his cousins when the floor was cleared. He spied Ser Otto whispering at his uncle’s ears at the high table.

“Was that dragon you met the one from your dreams?” Visenya asked softly in High Valyrian. They always spoke in the exotic language of the dragonlords when discussing matters of their plans in public, to avoid any from overhearing them or reading their lips.

Aemon thought on the elusive dragon. Its dark scales, the color of the flame. “I think so. From what I remember of that dream, the dragon skulked and sneaked throughout the Dragonpit, and even met with Dreamfyre. I too saw her.”

Her eyes grew wide, and it shrank to their normal sizes in a flash. Visenya was training her court mask. “She is as big as Caraxes I hear, though Nuncle Daemon wouldn’t admit. It really was a miracle she left you alive.”

Aemon’s mood turned dark. “She rejected me, and I fear this other dragon did too.” He flexed the fingers of his sword hand. “I was close to touch him, a palm’s length away before Rhaenyra started screaming for me. I know I saw something in his eyes, like a previous connection, familiar to both of us yet new.”

Visenya’s thumb caressed the back of his hand. “Worry not, Aemon. I’m sure we can find him again, and if it was meant for you two to meet, I’m certain it shall happen. I will be there to help you, wherever I can. Not even my father can stop me on that.”

Reddened cheeks were things not expected to see on grown men or trained fighters, but Aemon did blush at her words. Such fervent vows of loyalty were not commonly heard by him. Despite his self-control, Aemon felt his heart flutter at her words.

They danced for one more song, looking around to see anything of value happening at the court members. Lord Lyonel had retired early to his chambers, bringing with him his two daughters. His eldest son remained. The big five and ten nameday old squire was making a game with other boys of sipping as much ale as they could without getting caught. That could go on for a long while, as his lord father wasn’t there anymore.

Lord Tyomond Lannister was returning to his table after leaving for the privy for the fifth time in the night. Aemon had heard that a man’s bladder grew smaller with old age.

He tapped twice his cousin’s hand with a finger. “The Hand’s tongue starts wagging,” he pointed to her. Aemon saw that the two of them weren’t alone in the high table. Otto’s daughter sat demurely at her father’s side, watching the king with adoration.

Visenya held the sneer from blooming in her face. “A snake’s tongue will waggle with every breath. I do not doubt the presence of his daughter so near to my father is a mistake.”

Aemon noted something as well. “They look at us, and I’m certain the dragon ordeal is already known to him.” His voice lowered in tone, almost to a whisper. “Your father did fear me causing your deaths. He did not speak, but he and the Hand look at me and see Prince Daemon’s son.”

They spun in the floor, and Aemon pulled her back to him. “My father will forgive Nuncle Daemon in time, but the poison dripping in his ear is concerning. Ser Otto was always known for despising your father. Something must be done to lessen those views, or sooner rather than later he will put his agents to spy on you, cousin.”

“Poison cannot be done. Father’s rivalry is known widely and the king is easily swayed away from his brother’s side.” He hummed. “No, I must appear loyal.”

Visenya said nothing, but she tensed a shade and returned to her graceful form. He knew she feared making his father their enemy, as in truth they were allies. Otto and his greens were formidable foes, but it was terrible to have Daemon Targaryen against you.

“I must play the part. I just hope my father sees through the mummery.”

Aemon danced with Rhaenyra one more time before returning to his chambers. Ser Arryk walked back with him. My new shadow, as per my uncle’s command. In truth he had said about only having a kingsguard when visiting the Dragonpit, but it seemed Viserys had already extended the watch of his nephew.

Aemon simply fell onto his bed once he was free from his boots and doublet. Gods, he was tired, but much of it was in his head. Plans were made and yet not a single move was done. His aunt Aemma failed in giving a living child after Rhaenyra and died bringing her last. She had maesters and women of knowledge of the birthing bed about her, yet the woman known to have problems, even in such a young age, simply died.

Visenya had commented to him once about the dangers of bearing children, and greater still when done too early. Some of it he had learned from Dany before, but it was generally known that girls bedded too early could bear scars for the rest of their lives. Some possibly turning sterile due to a husband’s eagerness to have an heir, or simple depravity.

His own mother had died young while bringing him to the world; now twice a Lyanna Stark died for an Aemon Targaryen. On the first time he could understand that she had not nearly enough servants to help her, or a maester to heal if something went awry while in a secluded tower in the Red Mountains; but how did this happen here, in the heart of the Red Keep and under the Conciliator’s nose?

A low thought came to him. Could Jaehaerys have known of someone’s incompetence and let it follow its course? No, that could not be. Even if Aemon was half a Stark, he wasn’t a northerner. Not a true one in the eyes of this ages’ northmen. The king was known for defeating his foes swiftly and settling peace over quarreling parts. If his father’s marriage to his mother was not approved by both Stark and Targaryen, then why did he give his blessing through the gesture of putting an egg in his cradle?

If Aemon was in his great grandfather’s shoes, he would use Lyanna and her son as a bridge between the crown and the angry Starks. Sure, public punishment would be demanded, and so it was a forgone conclusion, but it should not have ended there. The way the whole matter was settled, adding his mother’s passing and the general mutual distance the king and his Warden of the North kept, resulted in Lord Benjen, Aemon’s grandfather, to vote for Princess Rhaenys in the Great Council.

But those were actions taken already; the ink was dry. Aemon would now have to solve this problem himself, or none would manage.

The Starks of Winterfell had always been an isolationist house, as well as the rest of the northeners. Never save for during the Dance of the Dragons (the very war they were trying to avoid) and Lord Rickard’s time had the Starks shown any interests in southron affairs.

The latter was known to him when Arya pointed it out to him. She had been to the Citadel before they were reunited, and somehow found evidence of a maester following instructions from a superior of his called Walgrave to ‘convince Lord Stark into the matters of the realm, not just his own kingdom.’ Years passed, and two Stark children would marry into great houses of the South, with a son being raised by the wise and astute Jon Arryn. That was the birth of the greatest alliance in Westeros. The only one that managed to unseat a dynasty of centuries.

Lord Rickard’s southron ambitions crumbled when Aemon’s mother ran away from her betrothal to Baratheon, and it turned to ashes when he and his heir were killed, putting the often-mistrustful and broken man as the new Lord of Winterfell.

“What interests me here is not how and why grandfather heard and followed through with Wallys’ whispers. That we know well enough, but not of Wallys’ reasons,” Arya pointed it out to him, showing notes and other transcriptions to him and Sansa in their lord father’s old solar.

“He was instructed by this Walgrave,” he said, nodding to one of the papers at the table.

“Aye, but what would one maester want with Lord Stark adding his snout into the southern courts? All of these: Lord Steffon, Lord Jon, mine and Sansa’s grandfather Hoster, Rickard Stark. These men met each other during the last Blackfyre rebellion. And all of these made deals and alliances with each other.”

“So Wallys used the connection that was already there to convince grandfather,” said Sansa, seating in a couch with a fur cloak about her shoulders.

“Every effective lie has a kernel of truth,” added Arya sagely. “They had known of each other, but it was simpler of Lord Rickard to be like his ancestors and return to brood quietly in Winterfell. Noticed someone missing here?”

“The whole realm fought against Maelys in the Stepstones, Arya,” bitted out Aemon.

“Why, your House, brother,” Arya answered, staring at his red eyes. “And that of Tywin Lannister, though at the time his father still ruled. Lord Steffon and Aerys were cousins, and close ones at that. But he died young so Robert’s education fell completely onto Jon Arryn and his maester. Tywin held out in the fact of his closeness to the power of the Targaryens and his well-known ambitions of making his daughter the next queen.

“On each of these kingdoms, distaste for the dragon kings was sown, and when war sparked for Jon Arryn’s denial of a royal decree and rose to arms, half of the continent was glad to see Targaryen blood spilt.”

Aemon remembered that for many moments he stood in utter silence when this supposed plot was shown to him. Parts of him wanted to rage and destroy, other parts could not bring himself to care. But at that moment he was a Targaryen, with a dragon queen at his side. If not him, then his children would be victims of these plots. “Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around? Gallant dragonslayers armed with swords?” Marwyn had posed the question before. Could the maesters be plotting, for two hundred years working for their mysterious and convoluted ends?

His head hurt from the turns his life had made. It was too late in the night to bother Visenya about these conjectures. He would tell her all about it in the morning.

Aemon dreamt of flashes in the caves, deep beneath his mountain.

He found the yard deserted the next day. Ser Harrold was nowhere to be seen, so Aemon was the only living soul not on guard duty there. Sometimes his knight would absent himself in the account of the king’s summons and the council meetings, but none were had this early in the morning.

Aemon waited for a time until he saw that the kingsguard wasn’t coming. By that time others had begun to populate the training yard. Knights sparring between each other and Ser Quenton Foote gathering the young lads for their lessons.

Aemon decided to spend the time with some light sparring with Ser Robert, who he had found standing outside his door. The bubbling yard came to a silence when the Ser Otto left the Tower of the Hand armored in grey breastplate over silver mail. A cloak of dark green held by a silver tower with flaming crenelations was draped over his shoulder. Behind him followed two knights of household with helms over their heads and visors lifted. Aemon followed them from a distance and saw that others had gathered in the outer yard. Fifty horses lined in double file near the stables draped in Hightower caparisons as well as armed men in mail and surcoats. Other five knights gathered nearby.

The Lord Hand vaulted over a horse offered to him, and the knights followed suit. With one sign of a hand, the column of men and steel flowed out of the outer yard and into the city. Eyes all around the keep trailed their passage.

A bath followed by breaking his fast was the next things Aemon did, as per his usual routine. He decided to eat in the Small Hall, seeing as the sun had trailed far into the sky, long after Rhaenyra and Visenya sat at their table to eat fresh baked bread with honey and spreads of berries. At the late hour, only the now emptying training yard occupants were inside. Martyn and Roland sat with him, as well as the gregarious Aron Lynderly. There were others too, Aemon noticed. The nubile Lady Alicent sat in a table on the far-end of the hall near an unlit hearth with her friend, Talla Cuy.

The rest of his morning was occupied by Maester Benedar and his lessons on the properties of rectangles and squares. The old man winded down on many tangents, turning an already boring session into almost torture. Rhaenyra was confused by how and why they were adding the sides of the forms, but he and Visenya helped her.

“Where were you? You didn’t appear to break the fast with us,” his elder cousin whispered when the balding maester appeared distracted.

“I stayed I bit longer in the training yard with Ser Redfort and the boys,” Aemon said under his breath. He fondled with his quill, to feign working on the sheet of parchment before him. The maester walked up to Rhaenyra and studied her notes from above her shoulder, nodding faintly. Benedar passed behind them without stopping and sat on his chair, opening a book before him and reading. The links of the maester’s chain gleamed in a variety of colors. That made him remember something. “Oh I have something to tell you-“

“If it is about the measures of the forms before you, Prince Aemon, you are permitted to share your doubts with the rest of us. Of aught else we do not need it now. Your cousin the Crown Princess would appreciate if you allowed her to think,” rebuked the maester, his eyes remained on his book.

Visenya looked at him and mouther silently ‘tell me later.’

‘Later’ did not come as immediate as he had hoped. Once their lessons were finished the three of them had a light noon meal that Rhaenyra accompanied. He loved his little cousin, but they never discussed matters of their plans when she was about. She also tended to be rather clingy nowadays. When finally some time alone with Visenya was available, Ser Steffon arrived for a summons of the king. “Princess Visenya, your father asks for your presence in his solar.” She gave him an apologetic smile and followed the Darklyn knight into Maegor’s Holdfast.

“What shall we do, cousin? We have the whole afternoon free before us,” probed Rhaenyra with a coy smile. Aemon held the little laugh in his throat, and entertained her cousin in her childish pastimes.

By the time he met his bed again Visenya was still occupied with her father. Aemon tossed and turned on his bed, chafing in the warmness of his chambers and the business of his thoughts.

It was disconcerting to see Otto Hightower leaving the Red Keep ahead of such a mighty force. The man was a dubbed knight, but he had never seen the Hand so much as holding a sword, preferring to carry books and quills and wear silk doublets over plate and mail.

There was no announcement of the king for such a great outing, and one lead by the Lord Hand nonetheless. Something important was happening, something not important enough for news to be delivered beforehand, yet something with the Hand’s fingers in it. Aemon didn’t like it, and he liked even less of not knowing exactly what it was.

He had not noticed when he closed his eyes, but suddenly Aemon was being awakened by sounds coming from his door. Before his feet could touch the stone floor the door banged open, and Visenya ran inside, still wearing a burgundy silk dress. She looked distressed.

“Princess this is hardl-“

“Await by the door outside, Ser Erryk. I shall not busy my cousin’s sleep for long,” she interrupted him in a commanding tone. The knight made to protest, but remained silent and bowed, returning to his post.

“What is this about?” Aemon asked, already alert.

His cousin placed the candle she held in a golden holder by his bedside table. “I spoke with my father this afternoon. Most of it wasn’t of much importance, but at the end when the moon had risen in the sky did he tell me of the council’s meeting of this morn. It’s about Uncle Daemon.”

Aemon gaped at her. “W-what about him? Just say it, damn it!”

“Your father has sent birds to King’s Landing naming himself the Prince of Dragonstone and the true heir of Viserys I. He has claimed to have sired a child in his paramour’s belly, and he has Baelon’s egg. I checked with the dragonkeepers. They confirmed that a gold and red egg had vanished.”

Aemon’s blood ran cold, then anger bloomed in his chest. Long had he seen his father’s look of disappointment when their talk turned to the egg given to him at birth, and now it seemed Prince Daemon sought to have another son, one who would hatch the egg given to him.

Most distressing of all was the other contents of the message. He was claiming the title Visenya’s father had awarded her, defying the king’s decree. Many lords marched to King’s landing on the king’s summons to stand witness and swear to uphold his heir’s rights to the throne. All of the great lords had done it, even his uncle Lord Benjen. But one person hadn’t showed up that day. His father.

Then it dawned of Aemon. “The Hand left the city at the head of a small host of fifty men this morning. I saw him, as well as others, mounting and passing under the barbican, yet we heard no word of why.” He grimaced.

“Papa sent him to parlay with Uncle Daemon, in the hopes of convincing of leaving this folly behind and give up the egg. He was to leave Dragonstone and banish his whore, as my father had put it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Your father cannot be this naïve. Otto Hightower and my father are known to loath each other fiercely. Should they meet, it will come to blood.” Then his mind was set. He knew what he had to do. “I must go there.”

“How? The Hand left this morning and my dragon isn’t big enough to carry two. We would never reach them before Otto’s party.”

“Nay, Ebrion isn’t big or fast enough. It must be other.” Aemon turned away from his cousin and gathered his clothes, pulling on grey wool trousers and a black leather jerkin over his white tunic, not even caring to be almost naked in front of his cousin. He quickly grabbed a satchel one of the chests and a black cloak over his shoulders, his hands quick in the practiced movement learned from his time at the Wall and during the fight against the Others.

Aemon didn’t care to hear the protesting of Ser Erryk and Visenya. He took off to the yard and into the darkened stables. Not even bothering saddling, he pulled a piebald palfrey and mounted on, grabbing his dark mane and digging his booted heel on the animal’s flank. The guards at the gate were too slow to notice it was a boy commanding them to open them.

Aemon raced over the cobblestoned streets and into the Dragonpit, almost in a feverish trance. The sleepy-eyed stable hand almost lost the horse as Aemon almost dumped him in his hands. He didn’t bother waiting to greet the knights stationed outside and simply knocked and entered. His feet dragged him toward the abandoned cell he had visited in the previous day, and without pause he ventured inside the cavern.

It was as dark as that day, but it seemed his feet knew where to take him. After minutes of walking up and down the stone corridors he was face to face with the same violet-eyed dragon. Aemon didn’t wait for a chance and forded forward, his left hand tracing a path along the dragon’s scales from neck to chest shoulder. Without thinking twice, he vaulted himself up, pulling on one crest of his spine.

The two of them snaked through the dark paths and out into the cell. A group of dragonkeepers stood wide-eyed at him from without. A single glare, his or the dragon’s, sent the men to undo the chains on the gate, and quick as a snake they crawled into the sandy plaza, where the dome already stood open. Moonlight pooled on the pale-colored sand from a silver shaft. Aemon and the dragon jumped and crawled at the air, a heartbeat passed and they were scaling the pilar of light, passing by the opening and into the starry night.

The way to Dragonstone was known to him, even in the dark of night. Aemon and his dragon glided through the soft dark air like a well-built skiff, sailing smoothly in the sea of stars with few beats of the dragon’s wings, intimately knowing the path to the ancestral island home to their kin like it was second nature.

The sky was a black velvet dusted with a smattering of light shining like diamonds sown in black silk. The moon hung big and silver among them, shining a beacon of light on the waves feet below them; silver crests capped the waves, crashing back and forth in the agitated sea like moving hills. The last time Aemon had done this flight there was no moon and stars to shine on his path. After the fall of King’s Landing, he had flown toward the last haven against the marching dead, with the corpse of his wife in his arms. When Rhaegal and he landed, very few came to see him in the yard, such was what was left of men in Westeros. He could still remember the haunted look Sansa wore, clutching close to her chest her son Eddard. He had his mother’s blue eyes, and a blonde head of hair so fair it looked red in certain lights.

That image now burned in his mind. He had wanted to clutch Daenerys’ body close to him and cry, to wail her back into life, but all his tears had burned away. Daenerys’ body had grown cold when they arrived in Dragonstone, and the light in her beautiful amethyst eyes had burned down, like the stars above their heads. The child that grew inside her would never be, and soon not even little Eddard would have a life of his own.

He had left them hours later. Rhaegal and he were the last dragons, and with the death of Daenerys and her other two children, defeat was imminent.

It was an hour later, the moon swinging in the sky accompanying them, that Aemon could see the outline of the dark rocks of the island’s coast and mountainside. He flew directly toward the castle built on the slope of the Dragonmont, passing over the small port and the dirt trail that led to the ancient fortress. The castle remained as it had been in his memory. Walls of black stone, seemingly without cresses between blocks, rose around the buildings made of the same material. Gargoyles, dragons, griffins, manticores and hellhounds occupied the carvings on the walls and made the merlons at the walls in such an intricate and detailed design that it could only have been made as the tales suggested: by sorcery of fire mages from Old Valyria.

They made a low pass over the dirt road and swiveled past the castle. Aemon surveyed the ground below, illuminated by the scant light of torches and the grey light of the moon. A company of horse and footmen had marched by the road and stood in front of the dragonmaw that made Dragonstone’s gates. On the barbican spearmen and crossbowmen looked down at the ones below, now all had their eyes at the flying shadow above them. Aemon saw the glint of silver in the light amongst them. To the side, perched on a tower was the Blood wyrm, his father’s mount. The red dragon roared a challenge to the newcome dragon, who answered in kind below him.

Aemon touched lightly to the side of the dragon’s shoulder, and they began their descent. The smoke-grey dragon landed atop another tower of black dragonstone on the curtain wall. Aemon jumped from the back of his mount and marched toward his father.

“What is the meaning of this!?” barked Ser Otto from below. “You ought not to be here, Prince Aemon. This is a matter of the king and his council.”

“I’m saving your skin and that of your men, Lord Hand! It would be best if you did not speak and irk the ire of my lord father,” he yelled as he walked, never stopping to look over the wall. It would not do well for him to anger a dragonrider. Aemon walked through the last stretch of ramparts left until he got face to face with Prince Daemon. His left hand held the accounted gold and red dragon’s egg, named in his letter.

“What are you doing here, son?” his father said in lieu of greeting. His lilac eyes shone with surprise and pride.

“I came to stop this folly from descending into bloodshed, father. This occupation and siege have gone for far too long.”

Daemon gave a chuckle. “And how do you plan on doing this? By standing between me and the cunt without?”

Aemon kept his face still, his eyes serious and grave. The childish emulation of Ned Stark’s lord face. “By retrieving my cousin’s egg, and strongly suggesting for you to desist of your folly of claiming Visenya’s castle and title.”

“Your cousin is ash, Aemon. Burned with his mother moons ago. He has no need for an egg. My new child will have, however.”

That made him bristle. “So you seek to replace me? To sully the memory of Lyanna Stark, your wife by bedding your whore? The child does not deserve to be born bearing the burden of bastardy when you have a living son in front of you. You despaired for my egg not hatching? Well, I’ve bonded with a dragon, to your satisfaction I believe. So your plan is already halfway undone; unravel the other half and let us go home.”

His father smirked. “So it would seem. You have a dragon, though I don’t have the memory of ever seeing one so big in recent years.” He passed the egg from one hand to the other, sizing him up. The light of the torches shone off its scales, bright red with gold flecks. “But the other part entails of your inheritance, son. I cannot leave my plans halfway done.”

“The Iron Throne is not meant to be mine, father. And neither it is for you. Visenya was chosen, by the king’s decree. I will stand by my cousin’s side. She is an intelligent and a capable heir. By law and right, the title is hers.”

“But a girl. The lords of the realm had made their choice on the matter.”

“They chose between a Targaryen and a Velaryon. It was obvious they would rebuke the Sea Snake’s ambitions. But Visenya is still capable of marrying and having Targaryen heirs, but she will not succeed if we stand apart from our blood.” He made one step closer. “You and me know who made Viserys choose between the daughter he loves and his brother. If Viserys were to make you heir, those ambitious snakes at court would hastily make the king marry again, and the matter of succession would be brought to the fore again, but this time for a son of the king and not a daughter.”

“Without a head, Otto cannot hope to marry any lord’s daughter to my brother.”

“And risk war, with your own blood? If Otto falls here, his brother rises to arms in search of your head. If we stand together with Visenya, we can unwind the hold the snakes at court have on Uncle Viserys. If we spill Hightower’s blood now, the last thing your brother will have heard from you is a defiant declaration against his will and your heated words! Uncle Viserys is not a man of conflict, but of compromise, aye; but with the Hand’s poison dripping from the king’s ear, who do you think he will compromise to?

“Let go of this folly, father. I love you, but I love the rest of my family as well. Let Visenya be the heir, it is her right. We can stand and help by her side against our enemies, or fight between each other and satiate the cunning lords’ thirst for dragon blood.”

Daemon gave a long look at him, searching for something. Then he drawled out, his voice dangerously low. “And what if I chose to follow through, my son? Will you stand against me, your own father?”

Hope for reason still burned on his heart, but the flames wilted to smoldering cinders. A cold wind washed over him. Caraxes and the grey dragon hissed and snapped at one another from their towers. His mount’s frills slaring out menacingly. Aemon slowly drew the little sword from its sheath, leveling in a guard position. Two hands at the grip, steel tip aimed toward his father, keeping the foot-long blade between them. “Then I will do my duty, and stand by my cousin’s side.”

Quickly as a cat, his father drew Dark Sister and swirled to a strike to his side, pivoting in his foot while steel cradling the egg in his left arm. Aemon guided the strike away by angling his sword and jumping to the side. The whirlwind of steel kept crashing against his defenses continuously. Aemon was a trained man, capable of defeating even the otherworldly Others in their graceful and deadly dance of sword and ice, but he was still a child now. Sooner or later he would falter, and that would be his undoing.

Daemon pushed him with his assault toward the stairs to the ground below the walls. He felt the heel of his boot hit empty air, and before he could fall his father pulled on the collar of his tunic, swinging and throwing him against a merlon. His back hurt from hitting a knot of stone, but he ignored it to duck under one of his father’s strikes. He came to the back of him, and tried a half-hearted swing at his lower back, the prince quickly jumped away and blocked the strike.

Aemon continued with others. Left and right, a thrust that made Daemon jump back. Aemon sprinted getting under his father’s guard, sliding his sword on the inside of his to force his hand away, quickly pulling-

“Yield, son,” his father murmured. The cold steel of Dark Sister, the same shade as that of his dragon, touched lightly at his side. No skin was broken, no blood gushed out, bright and red.

“A warrior cannot defend himself without a foot, father. Have you forgotten?”

Daemon looked down to see his son’s sword hovering over his knee. Father and son breathed heavily, Aemon more so than Daemon, looking at each other’s eyes. His father’s head bent back and he let out a mighty laugh. Swords were leveled to their sides and Targaryen and Hightower men looked at the scene puzzled. “That was a well-fought duel, Aemon. You danced like a demon thrice your age against valyrian steel!”

For Aemon’s part, he let out a shaky breath. For a moment he really believed his father had meant to hurt him. That truly confirmed to him that Daemon Targaryen was a mercurial man. Man and boy sheathed their swords, and Daemon pulled his son away from the watching eyes of the crowd around them. They sat before each other in wooden stools inside one of the towers. “I could never replace you, my son. Nor the love I still hold for your mother,” he said, reaching to pass a hand over his brown hair. “I only sought to give you a proper bride for my heir.”

Aemon had his doubts about how proper it was for a king to marry a bastard, and a kernel of Ned Stark’s education made him shiver at the thought of marrying his sister. You gladly took the hand of your aunt to bed, you dolt. He could only guess the wiliness of bedding one’s sister was in their blood, after all. Visenya had married Aegon, who she at first thought was her half-brother. And Visenya probably had the same education as Aemon’s.

“As I said before. The Iron Throne is not meant for me, and neither do I seek to have it. I am well content to be only a prince. Ruling is a hard thing, father. Look how wide in the waist Uncle Viserys became after he sat on that chair. I don’t wish to see you grow fat!”

His father chuckled and ruffled his hair. “They would have to do more than just grant me the throne to see me so low.”

The laughter lulled down to silence and father and son looked at each other. “I spoke the truth, father. It’s nor for me nor it is for you. Visenya is capable of fulfilling that role. She sees through Otto’s manipulations, and only seeks what is best for our House. It is better if we stand by her side than work to undermine her, when there’s enough traitors working against our family.”

Daemon looked strangely at him then, the corner of his lips twitching upward. “Your cousin is rather sharp, yes. You admire her.”

“I do,” he confirmed without doubt. “She is strong and unwavering. I’ve been working with ever since I knew she would be uncle’s heir.” It was a lie of omission, in truth. Daemon would think it ever since Viserys named her heir, but the truth was that they had worked together ever since the last day of the Great Council. Deep within himself he knew Aemma would not birth his uncle a son, so Visenya would inevitably be named heir. He had not revealed that to his cousin so she wouldn’t tremble and fear for the inevitable.

“And she is a Targaryen princess, beautiful at that as is her nature. You have noticed it, haven’t you, son?” his father teased him with a roguish smirk.

Aemon’s cheeks burned despite his orders for them to stay pale. She is just your ally. These thoughts are unbecoming and will serve no one in stopping the war, he chided himself. “Aye, she is beautiful. Her husband will be a lucky man to have her.” Why did he speak of husbands? Now he was imagining his cousin marrying, the face of the man cloaking her changed if he tried to think. Sometimes he had dark hair, other times light.

His father hummed. “As you say.” His left hand rested on the red-gold egg resting on his thigh. Springing to his feet, Aemon mirrored him. Without word Daemon pushed the egg into his chest. “Tell my brother that I wish to see him soon. It would be better to clear things between us before Otto wags his tail for the next attempt to have me killed.”

Aemon nodded and turned to walk to his dragon, but his father called him before he made the second step. “And son.” Daemon beckoned him with a finger. They closed the distance, and the Rogue Prince crushed him into a hug. “I’m proud of you, and your mother would be proud as well to see her son growing so fast into a man.”

Tears welled on his eyes despite him willing them away. “I wish I had met her,” he mumbled into his father’s shoulder.

Daemon pressed him harder, then pushed away to look at his face. “You did, my fierce dragon. You just don’t remember her. I was actually vexed to hear her saying you were the person she loved the most.” Both chuckled at the jest, lulling back into silence. “Son, I’m afraid it won’t be so soon that I can return to King’s Landing to be with you, so you will have to bear my absence for a little more time. Your appearance here has been a soothing balm to my heart, and it was impressive seeing you riding that dragon with such mastery; but I’m afraid we must part ways.

“I would like it if you kept this for me, until I return.” Daemon reached behind his neck and unclasped something. He grabbed his son’s hand and put into the palm a fine golden chain with a locket. “I was my mother’s once. She gave me before her passing.”

Aemon held the locket reverently, almost as if the thing would break with the slightest move. He gently opened it and what laid inside took his breath away.

Two paintings were held inside. One was his grandfather Baelon smiling beside a young woman with dark honey hair and mismatched eyes, one was green and the other was purple. He knew in an instant she was grandmother Alyssa, the one he never got to know.

On the left band of the open locket was an image he had seen only in dreams, half remembered after waking. A young girl of six and ten mayahps, with brown hair tumbling over her pale shoulders. A lovely smile, and grey eyes that seemed to look at him with the purest form of love. About her head was a crown of roses, blue and vivid. Winter roses. That was his mother, Lyanna Stark.

Aemon nodded, swearing to hold the locked dear to him until his father returned, and they hugged again. Before they broke the embrace, Aemon spoke. “There’s one more thing, father.” He stared at grey eyes. “Your. . . paramour will have to go away. I heard she was lyseni, so I think back to Lys it shall be. The king’s order’s I’m afraid.”

Daemon’s eyes grew colder and they stepped away from each other. Daemon walked over to the doorway that led to the wall they fought on and looked outside through a gap. He stepped away and sighed petulantly. “And so it shall be. Give my regards to Ser Cunt on the way out, Aemon.”

He smiled and walked out of the tower. His dragon made sounds at his approach but leaned a wing down to help him up his back again. Aemon caressed the scales of his neck and shoulder. “We did well together in our first flight,” he spoke softly in High Valyrian. The dragon preened at his praise and shook his neck.

He looked away and marveled at the sunrise in the east. The dark sky was beginning to turn from purple to blue, the few scant clouds about the horizon painted in rays of orange and pink. Like Ebrion. Under the shadow of the Dragonmont, Otto Hightower’s host still milled about. “Ser Otto!” Aemon yelled from atop his dragon, cupping his mouth with one hand. “The siege is over! Prince Daemon has agreed to the king’s demands!” He did not wait for an answer from the Lord Hand. Securing the egg on the satchel he had brought, Aemon gave the command and took flight on the dragon.

The sun had completely risen by the time the city walls and the Red Keep came into view. They made three laps around the city before touching down on the Dragonpit, where he instructed the dragonkeepers to feed his dragon a nice lamb, a reward for their victory in Dragonstone. Not long after, Aemon was riding through the gates of his family’s castle with an escort of gold cloaks, who cheered the son of their prince, and Ser Steffon Darklyn.

In the outer bailey was the whole assortment of the court. Nobles and servants stood wide-eyed to see the son of Prince Daemon returning from the reunion with his father. Or to see if I fell from my dragon, and Ser Steffon brings back my broken corpse.

The king wasn’t there, though. Ser Steffon made mention of His Grace waiting the return of his nephew in the Throne Room, so to there they strode. When the massive bronze-banded oaken doors opened, Aemon stepped in and marched toward his uncle. He ignored the whispers that followed him. Aemon reached the foot of the throne and knelt, producing the egg and offering it up to the king seated on the throne. “Your Grace, my father accepts your terms. Peace remains in the realm, and the egg of my late cousin Baelon is returned.” He looked up to Viserys and added. “Prince Daemon sends his regards, uncle.”

The king rose from his barbed seat and walked down the steps of the throne. When they were at level, he took the offered egg, then bade him to rise. A mighty arm rounded him and pulled into a mighty hug, giving a kiss to each of his cheeks. When they separated, the king spoke for the court to hear. “My loyal nephew, defending the right of my daughter Visenya, has mounted on his dragon and flown to Dragonstone. A boy of only eight namedays, as brave and noble as is grandsire Prince Baelon! Hail to Prince Aemon the Brave, the youngest dragonrider!”

“Hail Prince Aemon!” the court cheered, and applauds rang to him. His heart was tainted by the way his uncle avoided mention of his father, but mayhaps it was best for all to focus on him rather than Prince Daemon’s aspirations for the throne and his recent defiance.

Aemon looked around and saw Visenya and Rhaenyra to the side of the Iron Throne, clapping for him. His eldest cousin had a warm smile on her face, her eyes shining. Aemon returned her smile.

Chapter Text

She woke with her maids calling for her. “Good morning, Princess Rhaenyra. You’ve asked to be awakened early today.”

The curtains around her canopied bed were drawn open, and sunlight pierced through her room to stir Rhaenyra from her slumber. She stretched herself like a lazy cat on her large bed and drawing herself into a sitting position. The maids worked around her, drawing open the windows, allowing the sunlight to flood the room accompanied by a gentle sea breeze. Her closet was already open, the women inside ready to collect her chosen gown.

Rhaenyra stepped out her bed and leaned against the window, purring at the warm wind coming off the bay. The sky was a perfect blue, and the colors of the scenery seemed more vivid, illuminated by the shining sun above. Already she imagined perfect lunches in the quietness of the godswood. Rarely the people at court visited the place, but Rhaenyra liked the seclusion it offered. Aemon and Visenya liked the place as well, but they always seemed to wait for something more when entering. She expected it from Aemon, his mother was from the North. There, the Starks and most other noble houses prayed to gods of trees, with barks white like bone and bloody red leaves.

The Red Keep had no tree like that, a weirwood tree. She imagined it was due to her ancestors’ unwillingness to anger the faith of the South, or simply their distaste for the strange trees only few still kept as their gods.

Although come to think on it, her family wasn’t very connected with neither the andal gods or the first men. There were princesses that joined the Faith, yes; but none in her family professed the level of devotion some other houses were proud to show. Rhaenyra and Visenya were taught under a septa, Aemon too was once under the tutelage of septons for their holy teachings, but neither of the three of them were nearly as enthusiastic to learn it compared to other topics. Shortly after, their time with the Seven-pointed Star shortened bit by bit, until most of their learning was given by Maester Benedar.

She did not know if Aemon’s affinity for the godswood was due to some silent connection with his mother or for genuine belief. In a sense, her cousin was the most connected with a faith of their family. Rhaenyra knew the only time she saw his father inside a sept was last year for her mother. . .

Rhaenyra moved to the porcelain basin and washed her face, cleaning the grime of sleep off of it. A maid approached and settled a copper basin near her feet. Wordless, Rhaenyra stepped inside and clean her armpits and her delicate parts.

“The purple dress will be my choice today,” she announced to the woman searching for her piece for the day. She made a curtsy and separated a gown of purple silk and myrish lace, a present of her father from the turn of the year. “But bring me the riding gear, I shall visit Syrax this morn.” The maids acquiesced, leaving the purple dress over her already set bed and bringing the wool breeches, a light tunic and a leather jerkin over it, sown with filigree that imitated her little lady’s yellow wings.

Outside her chambers by the door was her constant companion, her white knight. “Good morrow, Ser Criston!” she greeted him.

Light danced in his green eyes, a smile parting on his lips to reveal perfectly set white teeth. “Good morning, princess.” She offered her hand for a kiss, his lips touched the skin of her hand delicately in a reverent gesture.

Ser Criston was the image of the perfect knight to Rhaenyra. Handsome and gallant, with shining eyes and dimples when he smiled at her. When he rode the lists, taking down opponent after opponent in perfect movements, Rhaenyra squealed and cheered for her faithful. More times than not, he ended up with the laurels of champion, and she the crown of Queen of Love and Beauty.

Rhaenyra first marched to break her fast in the private meal room her family used, Ser Criston walked behind her with his cloak of white wool billowing with movement. Ser Eryk and Ser Lorent were at the door outside. This meant that her sister was already inside, and her cousin with her. A whisper of jealousy came to her, but Rhaenyra squashed it right away. It would not do to start such a beautiful day with bad thoughts.

The people inside were just who she had guessed. Her sister sat at a chair near the window with their cousin Aemon at her side, a slice of bread with blueberry jam spread on it forgotten in her hand while both spoke in whispers. “Good morning, Visenya! Good morning cousin Aemon!” she greeted loudly, drawing their attention to her. Visenya quickly plastered a smile on her face, Aemon looked as if he was caught on some mischief. Both greeted in muted tones, nowhere near as ecstatic as she was.

Rhaenyra quickly occupied herself filling her plate with fruit tarts and a smaller apple. She never was that hungry in the mornings, but she could never refuse a tart when available. She appreciated that Visenya seemed to have a sweet tooth like hers, so it was always brought to their morning meals.

Her father liked sweet things too, but lately he had been distant. He still looked joyful as always, but sometimes a shadow crossed his face, and all the happiness melted away like dew int the morning. That was one of the reasons he rarely joined them in breaking his fast. Also because the three of them did it rather early. Aemon trained in the break of day, and Visenya watched him most of the times. Rhaenyra was the one to have late mornings of the three.

Aemon and Visenya turned back into their whispered conversation. She could hear words like ‘hand’ and ‘daughter’, and other that she grasped like ‘soon’. Visenya was quite vexed by what Aemon told her, his handsome face twisted in a concerned grimace.

Both her sister and cousin were her best friends, and people she truly admired. Both in their appearance and attitude. Visenya had a regal face and an equally regal countenance; after all she was the heir to the throne. Her silver hair tumbled down her shoulders in beautiful waves, framing a heart-shaped face. Her lips weren’t as pouty as hers, but they were pink and perfect. Her eyes were a dark purple, mysterious and powerful. She was quite tall for her age, already passing both her and their cousin, who Visenya was four moons older.

Aemon was quite different. He had a quiet attitude but very assertive. Not many smiles graced his face, which Rhaenyra thought was a pity, but when they did appear it illuminated his hole countenance, like the sun breaking out of the clouds. He had silky brown hair, though not as striking as hers or her sister’s, it was soft and thick, curling as it fell to his shoulders.

She had touched it once. Visenya allowed her to touch her hair and brush it, rare as those times were when it was only the two of them, but Aemon seldom allowed others to touch him. He sometimes stiffened out of the sudden, and felt quite uncomfortable. Rhaenyra wished he was comfortable when she touched his hand, and allowed her to touch his hair.

Aemon and Visenya are always holding hands. They weren’t now, but Rhaenyra had seen it before. What did her sister have to make their cousin so aloof to her presence?

“What are you talking about? I’m at the table too,” she spoke all of a sudden.

Both stuttered away from their whispers, and turned to her again. “Oh, nothing. Just talking about our plans for the day,” her sister answered first. “Aemon wanted to show me the cellars down in the keep.”

“Don’t go there alone! It’s dark and you can get lost down there,” butted in Aemon with a warning.

Rhaenyra scrunched her nose. She knew they liked to make their own plans and adventures, and recently they had more and more excluding her from them. One time they went riding with their dragons, but suggested to bring her at a later date, as they were training races and didn’t want the youngest to fall. She had accepted her sister’s excuse, as Visenya always counseled for her own good, but it made Rhaenyra sad to think they didn’t think she was a good enough rider.

“What if we go meet the dragons today? It’s better than some old dusty cellar.”

Visenya pressed her lips and made to reject her offer, but Aemon touched her forearm lightly. “That would be nice, yes. You do need to get better at sharp turns on Syrax, cousin.” He turned to her sister then. “We can see the cellars later today, with less eyes about to spy.”

She could see her sister didn’t like about the change of plans, but acquiesced to them eventually. “Very well. We will have to change clothes first. Can you wait for us in my room, Nyra?”

Rhaenyra nodded in triumph. Finally she would spend her time with her sister and cousin. When they went to their own adventures, Rhaenyra felt very lonely. She loved to read and play with the two of them. They always did ‘come into my castle’, ‘monsters and maidens’ and of course, the ‘conquest’. They even had similar names to Aegon I and his sister wives; aside from Visenya. Hers was the exact same name.

Visenya finished first and left the room for her chambers. Aemon stayed a bit longer. He nursed a cup of cooled milk in his hand, bringing it to his lips, leaving them stained like her father’s moustache. He cleaned it with the back of his hand when she giggled at it, and turned to look at the city outside the window. His grey eyes studied the vista like someone looked at a tapestry, absorbing minute details throughout the scenery. His mouthed tensed a bit, like he had seen something he didn’t like.

Rhaenyra desperately though of something to speak with him, to take his mind away from whatever that displeased him. “Yesterday Ser Criston bested both Cargyll twins in a bout in the yard! Took both their swords from their hands with a tangling of his flail.”

That didn’t make her cousin pleased, his face remained guarded, placid like the undisturbed face of a lake. “It would be fairer if he used a less dangerous weapon. The training yard is a place for companions to train, not maim each other. The flail is a dangerous and unpredictable weapon.”

Rhaenyra felt herself obligated to defend the honor of her sworn shield. “But on the field of battle knights fight for victory and justice, not the betterment of their opponent’s skills.”

Her cousin grimaced a bit. “True. I hope Ser Criston knows the difference between his sworn brothers and the king’s enemies.” Silence returned to the room. Aemon took careful swigs from his cup. Rhaenyra’s eyes roamed around the room, settling on a tapestry hanging on the wall behind Aemon. “Have you ever wondered what Valyria must have looked like? The skies full of dragons of many different colors and shapes, beautiful ladies singing and dancing with their handsome lords.”

That made him smile a bit. “Aye, I have from time to time. The books tell of the riches of their time, towers and castles made of stone sung into shape. It would be quite nice to have roads like that the valyrians had built across Essos here in the Seven Kingdoms.” Then the smile fell from his face. “They also describe their abundant use of slaves in their cities, toiling until death for the luxury of their masters. The level of debauchery and bloody pastimes they partook with the use of owned flesh. There are things we can be inspired by them, but we must me mindful of their own faults and depravities.” He shrugged. “Even if we are lesser than what the Freehold was at its height, we are better in this matter of slaves. Visenya has already discussed some ideas with me about better laws to protect the smallfolk. Their lives are already fairly hard, and the king or queen rules for all, not just the high lords.”

That was another thing she liked on Aemon. He was intelligent and kind-hearted, always seeing merits and demerits over a matter. He would be a fine king, a just one. She imagined her handsome cousin sitting the Iron Throne, presiding over court with her father’s crown on his head. Beside him was a silver-haired woman- Rhaenyra shook her head away from these thoughts. Aemon wasn’t the heir, her sister was. So it would be Visenya who sat the throne and ruled. But when she conjured that image, she could not find herself anywhere in it.

Her cousin finished the contents of his cup and rose to his feet, leaving for his room with a peck on her cheek. She watched him cross the room and pass through the door frame. One of the kingsguards had left with her sister, so only two remained at the door, Ser Criston one of them. Her cousin and her sworn shield greeted each other in a formal bland way. It was quite strange, to see them side by side. Both with dark hair and splendid in the yard, they could almost pass as father and son, but neither ever warmed to the other. Besides, Rhaenyra knew Aemon’s features came from her dashing Uncle Daemon. None were as handsome as him.

With no one else to talk with, she quickly finished breaking her fast. Only Ser Criston remained of the three knights, so without another greeting, he followed his charge to her sister’s chambers.

Visenya had taken residence on the third largest quarters counting that of the queen, which remained unused since their mother’s passing. At first she had tried to convince her to keep with their mother’s chambers, the queen’s rooms for a future queen, but Visenya, stubborn as she was, chose to stay with those of the Prince of Dragonstone. “I am Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the throne. The queen’s quarters are for the consort. I shall take residence at the king’s when my time comes.”

Their father had occupied those chambers before, their grandfather before him and Prince Aemon even before that. Due to the number of years he remained heir to his father, her cousin’s namesake had made his quarters known to all as that of the heir, and her sister was insistent in showing to all her newfound position.

They were spacious, indeed. A closed foyer with settees and a little table for tea cups, that opened to a large central room with a long table and big hearths to either side and large windows with leaded glass. More settees and padded armchairs were spread around the hearth to the right. Close to it was the doorway to a private study that Prince Aemon (the first) had used when meeting his Dragonstone vassals when visiting the city. Opposite to it was the entrance to the sleeping quarters. A bedchamber occupied with smaller round tables near a stone balcony, closet for clothes and a private bathing chamber, complete with its own privy shaft, isolated for accommodation of the occupants against the foul business. Soft and warm maroon carpets covered the whole of the bedchamber’s floor, and myrish rugs of blood red and gold thread were all over the rest of the apartments, mirrored by thick rushes set behind see-through lilac silk that would provide a break in the sun’s light without completely covering the chambers in darkness.

On the corridor outside were others doors nearby, for the heir’s children. She supposed her cousin Rhaenys had resided in one of them, when her father and uncle and the princess were all children, at the time of Jaehaerys’ reign.

Rhaenyra left her knight at the entrance beside Ser Lorent Marbrand and laid herself at one of the settees in the central room. Some books were left placed in the couch and Rhaenyra picked up one out of curiosity. A book on coinage and the function of money written by one Septon Jon; another had faded letters on its weathered leather cover spelling On the Ruling of Man. Strangely it was filled with old men talking at dinner while bed sheets were their only clothing. Was Visenya allowed to read this by their septa? Rhaenyra thought it was not, and could barely understand why her sister would find anything enjoyable in such a ponderous and queer read.

Both she and her sister shared the love of the written word bound in books. One of her first memories was of Visenya reading to her, both arm in arm while her sister held the too-large book in her tiny hands for both babes to look at it. Rhaenyra’s favorites were on the incredible tales of the Age of Heroes and of the mysteries of Old Valyria, stories of distant places, fantastic sceneries, incredible feats of building and the lost sorceries of the Freehold. At first her sister accompanied her in such reading, but then Visenya’s attention was pulled to other matters, books of laws, lineages and coin. All boring to Rhaenyra.

We already hear much of this inane stuff with doddering Maester Benedar. Why anyone would try to read more on such boring topics?

She did not know, and when she asked Aemon about it, he just chuckled and shook his head.

The door to the bedchamber clicked, and a procession of women flowed out behind her sister. Visenya wore a red tunic with a small black half-cape pinned to her shoulder with a golden dragon encrusted with chips of amber, sapphires and amethysts. A single half braid fixed her hair form whipping at her face, tied with a red silk ribbon at the end of the tail. A pair of doeskin gloves died black were tucked under her studded belt.

The maids were dismissed and left the room while Visenya looked left and right. “Aemon isn’t ready yet?” Her sister frowned when she answered no. “Let us go wait for the last maiden at his door then,” and so they did, with Visenya taking point in their march. They had no need to knock on his door for their cousin to soon appear outside, dressed in dark leathers of grey and black, and remarkedly unadorned, unlike theirs.

Ser Lorent, Ser Steffon and her Ser Criston all waited near the carriage readied for the three of them, mounting up their horses once all were inside for the short ride to the Dragonpit. Aemon kept fidgeting with the pendant he wore about his neck. Rhaenyra remembered quite well the day the castle had talked of the daring ride her cousin had made to the grey dragon she and Aemon had seen together. At eight namedays old, he had been the youngest rider in their house’s history, claiming a grown dragon and making the distant ride to Dragonstone for an inexperienced rider. Such was the feat she would have heard of her uncle doing, fearlessly mounting horse and dragon both without saddle and going headfirst into an adventure. Well, Aemon was her uncle’s son, after all. If it was to be expected from someone to be this brave and daring, it would be his son if not her uncle himself.

The dragonkeepers were swift in bringing their mounts to the arena for their ride. Ebrion and Syrax had been ready for their first flight with their riders shortly after their cousin’s flight, at the turn of the year. Aemon had chuckled in good nature as Rhaenyra claimed his title of youngest dragonrider, wearing a fond smile and his eyes distant. She had delighted in her feat, though she fumed after Aemon mussed her hair, as if she was just a little babe. Rhaenyra was seven. In a few moons she would be eight, almost a woman grown!

Ebrion and Syrax had been relegated to small flights around the pit itself for the nonce, every time increasing the length of the laps by a few inches, going up and down in the sky with dives and mighty heaves of their wings. Aemon made fancy maneuvers in his fully grown dragon. Wraith, as he had named, was almost the size of his father’s dragon Caraxes. A mighty beast of shadowy grey scales like the feathers of an eagle and eyes of flaming purple.

Today they decided to fly further away, to the edge of the city and back across. Her sister continued flying north when both Rhaenyra and Aemon turned to return to the pit. Despite better judgement telling them to rest, both followed her sister flying along the coast.

The three dragons descended upon a small islet just a few miles off the coast. It had a wooded peak to its hillock. A pond lied at the foot of the hillock facing south-east, filled with a crystalline water that shone in hues of blue and green like gems in the sunlight. Soft light sand covered the bed of the pond, as well as the ground between the eastern edge of the islet between the pond and the shore.

Rhaenyra marveled at the beauty of the little haven her sister had found. She told how she had found it with a little smile and a dusting of a blush on her cheeks that made Visenya look the loveliest thing she had ever seen. “I spotted in an old map of the Crownlands in the library. But to tell the truth, I already knew the existence of this isle. The path wasn’t clear to me, but an old journal of our granduncle Aemon spoke of it, along with mentions of this map.”

“How did you find Aemon’s journal? I thought Princess Rhaenys would have such a thing, as he was her father,” asked the younger Aemon.

They had laid atop their cousin’s cloak (laid across so at least they had part of them covered from the sand) when Visenya spoke. “It was kept safe in the library. I asked Maester Endrew about any writings of the previous heirs that I could use to study. He’s quite an amiable young man for a maester, so I hardly had to explain myself to him. As for Rhaenys’ interest in it, I don’t know if she ever knew the whereabouts of her father’s journal. Once I’m done with it I’ll offer it to her.”

“Could be a nice gift to heal the rift between the children of Aemon and Baelon.”

“If she sees it that way. I don’t think she will be pleased to know it was a demand away from her in the Red Keep’s library.” Both cousins shared a strange look between each other. Rhaenyra just looked lost.

Visenya turned to speak again, after taking in the seawind in a few heartbeats. “Did you know Aegon the Dragon brought his wife and sister Visenya here? It was some years in their marriage, the year he married Rhaenys.”

Rhaenyra frowned. “But I thought he married Visenya for duty and Rhaenys for love? Wouldn’t he bring the latter for such a lovely place?”

The eldest Targaryen nodded at her. “And I would agree, but it seems the elder pair held something more than just the love between siblings. Maybe it evolved in the years into their marriage, so he brought her here to warm her heart and show she was valued to him as well.” The younger Visenya smiled sweetly to the air, like she was picturing the event inside her head in great detail. She too looked longingly toward the pool. “The pool is fed by the seawater that floods the island at high tide. A few hours after noon the sand is hard and cold, but in the late morning and at sunset it is soft like this, warmed by the day’s sunlight. Rain adds up to the pool as well, so it isn’t as brackish as the sea.”

Rhaenyra wanted to swim at the brilliant pool with the fish, but both her sister and cousin convinced they would do it some other day, as none of them brought provisions or extra clothes for when they leave the water soaked. They remained lying on Aemon’s dark cloak, watching their dragons playing in the water. The two drakelings made almost a competition of who made the best dive, often emerging from the blue waters with a fish in their jaws. Wraith went further afar, caching whole schools in one dive and flying back to the island where he cooked his prize while soaking in the sun. Syrax and Ebrion soon edged closer to the elder dragon, snatching stray portions of the mound of burnt fish. Wraith grumbled at them, but didn’t snap.

The sea breeze blew around them in a refreshing caress bringing the smell of salt mingling with the green of the hillock. Not one of them spoke any more words, choosing to relax into the gentle silence only stirred by the lapping of the waves and the yaps of the dragons’ folly. Rhaenyra didn’t disturb the quiet haven that had descended upon them. After all, she was in the company of the people she most loved in the world.

We must visit here more times, she decided. Rhaenyra would be sure to not forget the little island, barely just the tip of a finger from a stone giant, slumbering under the sea.

“We should invite our cousins to stay with us for a time,” Aemon said in a voice soft as silk. He had his eyes closed, completely immobile. Rhaenyra would have thought him made of stone if not for the rise and fall of his chest.

“Laena and Laenor?” her sister asked.

“Who else would it be?”

Visenya shrugged. “Lord Hunter would never allow anything but a short visit to court.”

“Jeyne Arryn isn’t my cousin, and the Starks aren’t yours.”

Visenya took a moment to speak again. “Princess Rhaenys must not have the best opinion of either of us and our fathers. I wear the title that once had been promised to her by her father.”

“Aye, and that scorn lies on their shoulders. If you are to inherit the Iron Throne one day, it would be best to have the Velaryons on friendly terms if nothing else. They do have dragons, the only other house besides our own who can boast of such.”

It was Rhaenyra who spoke after neither continued. “I would be nice to meet them, and Lady Jeyne too.”

No decision was made as her sister simply stood up and called for their return, saying the dragons had already their time to rest and would surely be able to fly them back to the city.

It was past noon when all three returned to the Red Keep. Ser Criston had fussed about where she had been all that time, but Rhaenyra reassured him they were in no danger. “Syrax, Ebrion and Wraith were near all the time. Who would be mad to attack us?” He wasn’t happy to hear they had stayed alone for that long, but accepted her explanation.

Even if at times his overbearing queries and attitude were annoying, Rhaenyra loved to know Ser Criston cared for her well-being.

Aemon was the first to splint away from Rhaenyra and Visenya as Ser Robert Redfort found him entering Maegor’s Holdfast. “There you are, Prince Aemon! The Lord Hand has bugged me for hours since you never presented yourself for your punishment.” Her cousin pressed a forced smile on his face and promptly followed the elderly knight to his chambers, waving quiet farewells to them.

Rhaenyra thought that the punishment her father had devised for Aemon was rather unfair. To stand for hours near Lord Otto, with his boring scrolls and immense leather-bound books that could send someone into a fit of coughing if a wind blew on its dusty pages. At least it isn’t for long, Rhaenyra thought. Only five more moons and Aemon would complete his sentence of standing quiet for long monotonous hours while the Hand of the King wrote this or spoke with that one. The kingsguard trailing him, however, wouldn’t see him free so soon.

“I fail to see why papa laid such a harsh punishment on someone who delivered on his orders without starting a war,” her sister had commented on a quiet night while they spent their time together reading a book on the history of House Arryn and the Vale before bed. “He should have rewarded a hero such as him, not deliver him to torture!”

“Aemon is a hero?” Rhaenyra asked with awe.

“Well. . . yes. He delivered our late brother Baelon’s egg back, while avoiding Caraxes from burning Ser Otto to cinders. Can’t you imagine how brave was our cousin, to ride a horse in the middle of the night, claim his dragon and promptly flying to Dragonstone in his first flight? Not even Queen Rhaena did such a feat at that age, and she was the greatest dragonrider of our dynasty!”

Her sister had spoken with such conviction and adoration as if she was describing the Conqueror himself, and Rhaenyra agreed with every word! Their cousin was an impressive dragonrider, and Rhaenyra wanted to accompany him in the skies. That was why she overdid his own feat with her own, being the youngest dragonrider in recorded history!

Visenya was the next to part ways with her, speaking of getting back to her readings on her chamber. “There is no need for you to accompany me, dear sister. Those are boring books, on coinage and lawstuff. Not even close to the things we like to read together. You would be half again as bored if taking the time to read them.”

“Then why do you waste time on them? I have plenty of books I want to read, like those about the First Dornish War!” she asked, confused by her sister’s desire to torture herself.

Visenya shook her head softly and clicked her tongue, passing a soothing hand on one of her braids. “’Tis not by desire I read them, but for duty. As Princess of Dragonstone and future queen, I must know such matters if I am to honor our forbearers, to be the best queen I can and serve the realm.” She booped Rhaenyra’s nose with a finger. “If you read the same dry stuff I am putting myself into, then I could one day name you my lady Hand. Wouldn’t that be a fine fate for us? The first regnant queen and the first woman as the Hand?”

Rhaenyra scrunched her nose. “If being Hand means I must be as boring as Lord Otto, then I will gladly pass over the chance, sister.”

Her sister only laughed at her and quickly departed inside her spacious chambers, leaving Rhaenyra alone in the corridor with her white knight. Ser Lorent already posted beside the door and standing silently, bowing as she moved away.

There wasn’t much to do while alone in her chambers but changing out of her riding leathers and choose a book between the many Rhaenyra had at hand. All in the hopes of not thinking back on her mother. Most of the times her sister managed to dispel these dark clouds from her mind, and Rhaenyra envied and loved Visenya for her steadfastness. Of how resolute and poised she stood after all that happened. From time to time they would even sleep on the same bed, and Rhaenyra would wake in the morning with a rested mind and herself surrounded by her sister’s arms, hugging close to her warm chest.

Yet, she was not available all the time. “The heir’s duties” she would say, and spend hours of her day either buried in books behind the closed doors of her chambers or tailing one of their father’s councilors about their duties. Rhaenyra didn’t begrudge her sister for her dutiful disposition, securing her right and trying to be the best heir possible, but this quest of hers left Rhaenyra alone, more often than not.

The princess made her way silently toward her chambers. Ser Criston, gallant and caring as he was, asked if aught was amiss. Rhaenyra answered him with a smile and assuring words, though none came from the heart.

On her path she met Lady Alicent, of all people. Usually it was the Lord Hightower that frequented her father’s chambers. Sometimes as the sun breaks the horizon, many other times after it had come down. Rhaenyra had never seen his daughter doing the same.

She was comely lady, older than her by some ten years, so very different from Rhaenyra. A woman grown. Her pale gold hair tumbled down her shoulders, her dress a beautiful silver thing of low cut. Lady Alicent rarely used those kinds of dresses, but Rhaenyra admitted she looked pretty in them.

Their greeting was naught but few words. Both she and the lady wanted to be elsewhere, so Rhaenyra did not begrudge such hastiness. She continued on her walk to her chambers.

It was in these moments of lonesome contemplation that thoughts of her mother came back to haunt her. Rhaenyra needed something to occupy her mind, something to distract her and stop her from spiraling into a space she hated to be. Rhaenyra wanted to be useful, loved by her family and desired. She wanted people to wish she was there for them just as she desperately needed for her own.

The sun still ruled the sky, yet Rhaenyra withdrew from her clothes and nestled on her bed with only a sleep chemise and the Mysteries of Leng at hand. Amidst the coverlets and with the curtains of her canopy bed drawn half-way, she tried to immerse herself into the reading, but every time she read a paragraph her mind would wander, and she ended up reading thrice the same passages as she normally would. Thoughts of how softly her mother would caress her hair, of the sweet smell she always managed to have on her would intrude on her peace. She would always remember the brightness of her violet eyes, the soothing tones of her voice and the softness of her brown hair, running in silky waves like a waterfall. Her mother used to say she was in love with hers and her sister’s hair, but Rhaenyra always loved her mother’s hair. For her, it was never strange to see a Targaryen without their signature silver-gold hair, and for her mother it fitted somehow, she thought.

That made her think of her cousin Aemon. He was all his own mother, the one he never got to meet. Dark hair and eyes grey like wintry storm. But he had found a surrogate in Aemma Arryn, ironically. The kings of Mountain and Vale and the Winter Kings of the North had for hundreds of years, waging wars of conquest and retribution on each other by sea or land. Shortly into Aenys I’s reign, Jonos Arryn rose in rebellion, killing his brother the last falcon king and his lady wife, Sansa Stark, the daughter of Lord Torrhen. Maegor the Cruel, a prince at the time brought justice to the rebels. The kinslayer Jonos was flung out the Moon Door like he did with his brother, and the rest of his men hanged from the towers of the Eyrie; but the soured relationship between the Vale and the North remained historically the same.

That did not stop Aemma Arryn from taking the motherless Aemon under her wing, raising him like the son she would never bring to life. Her sister had even told her that the three of them were milk siblings, having shared from the same woman. That was the closest connection one could have with their own mother, she thought. It was sad she could never remember having experienced it.

An errant tear escaped its prison, running down her cheek. Rhaenyra angrily wiped it away, biting the inside of her mouth. Don’t cry. You met your mother. Have you seen Aemon cry once when he had none of his own? Have you seen Visenya cry after she burned the bodies of your brother and mother in the pyre? Her will to read evaporated like dew in the morning. The leather cover met the ground with a muffled thud, bending pages in its fall, and Rhaenyra yanked the covers over her head.

She should not cry, she was a dragon. And dragons don’t cry. They burn and rage, yet no fire ever came to her, only the torrent of sadness washed over her like a cold and dark blanket, bringing her close to its bosom. The ghost of Aemma Arryn hovered over her, whispering in the breeze lullabies of hatchlings, dragons and falcons.

Chapter Text

The sun sat brightly in the sky, fat and orange above the distant hills outside the city. Just a palm’s breath away from slumber. The pale shade of white already marked its presence in the setting afternoon. Curved and sharp as a sickle, wielded by the fervent peasant who had opened Harwin’s throat.

Night gathers, and now my watch begins.

One slender finger delicately passed the page to the next. Visenya adjusted the weight of the heavy tome she had in hand, but now her eyes were focused only on the yard below, atop the winding way of the serpentine steps and at the foot of the Hand’s Tower. She waited for him to emerge from it. The day was ruled by dragons, but at night the wolves skulked, daring to tread where many balked.

That had been Aemon’s duty, once. He stood atop a wall of ice, clad in black with black, only the cold wind as his constant companion. Visenya had lived similarly near the end, though she never had the time to guard the realm of men at the edge of the world, for they had crossed much of the country by them.

One last attack, at the heart of winter, deep into the lands of the Enemy. A sword of smoke in hand and a babe at her belly was the last things she had. At the time her belly had started showing, and her beautiful babe was but a tiny fragile thing, hardly the size of an apple. Cold had claimed her friends, and icy spears pierced Ebrion near the end.

Visenya remembered a white shadow pursuing them. Eyes flashing in the red light of their dying fire. The ghost of a companion, long dead, yet still with her.

But it was the warm light of the sun that bathed her now, the last dregs of spring had died moons ago, hardly a year after its coming. Summer was here, not unlike the distant memory she had, but somewhat like that.

No Stark blood flowed through her now, but Visenya was raised as one before, and she knew that winter always was coming. Is this winter as inevitable as the passing of my mother, as Lyanna’s love and withering?

Visenya prayed it was avoidable, for why would she still live and breathe here, when her time had already passed?

Shadows gathered in the yard, between the buildings, under the curtain wall. Courtiers made their way inside for those able to have quarters inside the Red Keep. Many others left in a steady current of people, hardly half again a hundred, passing under the raised portcullis and into the darkening city beyond. By the heartbeats, windows and doors spark up in light, the city beating alive even when sunlight wanes. That was where her uncle usually spent his time, away from his brother and son.

It was rather ironic, she thought. It waited for some years, but now she and Aemon were perfect mirrors of each other. Both were motherless now, and their father not a constant presence in their lives.

No, that was not true. King Viserys was not as attentive or thoughtful as Eddard Stark was, but nothing held him back when he showed love to both her and Rhaenyra. Aemon didn’t have that luck, though. Before it was the evasive Prince of the City, commanding the Gold Cloaks and giving them their name while avoiding Maegor’s Holdfast like a tomb. And now it was a banished father, flying somewhere in the kingdoms. Mayhaps planning his campaign on the Stepstones even now.

That reminded her of their plans. Both she and Aemon thought that having the Velaryons on their side was important. They were a rich family, with the greatest fleet in the kingdoms, maybe rivaling those of merchant princes from Qarth and Lys. A direct claim to the throne through Princess Rhaenys, relevant still due to the support she gained at the Great Council from Stark, Baratheon and many others. Better yet, they had dragons, assets that they could not allow to be given to their enemies.

“We would be fools to remove Alicent and Otto so brazenly. I said as much to my father back in Dragonstone,” her cousin had told her on one secluded corner of the library, a single candle as witness between them. “Cut off this snake’s head, and two more will sprout, seeking our blood.”

“Yet you know what happened when Alicent spawned one boy after the other to the king. They gathered much power and support while Viserys wasted away with his feasts,” she argued.

Aemon nodded. “Aye, I know. But an enemy we know is better than the one we don’t. Take for example the Sea Snake. For years he sought to place his blood on the throne, yet chance after chance he was denied. What makes yesterday’s man different from today’s?”

Visenya grimaced, her face buried into her hands. “Then we would have dragons back against us, Vhagar amongst them.”

At the hour of the wolf Aemon met her at the tunnel’s entrance behind a tapestry of Queen Rhaena when she was a princess beside her brother, the uncrowned Aegon, at her personal study. With lantern in hand and dusty clothes, he led her to the library, a place that received little to no visitors nowadays. Maester Luceon slept on his cell, just like the rest of the castle, so they were safe from discovery.

That little night meeting was prompted by a morsel of gossip Rhaenyra had supplied her earlier that day, and expedited by her cousin commenting on the number of times Lady Alicent visited her father’s solar, always within closed doors, with Aemon just outside, waiting for her to leave.

“Should we just. . . allow them scheme without opposition?”

Aemon looked older than his nine namedays in the flickering light of the candle. Shadows gathered under his eyes, lining his face with a dark beard. An echo of the Lord Commander seated before her. “It was unlikely they had no opposition before. Just as we reached this conclusion, the Velaryons might wish to have Lady Laena married to the king. Yet it was Alicent whom Viserys cloaked, either by design or simple chance.” His jaw clenched. “And I’ve grown weary of chance.”

No clear path came to them, but the idea to try and pry more of Hightower’s secrets. And it was why she waited here, sitting at the large windowsill, watching the yard for her cousin to appear.

A flock of birds swam in the darkling sky lit with hues of orange; the clouds lined with tones of soft pink behind the patch of dark. They were synchronized in their movements, a mesmerizing dance that little to no person knew the reason they did that. It was a magical thing they did, and she understood why many believed the Targaryens to be closer to gods than men. Only the ones born with wings could delight themselves with the freedom of flying, yet the Targaryens defied such notions, joining with the birds in their delight.

Yet this image would now taint her mind, as a herald of doom, a black banner rippling in the wind for the marches of armies, the spilling of blood, and the dragons dancing. Mayhaps in a fashion similar to that of these birds.

Movement caught her attention at the edge of vision. From the entrance to the Tower of the Hand came the man himself, Otto Hightower. The man, in his usual pompous attitude, strode away from his tower of residence toward Maegor’s Holdfast. It was green velvet he wore today, going down to the middle of his thighs, with filigree details embossed on the fabric.

For years they had watched Otto Hightower like hawks on a hunt. Every conversation they heard, every public statement and action. All was seen and heard by Aemon and her, discussed for hours on what would be their next move. Only, the conclusion they always arrived was frustrating. “We are too young. We can’t do a thing for the nonce,” her cousin would say every time for years. She raged and despaired. These years were important, the moment the Hightowers consolidated their power as a surrogate for Viserys’ authority. Half the realm had chosen to betray their vows to the king, following Hightower and his co-conspirators.

Now they had a way of watching him more closely, even if the dangers just increased.

Even still, their lack of action grated on her peace of mind. The shadow of the Dance hung over them like a coming storm. A doom only she and her cousin could see. Action was demanded of them, no less from their silent and estranged cousin from centuries to come.

It was not for kindness or pity they lived again. Duty followed even after death.

It was not much later when Aemon passed under the arch of the Hand’s Tower, a white shadow trailing his steps. Their eyes met for but a heartbeat before he strode ahead with purpose. Visenya closed her book with a muffled thud, leaving her perch on the windowsill toward the carved screen on her bedchamber. A grey tunic with faded black britches had already been separated by her earlier in the day for this special occasion. Visenya owned none of those articles, and if she did it would have sent one of her handmaids directly to the maester with a fainting spell.

Procuring unadorned clothing and something that wasn’t a dress or her riding leathers had been a difficult task to plan before. Visenya remembered the quiet days of an endless summer in Winterfell. If Arya and Sansa’s clothes were strictly reserved for a lady’s attire, with skirts, flowing silks and delicately woven wool, hers were a coarser version; and one truth for the three of them was clear: no britches and short tunics.

Once Visenya managed to smuggle a pair of woolen trousers to her chambers. One dress with a cut off skirt later, she was waltzing in the yard, running after Robb after he made fun of her strange clothes. It didn’t last long, though. Quickly Lady Catelyn was informed, and both muddied children were sent to early baths and their lessons. An earful from Septa Mornade was her punishment, but Visenya didn’t care much at the time. Soon after she was sent back to Maester Luwin, when the governess despaired with the bastard’s influence over the wild babe that was Arya. Not that it helped much. A few years of growing up made Arya join her in her adventures hiding carrots from the gardeners and setting snow traps for the guards with their older brother.

The memory brought a distant smile to the surface, breaking over the mask of court like the shy sun behind clouds. Summer was closing on them again, but to both she and Aemon, the words of their fathers still held true in their hearts.

A knock came from the door moments later. Visenya was already on the simple garb Aemon had borrowed her when she acknowledged it. “Prince Aemon is without, princess. And he asks for words and companionship,” the raspy voice of Ser Robert came from behind the door. “Let him in, Ser Robert, if you would. I was waiting my cousin for our discussion on our lessons today.” The door fully opened now, allowing for the form of her Stark-like cousin to enter. The Redfort knight without swiftly closed it back once it was cleared, resuming his post by its side.

Aemon looked tired, though he did not heave with exertion like one would expect of a boy fresh out of the training yard. Dark bags were present under his eyes, a tale of sleepless nights that Visenya once knew all too well. No greeting came from him, only a huff as he dropped himself on the settee across from her, an arm over his eyes.

“How was your day, Aemon?”

The boy blew air through his mouth, almost in a horsey way. “Too many hours just standing in one place while Hightower writes this and reads that. I didn’t know how boring to be the Hand could be.”

Visenya chuckled while she reclined on her seat. “Our honorable Lord Hand does most of the boring part of ruling for my father.”

“I hope the same fate does not befall me, cousin.”

A silver eyebrow rose with curiosity, stupid, if he wasn’t even looking at her. “Oh, is wearing the chain of office your aspiration, Aemon Targaryen? You, who moans time and again about how grating it was to command the black brothers?”

He shrugged. “Not much is different. The food here is better, I suppose.”

Visenya could only scoff. “The risk of waking up and find your stones had frozen off doesn’t even come to mind?” Aemon chuckled, but did not move out of the settee, settling into a steady position, his chest rising and falling in rhythm. Visenya wouldn’t allow that. A slap to his leg woke Aemon up. “Come, time to sleep later.” He rubbed his eyes lazily, but finally jumped out of his seat.

A twist on the dragonclaw sconce next to Queen Rhaena’s tapestry was enough to reveal the black void that was the sunless paths created by her husband and captor. Aemon held a lantern they had kept just the other of the secret door, lighting it in three quick strokes of the flint the servants left on her heart’s mantle. Visenya took a bolt of crimson silk- taken with the excuse of training her sewing- and slid it between the door and the wall where it met to create the illusion of continuous stone. A foot and a half of bright crimson silk remained seen from inside the tunnel. They would not lose their way here.

Less than ten feet away from their sealed entrance was an intersection, a cross of three paths ahead of them: one to their left, one to the right, and one straight ahead. Visenya reached inside her tunic and produced a wrap of parchment, folded into itself five times. Drawn in rough lines of charcoal was the immediate vicinity of their tunnel, along with different paths they had mapped. One of them, was to the dragon mosaic chamber.

That path they knew it by memory now, crossed so many times they hardly needed use of their improvised map, but it could be of held should they make the wrong turn, and miss the sash. The tunnels were similar in appearance, and worse still if one lost their directions. One tunnel was almost identical to the other, any move could spell their doom to the dusky dark caves of Maegor Targaryen.

It was rather strange, she thought. These passageways were the least well-kept secret of the Red Keep, even when Maegor himself had not wanted any rats inside his own walls- according to the Spider, that is. By some mysterious reason or simply mistrust of the last child of Rhaegar Targaryen (at the time Visenya already knew of Aegon’s real roots in Essos), Lord Varys had told them to their dismay of the lack of secret passages inside the Holdfast itself.

Yet, it was Aemon who brought her to notice of the real existence of them. “Daemon visited me before he fled to Dragonstone, after Aunt Aemma’s passing. No one knew of it because he used one of these passages to spirit himself into my chambers. I saw him leaving; took me some time to find a way to open the door, though.” Visenya understood why such secret would be more important than the rest of the passages, yet she could not let herself but think that the lying eunuch just chose to withhold this fact. The feeling was mutual, Lord Varys. I never liked you either. It was mayhaps due to his own machinations that Eddard Stark ended up beheaded in the steps of Baelor’s Sept, so there were little to no reasons for her to hold the Spider in high esteem.

“Where should we go now?” Aemon asked behind her, lantern aloft, already lit.

“Let us go to the dragon mosaic chamber. From there I want to find another entrance, should we have need of it.” The boy nodded, and walked ahead, lighting the way.

There were places they had to crawl, so low the ceiling came. They climbed down iron rungs set in the stone wall, slowly as Aemon still carried the lantern in hand. A few minutes later, the familiar sight of the black and red mosaic came into view.

The two of them spent no time gawking at it though, crossing the chamber for one of the gated passages. Rusted hinges screamed when moved after so long a time undisturbed, rust filled the air in a snowfall of red flakes.

They continued on their path, Visenya marking any new passage they encountered. The tunnel climbed up on a steep incline then suddenly dropped dangerously. One false step would send both of them tumbling down like barrels on a hill. Despite the history in the family, Visenya didn’t want to be the second princess to die of a broken neck.

An hour or two later- under the earth, hours flew without notice, the two princelings found what they were looking for. Stone stairs climbed up to a seemingly flat ceiling, but Visenya had been here before. She passed a blind hand over the rough stone of the wall to her right, feeling the indentations and texture with the tip of her fingers. They bumped over a slightly deeper corner. Following the outline she found the brick she looked for, pushing it inside the wall. A small rumble of grinding stone sounded behind it, pulleys and cords laboring to lift the heavy stone bed of the chamber without.

“Rather lucky you knew of it,” Aemon said, following her out of the tunnel. “If not for you, I would’ve spent hours just looking for the keyhole.”

The chamber was a pit of darkness like the tunnel behind them. Dust gathered in every surface. Tables and wooden chairs gathered on one corner, crates and chests housed something of no importance, no doubt, and a broken cupboard still held wooden plates and trenches and tankards. The brazier was dark, its hollow mouth held no oil. “This was the chamber that housed Varys the Spider, King Aerys’ spymaster and bane. Aegon and I escaped the Red Keep through here when Daenerys attacked.” She did not press much on her history. Any mention of Blackfyre and Stormborn was bound to rise disagreement between them. “It wasn’t as different as it is now.”

“The eunuch lived on a storage room?”

“Plain chambers were what he preferred, he claimed.” She motioned to the reclined stone bed. “Said he suffered from back pains too.”

Her cousin looked around, mildly disturbed. “I understand not caring for gold and lavish decorations, but who chooses to sleep on a stone bed out of their own accord?”

Visenya shrugged. “The Spider liked to feign humility and dutifulness. His acts went more than just the appearance he showed. Even the rumors of his person were carefully crafted, selected by many to be the perceived image of him.” She looked back at him. “Or he really did have back pains, no one knows.”

The door to the storage room was locked, but Visenya informed Aemon that it led to the outer yard, close to other apartments for lesser guests and the postern gate. Quickly they made their way back to the dragon mosaic chamber, lighting the iron brazier wrought in the shape of a dragon’s maw, yawning upward, flames leaping like dragonfire.

“What kept you stuck with Hightower today?” she asked on their way back.

Her cousin made a face, like the boy he looked like, yearned to play outside. “Letter after letter the man wrote, almost like he wished to bind them into a small book. Not small because of the number of pages, mind you, but because it could fit in one’s hand. The thickness could rival Ten Thousand Ships, I think.”

Visenya raised an eyebrow to his meandering. He sighed. “He shared a midday meal with me, drinking his wine.” His face twisted in disgust. “Even watered that swill could gather a swarm of bees if left unstopped in the wild. Never drank wine so sweet. It’s a miracle his teeth aren’t rotten.”

“Southern lords prefer sweeter things than us, northern to our hearts. Though I don’t doubt we would have to adapt our tastes to this new life of princelings. But enough details of Otto’s teeth, tell me of the letters. Did you read any?”

Aemon shook his head. “He’s careful. A loyal page I might be to him, but I’m still Daemon Targaryen’s son. He made mention of writing to Lord Boremund, though. Something about a new granddaughter. Hightower aimed to write him congratulations from the crown.”

Visenya had no doubt. “Lying snake that he is, the man does have a mind of taking every chance he has to make allies.” She remained silent for a moment, thinking. “Though it was Borros who turned cloak. His father is Princess Rhaenys’ own uncle.”

Aemon had no more time to stand and think in one place, though. “Come, I must be out and visit the Grand Maester. Otto gave me some missives to deliver.”

But Visenya stood her ground, yanking on his hand. “Wait, you had Hightower’s letter with you this whole time? Why didn’t you say it earlier?!”

“They are sealed, Visenya. We can’t just reseal them and hope for Runciter to not notice.”

A smirk came to her face, then. “Well, there is a way.”

She pulled him back into the chamber near the brazier and sat there on the ground. Aemon followed her motions and sat to her side, pulling the scrolls from inside his tunic with a wary face. “I did this with Arya once. Sansa was madly in love with a Royce knight. He was promised to the Watch though, so never came back to Winterfell, to her dismay.” Her hands moved while she spoke. Visenya motioned for Aemon’s knife while she opened the lantern. “Someone had planted the idea on her head of putting her feeling and wishes into parchment, even sealing them like real letters.” With one hand she held the letter above the flame, safely away not to burn it, with the wax nearest to the heat. “When Arya found out, the first thing she did was tell me, so we devised a plan to read those letters when she was away.”

Seconds later the seal did not look as solid as it once was. Visenya quickly moved the letter away from the fire, using the blade of the knife to gently scrape underneath the wax, separating it from the parchment. In no time, she had an unsealed letter in hand. “This is how we got to know her deepest secrets. She had even names for her imaginary babes.” The grin on her face never left it while she worked.

Her cousin chuckled. “People say it’s in battle that we really see the true nature of man, but you girls seem too devious by half.”

“It was all some sort of retribution Arya devised for her sister making a fool out of her in front of Jeyne and Beth.” Visenya noticed then, that it had been years since she had thought of the two girls. Visenya had never been close to the Poole and Cassel girls, but wasn’t cool with them. They were nice, in a way, though too young to prefer the company of older girls. War had spelled the end of summer, and spared no one. Both had terrible fates, just like the rest of Winterfell and its people.

Visenya shook her head, casting away the sad fates of the damned, those left in the world of cold and sunless sky.

Visenya opened the other three scrolls and started reading, tossing it aside when it ended up being a report of books Otto Hightower wanted borrowed and brought to him from the Citadel. The next one was the very first she had opened, the congratulations on the birth of Rowena Mertyns’ daughter, Annara. Also not of importance.

“Look at this,” her cousin whispered. Visenya quickly scooted closer, her chin resting on Aemon’s shoulder. Her eyes moved over the parchment, straining to read in the low light under the brazier. The content made her freeze.

One line stuck in her mind. Our forefathers would be proud, brother. Soon we shall have a Hightower king.

Her mind whirled in thought. It’s happening, it kept repeating. They were close, the first step to start the march of the damned. The ranks were forming, swords sharpening in the dark, secret toasts being raised behind locked doors. Alicent’s mother was a Redwyne, and Lord Hightower’s wife is a Peake.

She was brought out of her despair with warm hand on her shoulders. “Visenya, listen. This we already knew it would happen, but we must remain calm to plan accordingly.”

She shook her head, gulping the heavy knot on her throat. “No, we must do something. This woman will spawn the monsters that bring the end of us all!” She looked down, at the dagger lying forgotten across the red stones. “A dagger to the heart, and no monsters for us,” she whispered.

Aemon shook her shoulder, hard. “Listen! This was not what we agreed. Let them, I told you. There are other ways to foil Hightower’s plans, but not without spelling our knowledge and doom!”

She was angered at his words. “What should we do, then? You keep saying we shouldn’t do this and that. ‘We are too young,’ you say, but the world won’t wait for us to grow! And don’t even think of saying to sit and do nothing! I’m tired of this.”

They had to do something, anything, or those deaths before would be for nothing. She was the heir to the throne, once before and now again. Her right was to rule, and pass it down to her children, but to be at the mercy of others was worst fate she could have. I will not let them kill my babe again, not my child. . .

Aemon’s face was a plane of ice, hard and cold. “I did not say we should do nothing. There are ways to influence the king.”

“What would it matter?! Every word he would hear will be drowned by the leeches in the Small Council, and that he did not even deign-“ she stopped.

The Small Council, yes. That was where the decisions were made, intentions brought to the fore, even if hidden in silk and perfume. The word of a daughter might not be worth much, but of the Princess of Dragonstone could. Having a seat at Viserys’ council could even dissuade Hightower’s allies from joining him, seeing as the king still showed support for his chosen heir.

The problem remained in the convincing, though. Yet it was an idea she would not let go so easily.

“Do you know where Otto was going after he left the Tower of the Hand?”

Aemon shrugged. “Have no idea. He left for the Small Hall, I though first. His household was there, along with Alicent, but the Hand wasn’t there.”

Visenya scowled and looked back at the letter. It made mention of talks between the Hand and her father, yet he spent most of his time with Aemon, today and the previous days.

“We must go, if we are to catch my father alone.” They quickly gathered the letters strewn on the floor, the lantern and dagger and made their way back to her chambers. The path led them through corridors and rooms of Maegor’s Holdfast, voices getting clearer and fainter as they moved. After scaling the iron rungs back to her chamber’s floor, she heard something. “There are other options, Your Grace.”

“Is that. . .” Aemon whispered behind her. Her finger moved to cover his lips; she was silent.

Behind the stone, another voice rose. This one sounded tired, exasperated. Slurring. “You have suffered the same fate, my friend. You should know the pain that plagues my heart.”

“I do, Your Grace, with all my heart I do understand your pain,” the first voice, Otto Hightower’s voice, spoke. Soft and empathetic. Caring, even. “But that is the burden of rule, sire. We shoulder this burden, so that others may not feel it, and be crushed instead.

“The realm mourns for Her Grace to this day, I have no doubt. But the lives of your subjects continue, and they seek a light of understanding through this dark time. Your daughter the princess is an able choice for heir, but should the gods visit her and her sister, we remain in the doubt of succession.”

She heard a chair scraping the floor, wood tumbling to the ground. “That I accept, Otto. That duty I have done without complaint or issue since the time of my grandfather!” The king’s voice lowered where once it was loud. She though she heard a sob. “Her blood stains my hands, no matter how many times I try to wash it away. She visits me in the night, soothing and soft, the most pleasant of dreams, but come morning there is no more Aemma, and I die again. I cannot let that happen to another, my own kin. How can I face my cousin, who I played with as children, and say that her daughter has passed because of me?”

The Hand’s voice was moved, but not by much. “Lady Laena is freshly flowered, a whole different situation from that of the Queen. Runciter has assured me of the safety.”

The king scoffed. His voice sounded scorned. “Runciter doesn’t know an ounce of this matter. Time and time again I asked him of my Aemma’s health, and not once did he warn me of the dangers. His predecessors were no better, Allar and Elysar. My wife was three and ten when the maesters and grandfather urged me to produce an heir. Lady Laena is scarce older than her!”

Something slammed against hard wood, and Visenya almost jumped away. No sound came from behind the wall, she only heard the soft breathing of Aemon Targaryen. Warm air caressing the shell of her ear, billowing around her hand. For a wild moment she did not know if it was her cousin or great uncle’s ghost that stood to her side.

“Maesters are knights of the mind, my liege. They see the puzzle of a man’s heart and ask if it is the water that ails him. Love does not exist inside the Citadel’s walls.

“But I agree with the heart of the matter. Your Grace must needs to marry again, and produce more heirs. For the good of the realm.”

Silence reigned again, until her father’s voice rose to a whisper. She could barely understand. “You thin. . . is the only choice? Lady Laena and. . . cent?”

“The realm lacks women of age suitable for your demands, Your Grace. This list was made with your wishes in mind, to ease the pain.” Then Otto’s voice changed a tone, becoming soft. “My daughter has told me of your conversations, enlightening she described them. Alicent is the owner of my heart, a curious creature that took to the grace of her late lady mother. She also remembered the time she cared for King Jaehaerys. She was delighted when you and your little ones appeared to visit your grandsire.”

A soft chuckle came from the other side. “She loved Rhaenyra even then. She once told me that for days after, His Grace became livelier, the color returned a bit more to his face when she and Daemon visited him.”

Those words haunted Visenya. Without waiting for more, she turned toward the dark corridor and left. She did not care if Aemon followed her or not, but she would have words with Viserys Targaryen, the fool king.

Visenya stormed into her rooms without care, shutting doors and lids with so much force the two kingsguards outside her door entered in panic. “Get out!” she simply said, scaring them away. Visenya quickly moved behind her screen and changed into a simple blue dress, lavish in a bastard’s body, but Visenya was no bastard. She was the heir to the throne, Princess of Dragonstone and dragonrider. She would not cower before men. Not the richest, most just or with the biggest armies. All would bow to her.

She left her rooms without a word. When the door to her father’s solar came on sight, she saw Hightower leaving them. His face was calm and collected, but his eyes seemed alight. Visenya did not bother to hide a scowl when he bowed to her. She did not deign to answer his greeting.

“I will have words with my father, Ser,” she shot at Ser Steffon.

He looked to her then to her shield behind her. His eyes were filled with indecision. “His Grace is tired, princess. I can inform him of your wish on the morrow, I’m sure he would not deny-“

Visenya did not let him finish. “I care not if he is tired or jumping in joy. I came to have words with him, and he shall listen! This matter concerns his person, ser, so it is in his best interest to hear what I have to say.”

The knight looked up again to her shield with wide eyes. A heartbeat later he knocked on the door, informing the king of his daughter’s arrival. Without much preamble she was allowed inside. “My darling daughter, it lightens my heart to hear you seeking my company, but I am too tired now and wish rest. If we coul-“

“How dare you spit on my mother’s grave?! Her ashes are barely cold and you seek another woman to warm her bed? Is that how you honor the woman who birthed your children, father?” Visenya spoke with thunder on her voice, not caring to measure the sting on her words.

Viserys looked tired at first, then his face morphed to something shocked, then anger flashed in his large face. “Dare I. . . where has this come from, little lady? Is that how you speak to your father?”

She jutted her chin upward. “I dare speak the way I see fit, Father. Your sudden decision, amidst the mourning period of my mother’s passing insults her and her children. Where is your duty to defend the honor of your beloved wife, I ask? Where is your honor to accept a maid on your bed?!”

Fear flashed on his expression. It quickly was masked by a deep red anger, blooming like a ripe tomato. “Where have you heard this. . . this. . . blatant slander?! Have you been writing to your uncle? Has Daemon spoken this? Only by his mouth would such words be uttered, not in the lips of a child-“ he stopped mid-sentence. He looked behind her and Visenya turned along, to see three kingsguard on the door; Aemon between them, his face still as if carved from ice. Viserys collected himself, passing a hand over his moustache and waving his right hand. He wasn’t yelling anymore, but his tone was still hard, commanding. “Away with you, all of you! I must have private words with my daughter.”

None spoke a word. One of the Cargyll twins pressed a comforting hand on her cousin’s shoulder, guiding him away from the door. Ser Steffon stepped inside to close the door.

Neither dared to speak again so soon. The king sighed heavily, walking toward the table and filling his goblet. Viserys seated himself on the chair, slouching with a tired look on his eyes. “Sit with me, daughter,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. In seconds all the fire he carried had smoldered away, leaving him ashen faced.

The princess warily walked toward the opposite chair, but stopped when her father motioned for her to move closer. She slowly sat on the chair to his right. “It is with a heavy heart that I have decided to marry again. It is not by lack of love for your mother, nor my dissatisfaction with you and your sister, but for duty to the realm.”

She made to speak, but he silenced her with a hand. “I do not appreciate the tone you directed towards me, nor the way you presented your misgivings, valid as they are.” He paused a bit and looked at her, deep into her eyes. Bright amethysts swam in a sea of unshed tears. “But this is a difficult choice I must make, one that I pray you should never have to, but certainly will when your time to rule comes.”

“But why her? She is Hightower’s own daughter. He reaches for much far beyond his station-“

“She is the only suitable choice, daughter,” he interrupted her, harsher but not unkindly. “Due to. . . other circumstances, she is the best choice for consort. Her family is a prestigious one, and her character suitable.”

Then the one question came to her tongue, and she did not hold it. “And what if she births you more children, sons? Will you choose them your heir and discard me like a used rag? Am I only a tool on your quest of vengeance against your brother?”

He looked confused. “No I. . . how can you say that? You. . . you are my treasure, Visenya. My firstborn! By pride and joy, the first thing I loved unconditionally!” He let go of the goblet and cradled her hands in his larger ones. “You and your sister are the dearest thing to me. I could swear away the realm if I could have you two by my side.”

She did not believe, but still a part of her heart felt rather than heard his love, unconditional, forgiving. “I. . . was a fool to seek something I already had, Visenya. Since your birth you have been exceptional. Unique! No other babe was a beautiful, clever and perfect as you, as if crafted by the gods themselves. My father saw that, and his own father saw that too.

“My choice was not one easily made. Not because I did not wish you to succeed me, but to have the courage of admitting to myself my own foolishness and sins.” Her father brought her hands to his lips, and he peppered them with kisses. His moustache tickled her a bit. “You were there, right in front of me, when I pursued lofty dreams of a son. If only the heart commanded, I would have you and Rhaenyra every time over marrying again. Trust me in this, my lovely daughter, owner of my heart. At least in this, fear not for your right. Who can ask a better heir than you?”

Her lips trembled. A tear escaped her eye, and Visenya angrily wiped it away, but others came after it, despite her command. “Do you promise?” she asked, like a scared little girl.

Without a moment in between, Viserys answered. “I do promise, Visenya. With all my flaws, all my uncertainties, you are not one of them. I can swear off the gods, but I will never forsake you.”

Her heart fluttered at the amount of love being shown to her. When was the last time she heard such words being told to her? Since she was a babe? Ned Stark still lived in her heart, the father she had grown up with, the honorable lord all looked after as an example, even after his tarnished reputation, by treachery of others and the loved he held for his sister. Yet never had he displayed such emotions to her. Was this something only trueborn children received? If Lyanna Stark had lived her birth, would she love her daughter without care for others?

But the cold voice of the scorned queen came to the fore. The warrior, born of the ashes of war and the fires of grief, demanded assurances. Her voice came soft, but cold and unyielding. A coming blizzard. “Then prove it, father. Grant me a seat at your council, show to all your decision has not and will not waver. Show the steel and the value of having me as your heir. Have me learn from you and your councilors. Have me seated at your feet when holding court. Prove to all I am your chosen, and a worthy one.”

Her father nodded. “And you shall have, my daughter. And with it, I am sure you will be the best queen this realm has ever seen. Your name will be praised, such as the likes of the Conciliator.” Viserys rose from his seat, and Visenya followed him. Father and daughter looked at one another. Without words, her father opened his arms, and Visenya could not hold herself from launching into his embrace. He kissed her hair and whispered sweet words on her ear, guiding her to one of the armchairs in front of the lit hearth. He sat himself there, pulling his daughter up his lap and cradling her close.

Chapter Text

The day of her marriage could not have dawned better, Alicent thought. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky; birds chirped and trilled merrily, and the bay gave off the gentlest of breezes. Servants and nobles smiled and greeted her, and she answered in kind with open smiles. Fresh flowers decorated the corridors and her chambers, their scent sweet and perfect for such a day. All was prepared for what was to be the greatest accomplishment of her life, as well as that of her proud house.

Her morning was occupied by the company of her ladies, friends and kin; gathered around her to prepare the soon-to-be queen for her marriage to King Viserys I. Pampered and praised without limit, Alicent preened at the complements to her hair, her light eyes and the flawlessness of her form. “The king must be excited for this wedding, dear. But I think he truly looks forward to event after it,” her aunt Alerie said with a coy smile. The women around her giggled sweetly and Alicent blushed. Throughout her life she had received complements of her beauty. Of the shine of her hair and how it looked like liquid gold when the light of the torches hit it, but never they had been so thorough and open-handed as they were now. Alicent was the daughter of a second son. The king’s Lord Hand, true; but too far from kinship to her uncle the Lord Hightower.

Ryella must be green as a cabbage with the news, Alicent thought. That was why she insisted on wearing a smoke-grey dress, heavy with white lace and cloth of silver. In truth it was more white and silver than grey, and that was all good for her. Alicent wanted to show how people cared for her, and this dress was evidence that her father had not batted an eye to the coin he spent ordering it made.

Her cousin was one of her kin who looked down on her father, and in consequence to her and her brothers. The son of a lord, dubbed a knight by his nine and tenth nameday, though the only thing he bothers to hold is a quill. Her uncle and his spoiled children might turn a nose to her father, but King Jaehaerys had seen his true value. The respect of the greatest king in westerosi history was more welcome than the grudgingly given praise Hobert Hightower sent to his brother.

And now look at where he and their children were? Garth was happily married and with a son soon to come. Gwayne served in the gold cloaks of the City Watch, in the path to become its commander; and Alicent was half a day away from becoming the queen of the realm, the first lady of King Viserys’ court! And if the gods were good, the mother of the next king.

The thought still made her belly flutter a bit. If it was fear or hope, Alicent didn’t know, only that it was her duty to bear the king his sons. It was strange to think herself as a mother. The last moons she had dreamt of her belly growing to an enormous size until she though t she would pop open. In the morning she would look herself in the mirror, studying her willowy form. The flatness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips, the graceful swell of her breasts, the downy silvery-gold patch of hair above her most delicate part. All of those would be known thoroughly by someone else soon. Gazed upon, touched. Mayhaps even ravaged, as some women had made mention their husband’s hunger for their body.

Alicent was feeling somewhat lost, even in the revelry of coming marriage. Kin and close friends were all around her, giving her their support. Yet it still felt like someone was missing. It was obvious to her who that was, and she dreaded journeying through her first pregnancy without her lady mother by her side. What if she did something wrong, and no babe came? What if it was born healthy, but she didn’t know how to take care of it, an innocent life, so fragile and weak and yet hers to raise? She resolved to do so to the best of her abilities, reminding herself of her late mother and her soothing touch, the softness and warmth of her voice. If Alicent was as wonderful a mother half as Lady Margaery Redwyne was, she would thank the gods with all her heart, and honor them in any way.

Lord Otto paid his daughter a visit before making his way on carriage to the Great Sept. Her father could not be said to be an emotional man. In her childhood, she remembered his stern rebukes when she and her brothers stumbled on his study casing a ruckus; but now there was none of that irritation in his eyes. Otto Hifghtower’s pale green eyes shone with love and pride for his only daughter, and Alicent’s heart trembled. A similar gaze had been directed at her on previous times, she knew. When he listened quietly to the new lesson she had learnedfrom the maester, or the complicated embroidery she managed to do on a handkerchief.

That gaze was something Alicent always loved to receive from him. It showed how much he loved and cherished her. That she was not lesser than her brothers. Her hands were not made to hold a sword, she knew, and that desire thankfully never darkened her mind, but that did not mean she had to be some simple, empty-headed girl. Since his first show of praise to her endeavors with the written and spoken word; be it music, poetry or a maester’s telling of history, Alicent strode to make her father proud and honor him in any way she could. This way he would continue to love her, and give her that look.

Her father had traced lines on her face with the tips of his soft fingers, following the outline of her cheekbones, her lips, the curve of her jaw. He stared into her eyes for a long moment before breathing out words. “You remind me of your lady mother, my child. So beautiful you are, that it makes my heart ache with the thought of seeing you all grown up. A woman, moments away from marriage. And to a king, no less.”

Alicent felt her cheeks burn a little, though she knew they were already tinted with a light pink tone from before her father crossed the threshold of her door. “It is thanks to you I was chosen, Father. And do not fret, I am to stay in the Red Keep with you still. You are the Lord Hand, after all.” She turned her gaze down to her hands. They were wringing nervously, not a moment remaining steady. “I wished Mother could see me marrying. She managed to be present for Garth. I had hoped-“ she breathed out the words, pinprick of tears threatening to cloud the edge of her vision.

“No need for tears, daughter mine,” her father said, gently pulling her chin upward, her gaze following the hand to his face. “Your mother was able to see your brother wed thanks to the gods’ will, but now she has been recalled to their bosom. I am sure she looks down upon you with pride swelling in her heart for seeing her daughter in that path too.”

They shared a heartfelt hug, her ear close to his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calmed her like a lullaby. It was brief though, as he gently pushed her away from his green vest. Alicent was relieved to not see any blemishes and wet spots marring the forest green velvet and the silver thread that ran like vines over it. Her father gently kissed her forehead, and quick as that was ushered out of her chambers by his sister.

“Away with you, Otto! Your daughter still needs to prepare before you coddle her and smudge our work.” Lady Alerie was a handsome woman, Alicent thought. Her pale hair still shone beautifully in the sunlight, with little to no sign of grey in it.

It was not long after when she met her father again, standing proudly outside the great bronze-banded doors of the sept, atop Visenya’s Hill. “Aptly named, I think,” Gunthor had muttered to her once. “Let the princess live and study here. That should teach her some lesson in humility. That one is too proud for a girl.” Alicent had agreed to him, but never uttered those words. It was widely known that King Viserys doted on his two daughters as they were the only children of his and the late Queen Aemma who survived past the cradle. And so, Alicent’s only answer to her senseless brother was a furrowed brow and a wrinkled nose. It was already enough to know she was the only one with a working mind of Otto Hightower’s children, but she had no need or taste to hear their inane chatter and careless words while the king’s brother was close by, dark and ruthless as he was known.

But now that irksome prince was away, banished by his own doing while in drunken folly the night of Prince Baelon’s early death. Alicent would not say a word of it to anyone, but she got a dark satisfaction of hearing Daemon Targaryen was no longer in King’s Landing, but now was tasting of his own poison.

The Great Sept loomed atop the hill named after one of the Conqueror’s sisters, dark and broody like all the matters that surrounded the old dowager queen. It was raised along with its twin in Rhaenys’s Hill in the dawn of Targaryen rule with granite and wood. Over time carvings sprouted from corners and alcoves. The faces of seven gods surrounded by wings of birds. Atop the entrance six figures stood side by side, with the Mother and Father carved in the center. The Stranger only made his presence known in the dark figures atop the crest of the roof and towers, squatting in an animalistic manner. Its wings did not carry feathers though. Like the Targaryens’ dragons, Alicent thought.

Rhaenys’s Hill was now occupied by the dark and massive Dragonpit. The sept that once stood there was burned and razed to the ground by Maegor the Cruel. Alas, its loss was not dearly felt by him and his kin, with King Jaehaerys being content with finishing his uncle’s construction of the pit. This one, the remaining one, had received patronage and visits from the crown since the Conciliator’s ascension. Royal marriages were made here, such as that of all of the king’s children. This fact had not remained true to his grandchildren, however.

Alicent remembered the urgent news of conflict occurring in the Riverlands over Lord Stark’s daughter. The talk was of abduction, and a Targaryen prince being involved. They too spoke of armies gathering in Harrenhal’s shadow, Tully and Stark bickering between each other but joined in their anger with the dragons. Angry words spoken, swords were drawn, and dragons flew. Prince Baelon worked to make peace between Lady Lyanna’s father, the Lord Benjen, and her betrothed, Ser Bert Tully. It all ended when the missing lady finally resurfaced from hiding, four moons into a pregnancy and in the arms of Daemon Targaryen.

The news of a hasty marriage in the Isle of Faces were shocking to all, but none dared to go against Prince Baelon’s testimony on the matter. No blood was spilt on that war but that of the northern whore’s maidenhead.

Alicent banished from her mind thoughts of the rogue prince as she met her father in the Hall of Lamps. Globes of leaded glass, tinted in the shifting colors of flame, hanged from the ceiling in iron chains. The foyer had three doors, two to each side, old and dark and hidden in the shadow of the lamps with carved arches, flanking the doors at the center that lead to the heart of the old sept, mirroring the one they had just entered.

Overhead seven great bells rang, hushing the crowd gathering at the plaza. They were only stopped from reaching the sept by a ring of men from the City Watch, all sporting the cloaks Prince Daemon had given to them.

Alicent shook her head, spelling an end to more memories. The bells rang for twenty beats of her nervous heart. It heralded the start of the wedding. With linked arms, her left hand gripping her father’s, both Hightowers walked forward. Two men in roughspun robes of undyed wool and tonsured heads splayed their hands on the great doors, pushing them open.

The great chamber ahead was bursting with people. Rows of pews had been set on either side of the red carpet that rolled out of the great doors to the shallow dais between the enormous statues of the Mother and Father. Flowers and banners decorated the interior, green and white bundles crowning every pew, grey and black banners unfurled in the walls.

Smoke rose in pillars around the sept. The acrid and fragrant smell mingled in the air betwixt shafts of light. Red, yellow, blue and green pooled over hundreds of faces in the vague lines of the seven different faces of God. At the far end of the carpet, between the Mother and Father stood the septon in his brilliant garment of white linen and tabard with gold thread. The seven colors of the rainbow flooded the altar, piercing the top of the septon’s great pointy hat where placed there was a shard of crystal. His Grace the king stood on the riot of colors, beside the holy man. A great cloak of black silk sat about his shoulders, lined with ermine fur, contrasting with the dark of the Targaryen sigil.

Her father left her alone in front of the two men, moving away to take his seat with her brothers on the front row. Within two feet of the king, Alicent could really see him, and really start to realize she would be this man’s wife and queen within moments.

Alicent had never thought she could achieve such, to marry so high above her station. Once she had thought the best she could hope was to be the wife of a powerful bannerman of her uncle, or if he failed to have daughters, to a great lord of the Reach, such as Lord Thaddeus Rowan.

Mayhaps that was the only prospects for her once, and once she had daydreamed of silver princes. Alas, none were to be, and only by her father’s doing she achieved this much. Alicent noted that, while handsome, King Viserys was not enchanting as his brother, or as strong as him. Silver-gold locks covered his head and fell over his ears in lazy waves. A well-groomed moustache covered his upper lip, concealing a bit of the charming and somewhat eager smile under it. The king wore his crown of seven jewels and a brilliant red tunic. Decked in all his finery and towering above her, Alicent let a shy smile breach the confines of her lips.

Viserys was no Daemon, but that may be for the best.

Under the hallowed gaze of the gods and before the sight of westerosi nobility, Viserys grasped her hand with delicate touches of his several times bigger than hers grip. The septon spoke his words, and the whole spept accompanied him when prompted. In truth, Alicent could not recall the ceremony in details. The moment to remove her cloak came swiftly upon her. Viserys led her up with a hand, and from behind came her father, unclasping her cloak and gently caressing her face within the same motion. The king was the one to follow, covering her naked shoulders with a flourish of his cloak. It laid heavy on her, with all the fur and rubies sown into it.

The septon proclaimed them man and wife, the whole sept rose in jubilation. Applauses and well-wishes were uttered one above the other while Viserys led her out to their carriage.

At the feast the celebrations continued. Bards played verses about the new love joining in marriage, fools played their folly, and lords made grand toasts to the health of their king and their new queen.

Alicent sat beside her lord husband, sharing the same plate and drinking cup, though she herself saw little and less of the wine poured into it. Food and drink were given in plenty to the guests, and the wine flowed freely. Many plates passed before her yet Alicent could not recall any of them and ate only morsels. That was not the same for the king, however. Whatever was put in front of him he faced with a determination of a warrior. For each plate of aurochs steaks, lamb ribs or creamy crab soup, he praised the cooks with the same open hand he had for his guests. “Seven praises to Hobb and his hands. Those are surely blessed by the Smith himself, I have no doubt!

Before the feast she had changed from her heavy wedding dress, now clad in a lighter gown of green silk and samite with white lace. Viserys too had changed into a plum velvet doublet, out of the heavy colors of blood red and black.

Many strode to kneel before the high table where she and the king sat, offering their praises yet again but in a more private manner. Alicent noticed how easily these lords and ladies offered their congratulations and presumed to be quite friendly with the new queen, when before they sneered and huffed in envy and pride. From all those who came before her, she recalled actually liking talking with her father and brothers.

It was not long when the floor was cleared and the bards began a tune. With an offered hand, King Viserys led her to the center for a dance. The way he held her was nice, Alicent thought. The king was comely and courteous, gentle in his touches and his smile bright. She remembered their talks inside his solar, and the. . . matters discussed. Some of it brought great shame to Alicent, but His Grace never made her feels lesser. He always said her presence was soothing, and her voice sweet. Between the options, Alicent was quite pleased to be with this man.

After their first dance others began to flood the floor. The tune picked in pace and the dance became more lively, faster. Alicent smiled as she was passed from one hand to the next, spinning and jumping with the flow, feeling free. It had been a long time since she had felt anything like this, enjoying the music and the dancing, like when she was a little girl, and the only worries she had was how fast did the sun cross the sky, bringing an end to their play.

She was paired with Lord Peesbury when she caught a glimpse of her lord father’s face, pinched into a grimace and slightly reddened. The smile she wore dimmed a bit, and she offered an excuse to the stormlord, walking back to the high table alone.

She faced the hall in all its merry-making and sighed. Her father had suggested her name not only out of parental love, but out of duty too. Months were spent trading letters between King’s Landing and Oldtown, sacrifices were made so that she would be the one chosen by His Grace. And that came with a duty of her own, she knew. It involved having sons for the king, and more children for her house. Different from others like the Harroways, who by their own ambition created their undoing, her father had a mission, a virtuous one.

After hours of feasting, Alicent drank her first gulp of wine. It ran down sweet and bitter in equal measure, not at all what she sought but what was served at the moment. She eyed the table her father was seated with her brothers. None of his children were there, and the lord Hand seemed displeased still, though not as sour as he looked moments ago.

Alicent did not know what had made him so, but wished to have no more thought of it. This was her wedding, she would enjoy as she saw fit. Alicent topped her little act of rebellion with another cup of the wine, filled by a servant at the elbow, a buxom woman ready to please her newest queen with a wave of the hand.

It tasted like hidden sips behind stone pillars, kisses in shadowed alcoves. Sweeter memories than she thought this one would be.

“Congratulations, Lady Alicent!” the voice snapped her out of her own mind, her eyes glancing over the hundreds of heads below the dais, steadying over three children. Two had her husband’s silver-gold hair. One was dark.

Alicent had nearly forgotten about Viserys’s children. Well, two of them were; the other one was the inconvenient reminder of Prince Daemon’s preferences.

It was the eldest who spoke to her. A wide smile cracked the porcelain of her unblemished pale skin, yet her eyes were still that dark mysterious purple. No true happiness shone there, and that made the girl’s smile seem almost feral, like the dragon skulls on the Throne Room. “It is an honor to have you as Father’s wife! I imagine you were quite overjoyed when you heard the news, yes?”

Alicent nodded, putting on a serene face and a sweet smile. It helped if she thought less of the dark boy to Princess Visenya’s side and more of the dancing she enjoyed. “Quite right, princess! My father was informed the night before the announcement of the king’s choice. Even in sleeping gowns, I think I’ve never danced more than then. Well, maybe today I passed my own accomplishment. Your father the King is a marvelous man, so caring and gentle. To think this marriage makes him happy too gladdens my heart.”

The girl still grinned and nodded along. “Yes, I’m happy to see my lord father so joyous. Too long has he been shrouded in grief. All but a few days over the last nine moons had I seen him smile like he is now. So I have only you to thank, my lady.” The princess smiled and joined her hands in front of her body in a sweet gesture, but Alicent saw her smile dripped too much honey to be genuine. “I thought it would take many more moonturns just to see him happy again, but his newest wife accomplished so much in such a short time! Isn’t it wonderous?” she asked her fellows at her side.

The smaller princess, Rhaenyra, a doll of a girl that was the gem of Viserys’s eyes, nodded vigorously. She too smiled widely, but hers felt less armed with daggers. Unlike her sister, she had a gap where a baby tooth had fallen off. “Lady Alicent was really pretty in her wedding dress. I hope to be twice as much when I get my own wedding!”

The girl’s innocent remark rekindled a flame of jealousy inside Alicent, one that she had hoped to have snuffed out back in her childish days in the Hightower. Instead of sweet Rhaenyra, Alicent could imagine Ryella speaking those words, boasting of marrying a great lord while she would be left with the landed knights of their grandfather’s court.

But Alicent was grown now, and these were only children. They grieved for their mother, just like she did three years ago. She was older than them, and had the company of her brothers, who could reassure her with their confident words that all would be well, while the princesses had only each other. Alicent smiled to them and motioned for their hands, giving a kiss on each. “I know how hard it is to lose one’s lady mother, children. I lost mine own a few years ago to the winter fever when we all thought spring was to come soon. I am not here to replace your lady mother, but you can come to me and speak of what ails your little hearts. We can visit the good septon of this keep and pray to the Mother Above, who surely has both Queen Aemma and Lady Margaery in her bosom.”

Little Rhaenyra lowered her head a bit to hide her face, but Alicent could see a flash of hurt pass it. And she meant her words. It would be good to have a good relationship with her husband’s daughters. The gods knew how long had she been without delicate company. Children were innocent of sin, after all. It was only right for her to show them salvation and a better way of life with the balm of the comfort of the Mother’s gaze.

 The older girl hummed. “Yes, I am sure my lady mother is with the Seven now.” She made a show of looking at the tall colored windows behind Alicent that lined the hall with surprise. “Oh, but would you look at that, the hour grows late. It’s time for little children to be abed. Ser Erryk, could you escort my sister to her chambers?”

The little girl looked indignant. “I’m not little! And it’s barely night! You promised I could drink wine!”

Viserys’s eldest tutted like a mother and shook her head. “I promised you could have a sip, but you ended up finishing the cup, and you are still little to me. You can claim otherwise when the crown of my head is visible to you, Rhaenyra.”

“But that could take forever!” the younger girl spoke crestfallen.

“Not forever. Just a few years if you are lucky.” With a peck on the head, Princess Visenya guided her sister to the kingsguard, who gently coaxed the rebelling child into following him. He spoke something into her ear that made her comply, both with conspiratorial smiles in their faces.

Alicent inhaled to speak with the remaining princess when another voice broke in. “My mother isn’t with the Seven.”

Alicent blinked, then faced the source. It had been Daemon’s son.

She had an inkling to why he said that, but still urged herself to ask out of politeness. “Why do you say that, my prince?”

He had his hands joined behind his back, and the look he wore was of unbothered boredom. The boy shrugged. “My mother was a Stark of Winterfell, where the old gods still breathe and thrive. I’ve read Winterfell has an enormous heart tree, and an even bigger godswood to house them. If anywhere, my mother found her kin in afterlife. Thousands of years of Starks are buried in their tombs there.”

Alicent held up harrumph. Of course it would be Prince Daemon’s son to be the one to speak of heathens and their cults so callously. “But she was married to a prince, was she not? I’m certain she would be welcomed into the heavens if she repented in her last moons.”

“Repent for what exactly? My father the Prince Daemon married Lady Lyanna in front of a weirwood, just like her father had her mother before her. There is no greater honor for those who hold worship of the old gods to visit the Isle of Faces. Some say one could see the past there, if the gods allowed them through the impenetrable mist first.” Then the boy smiled thinly. “This to me means they had the gods’ blessing, to be joined as wife and husband there.”

The boy’s smile reminded her of the cocky way his father wore it. How easily Daemon’s spawn with that whore took to his terrible ways. Soon enough Aemon will start bedding women in the Street of Silk like his sire and, gods forbid, his own cousins, future and present ones, if Alicent did not stop him.

“Maybe that was their mistake, my prince. Had they been joined under the light of the Seven, the Lady Lyanna would have lived to see you born,” she let out in a low voice.

The dark boy looked back at her unflinchingly, his gaze cold and flinty like the frigid halls of his northern kin. “Mayhaps you are right, my lady. Although I guess it was not for the lack of faith that they took your own mother, then. The septons say that we all sin, isn’t that right? It could be something she did in her life. A hidden crime of shameful act hidden from all but the gods. Who knows.”

He gave a step back and nodded to his own words, still smiling thinly. “Well, enough of this grim talk. We are in a wedding, celebrating the daughter of the Lord Hand’s ascension to queenhood! That is one mighty achievement, Lady Alicent. Amidst all the ladies of the realm available, you were the one chosen! Your lord father should be proud of you. Or of himself?” he shrugged again. “I don’t know whose skill made more of an impression on His Grace.”

Alicent did not like the sound of his words. They hinted at things he had no right to know. “What do you mean, my prince?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

He waved nonchalantly. “I don’t know, just that in the stories the king always rewards the knight for deserving service to him. Maybe the Lord Hand made something that affected His Grace.” The boy conjured a cup and sipped on it, hiding his face with it for a second. “Or it could be the Lady Alicent who serviced the king someway.”

Alicent sneered at the impertinent boy, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair. Princess Visenya giggled at her cousin’s words, swatting lightly at his arm. “Oh shut it, Aemon. You don’t believe those rumors. Father would never marry woman of this status.”

She clenched her teeth and gripped the chair harder. She could not believe to be insulted by misbehaved children in her own wedding! Where was the king to defend her honor?!

“You’re right, maybe not. But I’ve read about the Free Folk, the wildings who live beyond the Wall! They have a custom of a man taking a woman to wife, and I refer to “by the blade” if needs must. Afterwards the woman may slay her captor if she finds him unworthy, but that is true to the contrary as well! A woman can take a man by force and make him her husband!”

“Don’t be stupid, Aemon,” his cousin admonished disbelieving. “How can a woman take a man by force? Do they wield swords and spears too?”

Aemon nodded. “Aye, and knives and shields too. Spearwives they are called, but they rarely need the blade to make their husbands. After all, a man is most vulnerable when he has a woman’s mouth around his c-“

The new queen quickly jumped to her feet to yell. How could that spawn speak such filthy words, and to compare them to her own wedding?! He was Daemon’s spawn, after all. Any filth and indecent thought would naturally occur into his son’s head just as it passed on the father’s.

She might not be a whore Lord Hand, she does however have the modesty of one. . .

Alicent was a queen now, not simply a second son’s daughter, and now she had the means to put these disgusting princes in their places. Daemon was not near her however, only the spawn of his union with that boy in wolf’s skin.

Princess Visenya spoke before she could utter any word, however. She had clasped a hand over her cousin’s mouth, giggling. “I think you had too much wine as well, cousin! Let’s not bother Her Grace with your jests, shall we?” She turned to the high table and made a shallow curtsy. “Seven blessings to you and your marriage, Queen Alicent. I’m sure it is as holy as the Seven can make them.” The girl turned and walked away, pulling the dark-haired prince with her. His eyes still looking at her like storms, cackling with lightning and laughter.

Something touched her elbow lightly and Alicent turned in surprise, ready to spill whatever venom she had in her mouth. She saw the surprised look of the king, red-faced and smiling. “What’s the matter, my love? Today is a happy day!” he said, as if it was the most obvious answer to her woes. He did not wait for her to answer before turning to the crowd. “A toast to Queen Alicent!” he cried, and the lords and knights thrusted their cups in the air, spilling wine on each other and drinking to her health.

The merriment continued without waiting for Alicent’s mood to return. Rhaenyra had been taken away first, but she could not find the other two Targaryens in the hall. King Viserys tried to pull her for another dance, but she had no more heart for it, telling him her feet hurt. The king accepted her excuse without more questions, and kissed her face tenderly. Alicent kept to her seat at the high table, speaking in simple answers with any noble who came to greet her in person. Her mind still lingered on the past.

So willing. . .

She was brought out of her memories again by voices, this time it was the whole hall yelling. “The bedding, the bedding!” they cried.

Princess Visenya had appeared out of nowhere at her elbow, giving her a hug and a smile, the same one she wore before. All teeth, but no mirth. Her purple eyes looked old and dangerous, like a dragon gazing at its prey.

And just as suddenly she vanished in the crowd. Women of high birth surrounded the king, pushing him toward the great doors of the hall while pulling at his doublet and gilded coat. Hands appear around her to grope and tug at her dress. Alicent feels her stomach lurching and she sees herself aloft, carried by the guests while they tore at her silken slippers.

Her head was in a riot of noises all the way to the king’s chambers. Jests and laughter followed her until she was dropped at the door, only a white shift covering her nakedness after the green and silver dress was ripped from her body.

The king emerged from the neighboring room wearing a deep plum robe, the silk belt tied loosely in front of him. Gently he tugged at her hand and pulled toward the big canopy bed. Once Alicent was lied down, the king started murmuring things she did not understand, kissing her mouth and jaw, lowering to her clavicle. His hands ghosted over her hips and breasts, a thumb making circles over a nipple. With every kiss her lord husband pulled her shift up, inch my inch, until she was all bare to him.

His hands busied herself with her body. The king’s touches like that of a fevered worshiper, mapping every inch of her pale skin, the softness of her thighs, the gentle curve of her breasts. Viserys was eager, though, and quickly he was spearing her, the blunt head of his member entering her without much problem, only meeting resistance for a heartbeat.

Alicent cried out in pain, but the king didn’t seem to hear her. He continued to move in and out, red-faced and puffing. Her pain mingled with a wave of pleasure that grew steadily. She pressed hard against her husband’s shoulder, worrying a lip between her teeth.

Before she could discover what happened at the top, the king gave a series of grunts and rolled to his side. The king’s seed burned her insides like dragonflame, and the wave slowly dwindled.

Alicent reached a hand between her legs. Her fingers came back with a mix of white and red. She breathed out air in relief. She had done her duty. No one could deny she came to her marriage bed a maiden.

When she returned to the king’s bed after cleaning herself he was ready again, and took her once more. This time he rolled off of her, and was asleep moments after.

Her days as queen were enjoyable, Alicent concluded.

Three moons after her wedding the Grand Maester had confirmed she was with child. Her father was overjoyed, as well as her brothers, Gunthor and Gwayne. Viserys had ordered a feast was to be made in her honor, and she took that appreciation of her husband with grace.

Most nights Viserys visited her chambers, and sometimes he had her summoned to his. He had bedded her so many times she had started to find some enjoyment, even if she never crested that strange wave. Alicent resigned to be joyful for the life they had created, the little prince inside her womb.

Rhaenyra had been joyful to discover she would have a brother, and even tentatively named her “mother”. Alicent was overjoyed with this, and in return named her “daughter”, hugging the little girl tightly. Her sister, on the other hand, seemed to take the news in a cooler manner, though the smile was ever present. “It is your little brother, princess. The king’s heir!”

The girl watched her flat belly from above her nose, the smile tightening into something somewhat feral. “My half-brother, Your Grace. The king’s heir is already born.”

Alicent did not care what Aemon Targaryen thought of the matter. She only knew that he and his odious father were further away from the throne, and that made her happy too. It would be best if he was away from King’s Landing too.

Almost two moons after the announcement, Viserys’s court received news of Prince Daemon. As was his wont, he was up to no good, gone to war beside the Sea Snake against pirates in the Stepstones. “A ploy to keep himself relevant when his grips to the throne lessen, a check against his ever-distancing position in the line of succession,” her father had told her over a late meal, and she believed him. Daemon was petty and erratic like that. Alicent was sure he raged with the news of her marriage to his brother, and further still with the news of another child to the king.

Otto Hightower had made mention of Lord Corlys’s constant messages to King’s Landing, warning about the dangers of the Triarchy and pleading for war against them. Viserys denied the first three, and his Hand destroyed the following others, not wishing to bother his sire with that repeating drivel. “The king does not seek to be any part in a conflict against the free cities when none is warranted,” he had explained to her. “Over at council only the Princess Visenya worries for defending the Sea Snake’s fears, but the child is dully ignored.”

“The princess was in the council?” she asked surprised.

Her father’s sour look told much of what he did not want to voice aloud. “She has a seat in it. Many times have I advised His Grace about having her there, but no matter what care for her sensibilities or proper education for a lady can sway the king away from this decision.

“But worry not for this child’s petty desires. Soon the king shall have a son and heir, and her seat shall be her brother’s. You should only worry about the babe’s health,” he said, closing the matter.

Throughout the moons of her pregnancy when she was able to visit her father at the Tower of the Hand, she mostly managed to avoid Daemon’s spawn, although it was not always she was successful. To this day he still was her father’s page boy, and sooner or later she would end up facing him again.

Not that it ended up into another tirade like what happened during the wedding feast. The boy greeted her cooly but courteously, bowing and calling her by the proper honorific and Alicent greeted him in kind.

That did not stop her from voicing her misgivings to her father, but he never took her warnings seriously. “The boy is Daemon’s son. If we keep him close we ensure his father does no other desperate act like that of Dragonstone.”

“That did not stop him from going to war with Velaryon, father. Wasn’t that one thing we wished the prince would not do, go to war?”

Otto waved a hand in dismissal. “Let him play at war. So long he remains away his influence in the realm lessens. And if a myrish crossbow takes him from atop his dragon like it took his uncle so much the better.”

The moons turned, and her belly grew along with it. More and more she could see a rift growing at court. Visenya and the boy Aemon often pulled Rhaenyra away from her sworn shield, whispering thing in her ear while the girl gaped stupidly at Ser Criston and her.

Instead of speaking about it with her father, Alicent decided to bring the matter to Viserys, telling her of how concerned she was about Aemon’s influence on the girls. “They barely speak a word with me and instead spend more time with the boy.”

The king’s answer to her concerns were chuckles. “They are children, my love. And they have been together since Rhaenyra could walk. She and Aemon since birth, come to think of it.”

The day Aegon was born was sunny, almost the perfect setting for heralding the future king. As her first, he took the whole night to be finally ready to leave her womb mid-morning. Her mother had told her of this, as it was common for most women to have a difficult birth with their first child.

And like her brother Garth, Aegon was big babe. A heavy one too. That lifted many of her concerns. Big babes meant they were healthy, had more strength against a cold that could take a newborn in the cradle. He cried and fussed as the midwives passed him from hand to hand, a young maester washing him in a metal basin. Once swaddled he was given to her, and Alicent swore she had seen no more beautiful sight but that of her son. His hair was so soft, silver and gold like his father’s. Truly a king to be!

It took three days after his birth when her father broached the topic of naming Aegon heir. At night he visited the king after meeting her and his newest grandson. The days passed and no news came from Viserys, but her father always reassured her. “The king is seeing reason, Alicent. No need to worry yourself over it. Aegon’s rights will be upheld.”

Though it seemed for every meeting her father had with her husband, the Princess Visenya met that number in kind, either in daylight or by even interrupting the Hand. “The king has a special connection with the eldest,” her cousin Mina, who had stayed after the wedding to be her lady-in-waiting, told her while they had tea. “She has a way to convince the king of anything, it seems. Had even approved of her training in the yard with her cousin.”

“Or it is sorcery she uses,” Lady Myrella Cafferen said to gasps of the others. “She was named after one of the Conqueror’s wives, the one who even had a sword. Who can’t say she didn’t take more than just swordfighting after her namesake?”

“I can,” spoke Alicent. “I will have no talk of sorcery by the princess’s doing if no evidence is at hand, understood?” she ruled to a chorus of “yes, Your Graces”. Viserys loved those girls, and Alicent still hoped to have them by her and their brother’s side, away from Daemon and his son.

On the seventh day Viserys held court, and the first order of business was the presentation of the king’s newest child and first son. The crowd of nobles clapped at the babe, who quickly cried in distress, being ushered out of the throne room by one of the servants accompanied by one of Alicent’s ladies, to make sure the prince was safe and in comfort. Gunthor and Gwayne even pulled a string of odd lords to hail the future King Aegon.

But no announcement of the new Prince of Dragonstone came, and quickly as if announcing a coming market fair, Viserys moved on to the next item. Alicent was stunned, truly. She did not know what could have happened for him to forget such a matter. It was his son, his first son’s right he was glossing over!

She looked around to see if anyone noticed the king’s mistake. Some in the crowd were clearly intrigued, her brothers were gawking and her father had stood rigid in his post, looking ahead at nothing.

Aemon and Rhaenyra stood side by side, the latter lost in thought and the former wearing a stony face, almost to the linking of the famed statues of the kings of Winter. It was near the end when she noticed the girl Visenya sitting at the foot of the Iron Throne, smiling coyly at her, dark eyes big in feigned innocence.

After court was dismissed, the first thing she did was not to see her son, but to painfully climb the steps to her father’s solar at the Tower of the Hand. “What happened father? I thought you had convinced the king of Aegon’s right!”

Ser Otto seethed in anger. He turned his cool green eyes to her, burning with rage. “It was not because I am the Hand of the King that it means you should stand still and not talk with your husband, daughter.”

His anger directed at her took her breath. She usually recoiled from him, but now she was queen. She did not need to fear him. Alicent stood her ground. “I spoke, but Viserys does not listen. The girl has a greater hold over him than me.”

“Don’t talk of what you don’t know, Alicent. And don’t act the stupid. I expect to see this from one of your brothers but not you! It is beneath my intelligence to think you have not tried to use your position over the king.”

“I. . .” she stuttered. “It’s too soon, father. I’ve just given birth to Aegon! That should be enough to convince him!”

“That clearly had not been!” he shot back through grit teeth. “And you must be more creative, Alicent. Use your hands and mouth if necessary but do not come to me and claim defeat.” With a callous wave of the hand, he dismissed her.

On her walk back to her son, Alicent thought of his uncaring way of talking to her. How could he treat her like that? What had she done wrong? Every request, every task it was placed before her she completed them without complaint. Alicent had done things she thought no father should ask of to their daughters, and sullied her soul in the process.

She was his daughter, yes. And daughters were supposed to follow the command of their fathers, but she was a queen now, above his station in almost every way imagined. Were she any other lord’s daughter he would have been given a day in the cells for his words. Were he anyone else but the Lord Hightower’s brother, the black cells would have greeted him.

But no, he was still a Hightower, and she his daughter. She could not do this to her own father, but she too could not accept the way he spoke to her. She was no longer but his daughter, but a queen.

Alicent would find a way to assert her position over him, but they were all surprised by Viserys’s resistance. It was natural to place blame at every corner. Nonetheless her heart hardened with his callous words. Alicent was a queen, and she would not let anyone, not even her father treat her like she was theirs.

Chapter Text

“The nerve of him!” The table shuddered with the hit he delivered. Dark heartwood, brought from leagues away by him, trembled with the inkpot and goblet over it.

The princess sat in front of him, laid in her cushioned chair with a cat-like grace that always impressed him. Rhaenys shook her head, raven-black strands of hair waving around her face in a mesmerizing way Corlys never grew tired of watching. “Do not mistreat the desk, husband. It had to endure many moons of voyage to grace this room of yours.”

His wife was right, of course she was right. From the edges of Sothoryos, this wood somehow came to be displayed and sold in the markets of Yi Ti. If it was from a suicidal adventurer who dared to enter the mysterious jungle or smuggled by exiled summer islanders, Corlys did not know. Only that it had passed from one hand to another, until it landed on his holds by chance. And so it returned to Westeros with him, after years of sailing the seas and surviving disease. After it all, it did not deserve the punishment Corlys delivered it, and he was wise enough to not simply choose another target for his anger. He was a man grown, with children of his own, having seen much of the world and counting three and fifty namedays. Anger and senseless violence was the matter of young-blooded men, so green they could piss grass. The Lord of the Tides should not stoop so low to rave and rage as if he was half his age.

It did help that he knew when his wife meant more with her words than a simple admonish for a desk’s sentiments. So very perceptive, this princess of mine is.

Corlys could trade all the silk and gold he had acquired in his life if it meant he could have a chance to win Rhaenys’ heart again, as he had done years before. His biggest treasure she was, and the best of fruits she bore. The only two presents he accepted in full trust. Laena and Laenor.

Corlys did not believe he was a lucky man, but a man who built his fortune with his own sweat and blood. But from time to time, somethings made him think different. They could be pleasant and lovely such as his wife and children, or they could be as bitter and distasteful like Otto Hightower and the kings he served.

With a heavy sigh, Corlys lowered himself back to his chair, one hand pressing the bridge of his nose, the other fingering the etched base of his silver goblet. Patience was something he had mastered in his younger years, a virtue necessary to survive long days at sea, becalmed or otherwise. But it seemed to him that a burning heart of youth surfaced in him from time to time. To dare required such. If he had not dared to sail where no other Velaryon had before, he would not have built this castle he so loved.

Slender hands pressed against his shoulder in a soothing manner, delicate and yet firm. The way he liked her. The rustling of parchment made him open his eyes. Rhaenys had reached across from him, her ample breasts in his sight, and clenched a hand over the forlorn scroll. Without much of a glance, she tossed the message over her shoulder, landing neatly on the hearth to their side. Neither scrambled to reach for it, letting the paper wrinkle and blacken, then turn into ash between the blazing lumber. His princess, still as beautiful as the day they married, spoke in her delightful husky voice, a tone sure of herself, instilled in her since she could produce her own words by her princely father. “It is past time we put this matter behind us, Corlys. If my cousin doesn’t have the mind to right some wrongs, then let us forget about him. I have already made my peace with the silence my grandfather gave me, and so the grandson follows the example.”

Corlys was made of different stuff then. He never took well the numerous rejections the Conciliator volleyed against his princess. Each and every time one was made Corlys demonstrated his indignation and displeasure, some were petty childish displays, he would admit. But Corlys was not cold-blooded enough to take slight after slight and simply brood on his tower. As much as the Targaryens liked to forget, the blood of dragons ran in his veins too, of hundreds of years of partnership and alliance between the seahorse and the red dragons. He reached and grabbed tenderly her pale hand, caressing the back of it with a thumb. “This is an insult Viserys writes us. Even worse when it is not by his hand those letters were written.”

Rhaenys scoffed. “You know the king too well, husband. You forget he is occupied drinking and eating to bother himself writing a letter. And now he has a new distraction in his bed.” His lady wife raised one leg over the arm of the chair, sitting there and pressing against him. Her right hand moved to land over his bearded cheek. “Besides, you have a dragon to entertain in your hall. I hear they are quite demanding of attention, not caring for something as low as Otto Hightower to occupy his ears and mind.”

He let go of her hand to caress her leg. As much as other meanings her words could have, and his willingness to step up to such summons, Corlys knew it was another dragon that she was talking about. And that one he would like to have far away from his bed.

Another sigh escaped his mouth, and both lord and princess rose to leave the solar.

It was a daily ritual they made of passing through these specific halls. Silvered sets of armor stood sentry every ten feet of each other, between them tapestries and ancient paintings occupied the walls on both sides. Scenes of ancient battles from across the world, majestic scenery of mountains and deep-dug canyons in watercolor, sculptures and wood carvings as long as a king’s table. Giant worms with swords for teeth writhing among other monsters.

Overhead the concave ceiling was encrusted with pearls and opal stones, creating a starry sky once the sun touched the horizon, and light was scarce in the world. When the corridor met the edge of the building, it would open itself into a continuous balcony, interspaced with fluted columns of pale stone, all encrusted with vine-like veins of gilded stone, flourishing into leaves and flowers, some of a design so exotic it could only be real in a child’s imagination. Corlys knew best, however. He had some examples in his own garden as proof of their beauty.

Rhaenys accompanied him at his arm, gently laying a perfect hand on it. His beloved princess was a bit smaller than him, but nowhere close to be petite as other women. As with anything, Rhaenys Targaryen was unique, none reached close to be as beautiful and graceful as his wife, with her shining black hair and lilac eyes.

Her dress was an alluring piece of red velvet, draped perfectly over her figure. It was neither demure or scandalous, shaping perfectly what needed to be shown, and hiding what must. Two children she had carried, and still she remained as perfect as the day they married.

Their path took them across the inner courtyard by the bridge that connected the smaller hall to the main keep. Below them, a well-known scene took place.

“Give it back, Laenor! It’s not yours to use!” came a girl’s voice that could only be that of their daughter.

A deeper voice snapped back, undulating with the cracks of fleeting childhood. “You never use it, and you say it hurts Vhagar!”

“It does, but I never gave it to you, so give it back!”

“What is this about, now?” Corlys spoke before his son could retort and continue the argument. Boy and girl turned their heads up to the walkway. Two silver heads flashed in the sunlight, surprise writ in their faces. When both started yelling in the rush to tell their version of the story, Corlys interrupted them again. “One at a time, children! This is not a fish market.”

Both snapped their mouths shut at the same time. Laena went fist when her father nodded to proceed. “Laenor grabbed my whip from my rooms but doesn’t want to give back when I told him not to use,” she said, sending a furious glare at her brother. “He came in without knocking, what if I was..” Laena stopped herself before finishing, a red flare blooming on her face. “He’s not allowed in there, and he has to keep his grubby paws away from my things!”

When his sister finished her account, Laenor tried one last surprise pull at the whip, still secured in her hands. Laena noticed, and the little tug of war restarted. He withdrew his hands with a huff with a stern call of his name by Corlys. “I just wanted to use it with Joffrey against the wine bottles at the beach. Mine always keeps slipping from my hand because of the weighty silver pommel, so I wanted to test with Laena’s,” the boy explained calmly if a bit frustrated, but heat returned to his words when speaking to his sister. “And I don’t want none of your girly things! You’ll not see me with your dresses and powders and other stupid stuff.”

“You are stupid!” Laena shouted back full at her brother’s face, and the two Velaryon children promptly started back their shouting match, each pulling at one end of the whip.

“Enough, children!” Rhaenys hissed in a stern voice at his side. She had let go of his arm at one point and moved to incline herself over the railing. “You two are no longer babes to be wailing for trinkets and shiny toys. Dragonriders, you are, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, so stop with this at once! Laena, do not call your brother stupid; apologize to him. And Laenor, a lord should not skulk into his sister’s bedroom for her belongings. A rider’s whip is a tool used only for dragon riding, not a toy for your frolics with your friend! Now, apologize to your sister, she deserves your respect and privacy.”

Both turned to each other and exchanged sullen apologies. Reluctantly, Laenor let go of the leather cord he held in his fist, letting it fall to the ground. Laena just harumphed, coiling the cord safely in her hands. Both looked up to their parents again.

“Now that all is well, away with you both to your studies. If you are so disposed to bicker between each other this early, then Maester Calos will be happy to have such energetic students in his hands.” Protests quickly rose from the two children, but his wife would have none of it. “No more ‘mama’ from you two. Go before I decide you two deserve a break from flying.”

Resignation washed over the two siblings, and with dragging feet, both Laenor and Laena moved inside the keep, towards their punishment.

Corlys chuckled softly as they resumed their walk. “And here I thought they would see me as the stern parent.”

Rhaenys shook her head, mirth playing on her lips to spill into a smirk. “For too long they have been at each other’s toes. If they think they will always get easy punishment from me, then they must think twice now.”

The Velaryon lord hummed. “They will not be children for long. Do you think we must include both of them on our talks? Laenor is to inherit all of this, and Laena is deserving of a great lord, if not royalty.”

Playfulness simmered down to fondness and heartache in his princess’s eyes. Corlys knew it well enough, and had even seen it not long ago. He had noticed how she had reacted when the first news of Viserys’s marriage to Hightower’s daughter arrived in Driftmark. A part of him wanted to admonish her for being so accepting, but the other part of him, the one who loved Rhaenys, smothered down the reprimand. They both just wanted the best for their children.

A pale hand caressed the necklace resting against her bosom, her lilac eyes turning to look at the retreating forms of Laena and Laenor. “Childhood is a fleeting thing, Corlys. As much as I know they have their duties, I cannot but feel like I should give them a bit more time to taste of it.”

Of that he understood too, but always failed to connect it with Laenor. Corlys had to abandon innocence from an early age, stepping up to the position of heir, to climb the mountain of expectations his grandfather Daemon had set before him, after his parent’s death.

Corlys said nothing and patted her hand, pulling the princess along the path.

Passing under the arch they entered into the main keep, crossing the halls and getting down stairs toward the main hall, where the Driftwood Throne sat. The testament of Velaryon rule in Driftmawk. The mark of their presence here, the first of many amongst the dragonlords.

Corlys wondered what would Jacaerys Velaryon think of his house’s position now. With no small amount of pride, Corlys thought it would be to his ancestor’s satisfaction. Wealth and power; and now a Velaryon can sail among the clouds too.

They were stopped near the entrance by the approaching steward. His face showed the distress the man felt. “He is already inside, waiting for you, my lord,” Daryn Blackberry said to a bow, followed by another, no less deferent one, toward Rhaenys. “And has been quite vocal to speak with his lordship.”

Corlys sighed exasperated. He had invited the man into his home, yet for now he had not brought anything but headaches for he and his. Maybe only Laenor and Laena were mildly entertained by their guest, but the latter paid mind to other things than children. “How long has he been waiting?”

“An hour and a half, I would say. Took his time with a bath after returning from riding his dragon,” the steward said. Then added “he is restless,” as if it explained the whole complex what waited them inside.

Corlys nodded slowly, speaking to the man before pushing himself inside. “I see. Just bring us a light meal while we entertain the prince.”

And there he was, sitting like he owned the place. Daemon was a cocky man, and exuded such air as easily as breathing. Sprawled over a cushioned chair with a goblet dangling between his fingers, he greeted them with a loud voice. “Seven blessings to the Lord and Lady Velaryon in this fine morning. May their fortunes be as generous and plentiful as Rhaenys’s tits, and their wine fine and aged like she is.”

His wife huffed and answered before he could, the two of them approaching their seats at the head of the high table. Convenient of Daemon to seat himself close to them. At least he had the sense of not occupying his throne. “Loud and brash as always, Daemon. Have you given a thought of growing up in the last ten years, cousin?”

The man smiled a crooked smile. “Oh, this is but my way of greeting my dear cousin after so many years away. The praises of Princess Rhaenys’s beauty have yet to leave the tongues of courtiers in my brother’s court. That is, the ones who remember the girl you were.”

Corlys sighed exasperated. “Enough, Daemon. Haven’t you stretched the grace of our hospitality enough with such jests?”

The prince leaned back in his seat, taking a sip from his goblet. “Huh. So the Snake still knows how to bite.” Chuckling, he set the goblet down and took a piece of bacon in hand, fried almost black. “Do not fret, my lord. This song and dance is well known to your wife. We used to be playmates back in our youth, when your interests were only the sea and a distant point in the corner of your map.” He munched it thoroughly, washing it down with a sip of his cup again. Wine, from what he could see still present in the carafe. “Besides, you wouldn’t kick me out of your door so easily, seeing as it was you who invited me here to your grand castle.”

And how much I regret doing so he though, but did not voice it. Instead, Corlys said “Yes, but I would appreciate some courtesy in my own home. I know that is hard for you, Daemon, but please refrain from mentioning my wife’s breasts.”

Daemon seemed to sober up a bit, though not by much, seeing as mirth was still present in his tone. “I apologize Lord Corlys. I took for granted my familiarity with my cousin. I thought she longed for my jests. From my memory, the image of prim and proper Princess Rhaenys laughing was a constant presence in our plays.”

Said princess laughed at that. “You have always had a selective memory, cousin. Not all of the things you say are deserving of laughter. Though I do remember some of them managing to take a chuckle out of me. As it happens, most were because they awarded you trouble with Uncle Baelon.” Rhaenys was sitting with her back straight at his side, a cup of watered wine on her hand.

The rogue prince leaned towards them, a hand over his heart. “All for you, cousin. My first love.”

Both Rhaenys and Daemon laughed, clinking cups in a mysterious toast.

Corlys turned back to his wife with a confused stare. “If I knew you would be able to mellow down Prince Daemon, I would have had you here from the start.”

She smiled on her cup. “May this stumble teach you a lesson, dear husband. Daemon is half as prickly when I am near. It also does help when time can work to heal old wounds.”

“True enough, cousin,” Daemon said, butting in their talk. Again he was slouching in his seat. Somehow graceful and dangerous in his total lack of table manners. “Else I wouldn’t have been half as curious by your invite of supping and talking, Corlys. You must understand when I have little to be interested by you and yours.” He adjusted the collar of his cotton shirt underneath his leather jerkin. “Though truth must be said, Driftmark has afforded me something to entertain me in the meantime. Your Spicetown has some goods worth tasting. Saffron, cinnamon, and the girls who bear those names.”

A servant placed a plate in front of him, carrying fresh-baked bread and other tiny vessels, all filled with different kinds of jams. A tiny goblet was also placed there, this one held one single brown egg, held up by the metal lip of the cup. Corlys took a small spoon and cracked the egg open. Cooked to perfection. “Hmm. I’m glad something is to your liking, my prince. Please tell me, what else satisfied your curiosity beyond these walls?”

“Not much, I must say. Though your streets are cleaner than King’s Landing’s. It was rather unfortunate you left my grandfather’s council, my lord. Mayhaps if that had not been the case we would have seen similar sights there.”

Corlys took his time chewing the egg. “Yes, that was an. . . unfortunate affair that was. But King’s Landing’s lack of fortune was a boon to Hull and Spicetown. They have had my undivided attention for quite some time now.”

“But no longer, yes? Else you wouldn’t have deigned to waste your cellars of Arbor red with me, would you? I doubt you need Caraxes to burn donkey shit.” Daemon argued, sharp as ever.

“Oh, but why the rush, my prince. I thought a taste of my hospitality would have served me well with our talks. Sweetened the deal, if you would. You just admitted to have tasted of what Spicetown has to offer.”

Daemon turned on his seat to face his plate again, picking a new piece of bacon. “If it was wine and cunts I was after, Oldtown would have served me just as well.”

“But there’s the catch, my prince. That is not the place you would gladly seek refuge, nor look for the right “cunt,” as you say. Our dear Lord Hand lives in your brother’s castle, and his kin have no lost love to you.

“And moreover, I’m certain you have heard of what has transpired back in the capital.”

All the mirth left from the prince’s eyes. Pale purple burned with a fire only the Targaryens could muster inside. “If Otto thinks he can pass his common-looking daughter for a queen, he is terribly mistaken.”

“But he already has, cousin,” Rhaenys spoke, without heat in her words but not at all compassionate. “The Hand already hovers too close to Viserys for him to deny that.”

“And we all know the king for many years,” he added to his wife’s words. “The strength of spine to push back against Otto’s ilk is not one of them. Lickspittles feast generously in his halls, and he abides their ascension too meekly.”

“Careful, my lord. You speak of my brother the king. I have the luxury of treating him lightly. You have not.” Daemon warned him with a voice that had gone frigid in a heartbeat.

Corlys raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Apologies for the harsh words, my prince, but you can hear the truth in them. Take for example, the dangers present in the Stepstones. Westerosi ships are attacked, king’s men are robbed and slain by pirates running amok. Even ladies of noble birth have been shackled and sold to the pillow houses of Lys. Haven’t you heard of Johanna Swann?”

The prince smirked. “You may have fooled a septon with that speech of compassion, my lord. But I know your nature. The gold in your halls do not let you lie to me.”

The Lord of the Tides took a deep breath, and nodded firmly. “Very well. Let us speak plainly. You know very well House Velaryon never was a great house. Our greatest height reached before was at the time of my grandfather.

“But this that you see, my prince, was achieved by my own sweat and blood. To the far seas I took, visited fabled lands and brought great wealth to me and mine. Through the sea I built this very castle, which had no foundations at the time of my lord grandfather.

“But now trouble stirs in the Stepstones. Piracy and wanton violence are bad for business. For every ten ships I send through those isles, three never return. I submit queries and pleas to our king in regards of those routes’ safety, yet Viserys does not fathom the severity of this problem, and his Hand cares not for the aggression and loss my house has suffered. Or rather, he cares more for the gold that fills his brother’s coffers. Every ship that does not leave land from this side of the Seven Kingdoms is another opportunity for Hightower to fill the space with those of his own. Have you noticed the hike in prices on saffron, orange or dyes? Silk, lace, lemons and fine glass; it flowed through the Stepstones, but now they only come from Oldtown, and at triple the gold of their true worth. Am I to stand and do nothing as the foundations of this house quake and tremble whilst the king dawdles?”

Daemon nodded along, but the prince had an airy look to his face, as if bored by what he was hearing. “You have made your case fairly clear, my lord. Your coffers bleeds with by the reavers’ blades in the Stepstones. Yet I still fail why should this concern me? Today or yestermorn, my meals have had their spice.”

“You are right, my prince. Were you to stay for a year here, I would still dine you with food containing the finest of spices, but then comes the day they cost too much, even for a king to pay. The next morning you would see His Grace’s plate dull and tasteless, or the lords paying more taxes to fulfil the king’s desires. In half a year, chaos would spread throughout the kingdoms.”

“You will pardon me if I think it’s a good fate for my brother’s food to be less tasteful, if only to force him away from indulgence,” Daemon japed into his cup.

Rhaenys turned on her seat and faced the prince, placing the goblet on the table with graceful motions. “Daemon, I’ve known you since you were a babe. Right out of the womb you were restless, and restless you remain still. If Viserys does not value your council, then why wait for his favor to grace you back? It is swords and brave men we seek, and you have that aplenty; if only by your fame and prowess. Help us wipe that scum from those isles and we shall be half again as grateful as Viserys should be, even if he doesn’t know. There is the chance for you to show your prowess as a warrior.

“And well, from those isles come your chance to build something of your own. You have a son now, don’t you? A boy descending from Aegon the Conqueror and a dynasty of thousands of kings of Winter? The boy deserves more than mere knighthood. Viserys pushed you away, but we are more considerate with our friends.”

Daemon pushed his chair away and walked over to pace before the high table. His eyes following the design of the walls, gilded lines running the around the walls of the hall. “”Friends”, you say. But it’s him you want,” the prince said, his voice projecting around the empty hall. He stood off to the side of the table, motioning toward a particular decoration in the ceiling.

Corlys’s eyes followed Daemon’s hand, and found the colorful mosaic he had ordered made to his wife. Most of the tiles were colored a light sky blue, with clumps of white and cream to make isles of clouds. Between them flew four figures, their serpentine bodies writhing in the blue with large wings. The biggest of them was the least lean of the beasts, being bronze and green, almost twice the size of all the others put together. The Queen of Dragons it was, Vhagar. Laena’s mount.

It’s companion didn’t even have half the wingspan, with misty white tiles forming its lean body. Seasmoke could hide amidst the clouds up there, just like the real dragon. His wife’s own mount rode with them. Strong and lean, the Red Queen flew betwixt her rider’s young. Golden horns glinting among the scarlet tiles and pink chinks that formed the dragon’s body and wings. Daemon looked to none of them.

It was to the lone figure, flying distantly ahead of the three dragons of Velaryon. It was big and red, with an impressive wingspan. Blood red tiles set in place to make its long body, almost a winged snake even if the beast itself was almost as old as Corlys himself. Daemon rode that dragon now, but Corlys meant to honor his lady’s father.

“Do you wish an apology for my words, cousin?”

Daemon scoffed. “No, I do not expect it, though I confess to have hoped for more direct words from you, Rhaenys. You have always been blunt when needed.” He turned to Corlys, then. “From your husband, I already suspected something like this. Yet I count three more dragons on your ceiling. Spice may be your problem, but shortage of dragons is not one of them.”

“What would you want of me, Daemon? To send my children to war? Nay. This cause is paramount to my house, but it does not warrant me risk the lives of its future,” Corlys rebutted. “Laenor is not even a man grown; his dragon too young to face war.”

“Younger dragons and even younger riders have braved the peril of battle before, Corlys. And you sell your daughter short. She rides the biggest dragon alive, the last of the conquerors’ original three.”

Corlys didn’t deign to answer that. Though it did bring Daemon’s smirk back to his face. “I sail with my men, my prince. Someone of my trust must needs stay behind to rule my lands while we are at war. There is none I put more faith in than Rhaenys.”

The prince nodded. “Hmm, that I understand. Meleys and her rider haven’t seen battle before. And a crossbow bolt can kill just as easily the experienced one as it does the green soldier.” Corlys glanced back at Rhaenys, who occupied herself with another sip from her cup, though he knew her enough to see she wished to speak more, on her and her father’s behalf.

Rhaenys Targaryen was the daughter of the king’s heir, and the heir apparent to Aemon Targaryen, the older and more accomplished brother of Prince Baelon, Daemon and Viserys’s father. His wife had been raised to be queen, and she knew when to caress and when to bite. There was no need to shoot the arrogant prince with angry words when he was convincing himself of their argument.

Daemon turned back to admire the mosaic. His face seemed serene, catching every detail of a keen eye, but his hands told a different tale. His left fingered the golden pommel of Dark Sister, pressing against the grooves of the flame detail; the right thumb was hooked underneath his leather belt.

“Quite nice for all of us past disagreements were long left behind, isn’t it cousin?” asked Daemon, turning back to look at the high table. “Last time we spoke you tried to turn me against my brother, now you sup me with all the honors of the king’s brother.”

Rhaenys nodded. “As I said before, time can heal wounds, Daemon. It was quite expected of you to support Viserys. Truer betrayal came from other roads.” She ate a morsel of the bread, a thin layer of raspberry spread over it, staining her lips to a blood red. The two of them remained quiet, eating while Daemon thought on the steps of the dais. Rhaenys broke that silence. “Though it was a surprise you named your son after my father. Ten years ago I would have thought Baelon’s line would be more amenable to forget their uncle.”

“It was Lyanna who named our son. Chose it along with an egg grandfather accepted to be given to him; one of Vhagar’s clutches. My father had smiled greatly at hearing it.”

Silence returned to the hall like a tomb after Daemon’s rather somber tone. Corlys had heard of the little skirmish threatening to happen in the Riverlands. Tully and Stark at each other’s throats; both looking for dragon’s blood after their she-wolf ran away with the prince. Peace prevailed in the end, and Ser Bert found another maiden to have at his bed, but neither parties looked pleased with its result.

At the time, both he and Rhaenys had found Daemon to be a bit touched on the head, to simply abscond with a lord’s daughter and thinking all would be well if they married. He himself was said to be promised to another, yet that nameless lady was forgotten amidst all the chaos at Harrenhal. “Jaehaerys will be displeased. He had enough children to be disappointed in their wild ways of spurning his plans. Now he has to be wary of grandchildren too.”

“Why do you think it was only the king vexed?” Rhaenys argued. “Grandmother was the one to make this match. After Viserra, it was bound to happen with Daemon too. Alysanne has a rather poor finger when choosing the matches for her children.”

And now Daemon speaks of a dragon’s egg in his son’s cradle, a tradition reserved only to the king’s children and close family of the heirs’. Neither of Baelon’s sons had eggs, and Rhaenys had taken to her aunt’s dragon after her passing, just like her cousins. Did the old king secretly favored the match?

It did not matter in the end. Jaehaerys I was long dead, and Aemon the Younger’s egg never hatched. Just earlier in the year did they hear of the boy flying toward Dragonstone in the middle of the night to retrieve his dead cousin’s egg. Wasn’t the boy just eight?

It was a thought to consider. A young dragonrider, with no land of his own, no future but that of his own making. . . Corlys could sympathize with that. Ater all, he was a man who built his own fortune, and with a boy that talented. . .

In his travels, Corlys had heard many things anyone would consider madness. Hells, he himself thought the majority of them to be plainly sailor’s tale. And Corlys was a sailor himself. He knew the smell of that shit. And yet, many other things proved to be true, some to his wonder, some to his terror. From Asshaii by the Shadow to the lands beyond the Wall, dragons may not be the only mystery this world witnessed still. And Corlys knew; he employed a northman on his crew. And many of their tales somehow made mention of the Starks. Could there be something more to such an old dynasty, or were they as dead and gone in their blood like the white walkers of the woods?

Without looking away, he spoke after the spell of silence. “How many men do you expect to field, Lord Corlys?”

“Five thousand men of Driftmark’s own. In a time of peace young men are restless. There are so many tourneys knights of summer compete before the more impoverished ones turn to banditry. Best to turn their talent into something more useful. And your name carries weight, my prince. The man who waged a war for the hand of his lady love.” Corlys got up and moved in measured strides toward the prince until they were side by side. “I have already called the banners for mine own men, but it shall take more time to gather the third sons we can from across the realm. A moon’s turn at the earliest.”

Daemon made a sound, half a chuckle and half a huff. “Then you shall have to endure my presence for bit more, my lord. I do not deal in half measures.”

Chapter Text

Visenya sat near the hearth, clad in a warm dress of red samite and fur lined. Over her shoulders was a great cloak, dark and soft, lined with fox fur. It was just like her time in Winterfell. Cold nights, brisky mornings, with the sun starting its ponderous climb through the sky to warm them. The cloak too gave her many memories. Of her father, and the time all her family was happy and safe.

The window to the side showed a similar image of that of Winterfell’s towers in the morning, minus all the grey grass and dark pines of the wolfswood encroaching near the castle. A sea of mist washed out into the city from the Blackwater Bay, shrouding the Red Keep and King’s Landing below into a thick milky coverlet, only the tops of tall buildings and towers could be seen, peeking out from the pale sea.

But that was not what she saw by her window. It was the Blackwater Bay that the red stone framed, and its forest of masts gathered in the water, the sun rising behind them and beyond; from under the water and into the sky. It was a beautiful sight, and one she never tired of witnessing, if only to see if it really would rise again in the next morning.

The only thing of surpassing beauty was her son, cradled in her arms, sleeping serenely. Her beautiful boy was just done having his fill of her milk, detaching from the nipple and stumbling right into slumber. Chubby as he was, Visenya could not do anything but love him, and keep him close. She remembered looking in confusion to Lady Catelyn when she saw her passing little Bran to the wetnurse instead of feeding him instead. As brusque as her answer was, it proved true enough. Most ladies; that is, those whose husbands could afford to employ a wetnurse; chose to give their sons to the servants for feeding instead of giving from her own body.

Of course, she had pointed out that, as a bastard, Visenya would likely have to feed her son herself, when her father decided she was deserving of marriage and have children of her own.

Visenya shook her head. It was to a different person Lady Catelyn had said those words, but it did not prove itself wrong for her in the end. The difference was that Visenya chose to feed her son. After all, it was on those moments she felt the most content in her life. It felt like all the suffering and tragedy they had endured was worth it, just to keep her Rhaegar alive and living in her arms.

But there was no need to worry about those things. Peace finally came to them. The sun had risen. After almost a full year of no light, spring was upon them.

Though truly, the Citadel had yet to send word about the thawing of winter over them, even if it was hundreds of times less terrifying and cold as it had been before. No matter. Spring would come, sooner or later. This she knew.

She was humming an old northern song to her babe when the door opened behind her. She didn’t even make to turn and see to know who had come in. Warm hands enveloped her body from behind the settee, his lips touching her temple. “How is he?” Egg asked.

“Fell out cold after having his fill, like his father,” Visenya answered in a monotone.

Her husband gasped feigning indignation. “Lies from an ungrateful queen, so high in her tower to see us lowly beings pleasing her. Know that I take care of you well enough before I have my needs.”

She shrugged. “At least he doesn’t snore. And Rhaegar is gentle when he has my nipple in his mouth.”

“Oh gods, what sin have I commit to deserve this northern lass’s rebuke?” Aegon said in false despair, a hand over his heart. Truly, her husband could sometimes pass for a professional mummer.

She shook her head. “Being my brother was enough,” she said, and both chuckled. Aegon walked around the couch and sat himself next to her, his right arm gently pulling her waist closer to him. Visenya shuffled to clothe her exposed breast.

“That still bother you so? If yes, then you should have said it before stealing my heart. The fire runs hot in my veins, and I need kin close to me. Arianne would be my choice,” he teased her with that dazzling smile of his. Blue-purple eyes shining on his face.

She gave him a serious stare. “You wouldn’t have the chance, husband of mine. Run far away, or ride fast toward Sunspear, Ebrion and I would’ve caught you before your cousin was before you inside a sept.” She raised a hand, driving one pale finger into his chest, poking him. “There is no escape from me, Aegon Targaryen. You give me a lot of headaches, but you are mine to give them to me. There will never be another.”

Egg gently grasped her hand and gave a soft kiss on her knuckles. “Are you sure, my beauty? You do look like your cousin Arya. Maybe I could have mistaken her for you, or the other way around. You two have the same face when angry.”

She pulled away fast and gave his shoulder a slap. “Cunt!” she called him, with a particular pull on her accent Aegon mercilessly latched to make fun of her. She ended up climbing over him, slapping that fool without end while her brother laughed and mimed her voice.

The both of them froze when Rhaegar started crying, rudely awakened by their noisy parents. “Oh no, don’t cry my beautiful boy. All is well,” she cooed to her son, pacing around the room and rocking him up and down on her arms like she had seen the maids in Winterfell do.

“Let me help you,” she heard Egg say, and gently he peeled their son from her arms to start the same rocking motions. Then he started singing a little song. It must have been in bastard valyrian, as she did not know what he said.

Slowly, Rhaegar stopped crying, and not long after he was blinking slowly. Aegon stood there, a soft smile gracing his lips as he watched his son sleep in his arms. One thumb combing the silky brown hair away from the babe’s brow. Again she thought this scene was better than the sunrise. Her heart ached with love, watching the men of her life in front of her in such a lovely scene. It could melt the most frozen of hearts, she knew.

“What?” Egg asked her. She said nothing to him, walking over and kissing in the lips, to show her love and devotion to this man. Egg deepened it, but chose to end it quickly, else they would wake Rhaegar again. Visenya leaned her head against his shoulder and hummed, content with the life they achieved.

“I still don’t know how could this beautiful thing came out of me. . .” she whispered, enthralled by the sight of her son. He was strong and hale; very much alive. She couldn’t wait to see him grow into a man, yet Visenya already knew she would mourn the loss of his weight on her arms once that happens.

“Don’t sound so surprised, we made him together,” Egg said, giving a kiss to the top of her head. She was a tall woman, but Aegon still was almost a foot taller than her. “Besides, beautiful things can come only from one equally so, so don’t sell yourself short.”

She turned to face him, her body pressed against his, grey eyes looking deep into purple ones. One of the only two good things that happened to her in the last five years, Egg had made her unable to live without him, captured her heart like a master strategist, like his ploy to capture Storm’s End. But instead of giving it to someone else, he chose to keep it for himself, selfishly denying her any option but to accept his love. Aegon was like the Conqueror come again, even if he was black instead of red. It did not matter. Visenya had no choice but to fall for him. I love you she thought, and repeated it like a prayer to the elusive gods on their heavens. If words had power, then this declaration would be etched into history for eternity, written in the stars for those in the future to read and be awed by it.

Egg smiled, and kissed her again. It seemed that her words weren’t contained in her mind, but were spilled carelessly by her treacherous tongue. Rough fingers caressed her cheek, and adoration fell in waves from his eyes like heat from a fire. “I lov-“

Before he could finish his words, a horn blew in the wind, shaking the castle with it. Its sound low and long, like the mourning cry of a beast.

Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.

“The rangers are back,” Egg spoke, and suddenly all the warmth left their surroundings. His breath misted before his mouth, and her husband looked gaunt. It was only then that she noticed what he was wearing. Furs and wool, all the same shade of faded black, a tattered cloak over his shoulders. Blackfyre’s ruby gleaned dully on the low light, peeking from behind his cloak.

He handed her their son, which she immediately pressed against her breasts. Aegon marched away, towards the door. No sooner had he touched the handle another blast came, longer.

Uuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooo.

“No. . .” she whispered into a cloud. Frost began to gather on the window’s glass, the fire of the hearth guttered and shrank into a dull glow, only embers there. The warm light that flooded the room turned grey, a massive cloud covering it, threatening to rain down a snowstorm.

At the door, Aegon had turned deathly pale, then his face became blue. His once shiny silver locks dulling into tatters, ropy grey hair clinging to his scalp until they fell from his head. His hands turned gnarly like naked trees, the skin cracked and turned to ash. Aegon’s corpse face followed the same path, his eyes shriveled into raisins, rolling into its orbits and disappearing into darkness. “Visenya” he croaked, and the pile of bones crumbled under its weight, all she could do was watch.

Her arms felt cold, and her legs were caked with snow, rooting her in place. She tried pressing her son against her chest harder, but the cold only spread through her bosom. Visenya risked a look at the bundle she was holding, and gasped in horror. Rhaegar was cold and heavy like a stone, all blue from frost, tiny lips turned purple long ago. Her hands faltered, yet a scream had yet to crawl away from her throat. The dead babe fell in the snow like a sack of stones, the sound muffled by the gathering drift. The door to the chambers creaked open, and through it came Rhaegar, all grown and handsome, decked in an armor of ice, the scales shifting darker and lighter with the light. The most beautiful thing she had seen. The most terrible thing she had witnessed. Rhaegar was so tall he had to stoop under the door frame, but his steps were graceful, never breaking the snow underfoot. He crossed the room and raised his sword, a thin thing, almost invisible. Her eyes followed its edge as it fell towards her, nails raking canyons on her cheeks as the thing in front of her spoke. “Visenya.” Blue eyes shining in the dark-

Visenya screamed. She felt hands around her shoulders, grasping her and shaking her. She struggled against their grip, fighting and screaming.

“Visenya! Calm down, it’s us!”

That voice- that sounded just like her son, her beautiful baby boy who never had the chance to live. “Rhaegar?” she whispered. Visenya half expected to see blue eyes and icy skin in front of her. Instead she saw dark hair and grey eyes, beside a paler head and bright purple eyes.

“It’s us, cousin. There’s no need for terror,” Aemon said softly, like soothing a frightened animal.

It was then she heard the heavy shuffling of metal scales, the frame of Ser Steffon appearing over Aemon’s shoulder. “My princes, you must leave! The Princess Visenya needs her rest.” He looked concerned, and guilty of something.

Visenya swinged her legs out the bed and sat there, her hands clutching her head. Gods, she thought. It felt so real. . . She was lost for a moment until she gathered her bearings. She was alive. Spring was upon them, with summer quickly following it. She pulled a lock of her hair toward her line of sight. Silver, just like Aegon’s. Visenya was alive, but not her love, not her son.

“All is well, ser. It was only a night terror,” she gasped between words, forcing them out of her mouth. He made a motion to protest but she stopped him before the words left his mouth. “Leave, ser. I need but a moment.” Ser Steffon wasn’t pleased, but bowed and followed her command, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Visenya let out a heavy sigh while Rhaenyra and Aemon watched her with concerned gazes. “Sorry, Senya. We thought to wake you with a surprise to you first morning of training swordfight.”

She looked at him with a quick irritated glance, then her eyes fell to the thing her cousin was holding in his hands. Visenya had seen that before. “Is that-?”

“A northern horn, aye. It was a gift of my uncle, Lord Rickon, for my last nameday. Said it was the least he could do after years of silence from each other,” Aemon answered with a sheepish smile. He gently placed the curving horn atop her bed. “It was my idea though. Sounding the horn to wake you. I thought it would be funny, to make it seem it’s a battle at the Wall against wildings. Rhaenyra though it too.”

Her nostrils flared. “And you had to blow it twice?!”

He looked a little indignant, though quickly mellowed back to shame. “Well, we had to go with the whole thing. One blast for rangers returning, two blasts for wildlings at the gates.”

To the side, the horn sounded again. It made Visenya jump on her bed and squeal, even if it wasn’t as strong as the previous two blasts. Rhaenyra removed her lips from the mouthpiece and grinned. “And three for Others!” Visenya shivered at a stray wind.

“Yeah,” Aemon muttered quietly. “That too.” He gently pried the thing away from Rhaenyra’s hands and turned to her. “Why don’t you go and tell Ser Stephon we will be out in a moment. Tell him we are to go for the yard this morning? Then we can all meet there. That sounds good?”

Rhaenyra didn’t seem to agree with him, but nodded nonetheless. Aemon patted her head with affection and spoke a word in thanks, earning him a light giggle out of the little girl. Soon she was out of the room in moments. Her cousin’s smiling face fell the moment the door closed again. “Sorry for that. I rather forgot it could rattle you so.”

She nodded, but didn’t voice her agreement. She understood, of course. Their pasts were shared in broad strokes, none of the details were spoken by either of them. That did not mean she was displeased with him. Though a tiny part of her wanted to remain cross with him.

Aemon sighed and leaned against her bed, grey eyes looking for something in her room to distract himself. When he noticed she had not moved away from the position she was at, he spoke. “Was it a particular painful one?”

She did not need any more words to understand what he meant. She nodded.

Aemon pressed his lips together. “They usually pass with time, but always return sometime after. I would like to say that wasn’t true, but you wouldn’t believe.”

Visenya didn’t reply. She was tired, her heart aching too much, beating in her chest like a rapid wardrum, slowly crawling to a paced rhythm.

“You can take today to rest, if that’s what you want. We gave you a big scare for one day,” he gently offered. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Visenya quickly wiped them with a strong pass of her nightgown’s sleeve and jumped out of bed.

“No. There’s a meeting of the Small Council today, and I won’t be known to be a craven at my first swords lesson, leaving before ever beginning.” Her voice felt strained, but she ruled it suitable enough to smother any argument against her. She was tired of all these things, of night terrors and plots and difficult families- Visenya wanted to sleep, but she needed to march onward. She walked behind the wooden screen and started removing her nightgown. Gods, it felt wet. She must have sweated it through at night. She would need a newer one, along with a change of the bed clothes.

She heard Aemon’s steps and froze in place. He stopped at the other side. Hesitantly, she returned to changing, grabbing a clean tunic colored a deep red. After some moments of silence, Aemon put an end to it. “You mentioned “Rhaegar” when we woke you up.” It was not a question.

Visenya stopped mid pull of her dark breeches and considered his words. Should she answer him? If not, he would most likely think of his father- or their father- from the past. But she too remembered that he was the only person who knew of her difficult situation, her only true ally in this madness. If she was not to trust him, then who else? She did not doubt for a second Rhaenyra would call her mad, if one day she ever told her sister the truth.

“I was dreaming about our father, is all. You know the. . . the first one, back then,” she lied. She felt guilty of deceiving her friend in such a way, but it was too painful to keep thinking of the truth.

She heard a sigh from the other side of the screen, heavy with burdening words. Yet, he only spoke two. “I understand.” Visenya heard the soft thud of heels on stone and the clinking of buckles. “I’ll be waiting you in the yard with the boys. Best not keep Ser Quenton waiting.” She looked to the direction of the sound, and saw leather boots placed near the edge of the screen, a folded belt of black leather over it. She heard the door groaning open and closing shortly after. Visenya got onto dressing herself.

It was in the inner yard she found them, arranged into a line in front of an old knight. He had a stern face and a dark beard, a bit of salting marring his auburn bush.

He was the first one to notice her approaching, kingsguard in tow. “Finally, the princess arrives!” the man said in a booming, commanding voice. It was quite fitting for him, such a broad and strong frame he had. The boys in front of him turned to look at her too, some had more surprise shown in their faces than others.

She ignored all, and marched with a head held high toward the master-at-arms of the Red Keep. The startled boys made way for her passing, like the waves for a ship. “I’m here for my training, Ser Quenton.”

The Foote knight nodded. “Stay in line, and you’ll have your sword training, girl.” Without another moment, he turned to the rest of the squires and started speaking. “Knighthood is not for any pea-brained dolt who can lift a pitchfork or a woodaxe. It requires discipline, it requires strength of will, and it requires grit to stand your feet when a wall of steel ready for bloody murder marches towards you! If any of you lowly wretches are not capable of enduring my orders, then spares us your whining and leave the yard to the real men. You might be heirs to great lords, scions of old lines, or even princes and your fathers kings. None of this matter down here. In this yard, my word is law. If I tell to get up, you get up. If I tell you to scour my mail clean, you’ll do it and ask for more. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Ser Quenton!” all the boys yelled in unison. Some even looked spooked by the knight’s speech. Off to the side, sers Harold and Steffon chuckled silently at the scene. Visenya didn’t think Viserys would be much appreciative if he heard his master-at-arms was yelling at royalty like they were common boys, with his kingsguard laughing all the while.

“Did you hear me, girl?!” She jumped a little at Ser Quenton, yelling right at her.

“Yes, Ser Quenton!” she answered like the boys; with squared shoulders and straight spine. The stout knight nodded, and continued with his yelling. “Now move your lazy arses to the weapons rack. Grab a wooden sword and a shield each, and start your forms at the training dummies.”

The company of boys ran to the rack leaning on the armory’s wall, a stack of various swords, some of steel, others made of wood; light, or weighted with lead cores. Visenya followed them, allowing the most eager to grab their choice of equipment. The armory itself was a squat keep of brick and wood, with a wide first floor where crates and barrels of swords, helmets, arrows and many other things a guard needed were present. The second storey had a balcony overlooking the yard, with a shingled roof above it. Visenya caught sight of her sister there, watching wide-eyed at the scrambling children following their knight’s orders. Criston Cole was there a few feet behind, to her displeasure. She just hoped the man would have the curtesy of remaining quiet while she trained. Visenya had no need of her father fretting over a stern taskmaster.

Cole isn’t in the Small Council, she reminded herself, and he would remain well away from it if she had any say about it. Besides, Ser Harold is here watching everything, and he has yet to raise his voice in objection. That had put the Westerling knight in positive regard for her, at least.

Visenya made her choice of arms, limited as they were between a small wooden sword and a slightly bigger wooden sword, and returned to the yard, already decked in boiled leather. The others were already in their positions, going through the series of positions Visenya recognized from Robb’s instructions: the simplest stance for beginners, with raised shields and swooping arcs of the sword.

It was supposed to be easy, Visenya had hoped, but the body she had now was not the same of her own at nine and ten, with arms toned with muscle after years of hard living in Robb’s army, pestering Bennard for spars, and the long journey back to Winterfell after. . .

Visenya’s grip on her sword faltered after she delivered a swing to the dummy’s steel and straw head. The wooden sword clattering to the stony and dirt-filled ground. “Keep the grip on your sword, Princess. This isn’t your needling session for soft hands!” Ser Quenton barked not a second later. She bent down and retrieved the weapon, swinging it in place to test her grip. It didn’t help when she was years without training, and with a cumbersome shield at her side.

“Hey,” she heard a whisper to the side. Her cousin was there, still in stance, preparing to strike his dummy, but talking to her. “Spread your legs a little wider, then pivot whit the strike. Twist with the blade as it scrapes down at the helm.”

“Pay attention at your foe, dragonling! A knight won’t stop to chat with you about how great the weather is today! Let the teaching to me, boy!” Ser Quenton barked again, the other boys flinching, but keeping their head down.

Instead of following their lead, Aemon just straightened and looked back at the Foote knight. “I was just helping my cousin, Ser. Her stance was just a bit stiffer than necessary. We had more time training than her, after all.”

Russet hair hid the downturn of his mouth, but his eyes told everyone he was displeased to hear anyone talking back at him. “Are you the master swordsman here, boy? Are you here to teach us simple folk how to use a sword now?”

Her cousin cursed silently, lowering his head. “No, ser.”

“Then shut your mouth and follow your orders. You think because you are a prince’s son you can go and do as you please? Not here, boy. Here, you will listen to my commands and follow to the best of your abilities. If you don’t like it, then you can go back and sniffle in your rooms, but not here. Am I understood?”

Aemon nodded. “Yes, Ser Quenton.”

The knight nodded, satisfied, and motioned at the dummy. “Very well, return to the training, now” and walked back to watch the others. Her cousin returned to focus only at his motions, but still glanced at her when he thought Ser Quenton wasn’t watching.

Visenya tried other swings, but the blade kept fumbling on her hand, many times almost jumping away. She didn’t know what was happening. Visenya had been a decent swordsman in the final years of her first life, having even defeated an Other in single combat! Yet here she was, fumbling like green boy with her sword.

Ser Quenton called them to a semicircle after some time hammering the dummies, and started making pairs for the duels. The first two were Aemon and Martyn Lannister. “Ready to know what dirt tastes like, Lannister?” her cousin taunted the boy, who smirked and shot a barb of his own. “Even the biggest birds come down to take a shit, Targaryen. I’ll be careful not to sully your silk swaddlings.” Both boys laughed and faced each other, each one at an opposite part of the circle. As one, they stepped forward, shields raised.

Martyn was the one who engaged first, with a tentative swing of his sword. Aemon took it with his shield. When the third swing came, her cousin surged forward, slapping away with his shield and advancing with a thrust. Martyn stumbled back, quickly pulling his own shield up. Aemon gave two hits at it, circling his foe to attack his undefended side, but had to jump away to avoid a wide swipe from his opponent. Martyn marched forward with a raised guard.

Aemon met the eventual hit with an overhead attack of his own, locking shield with sword. The Lannister boy took advantage of it, swatting Aemon’s shoulder with his own, getting him out of balance. Quick as a snake, the wooden blade met Aemon’s sword arm, hitting the shield when he changed his second attack for the shoulder.

Lannister and Targaryen were breathing heavily, taking a second to rest. Again, both jumped into the fray quickly. A fast strike was aimed at her cousin’s shield arm after a faint, but Aemon walked into his foe’s guard, slamming his sword on the inside of his knee. Martyn grunted and heaved for another sweeping strike. Quickly Aemon darted under it, aiming a strike to the ribs that could crack leather if swung with a grown man’s strength. His opponent faltered, stumbling to a knee. Aemon took no second to wait and swung for the head- until he stopped and only tapped the side of Martyn’s helm. “Yield?”

The boy scoffed. “I would, if you hadn’t taken half my head with a swing.” Her cousin moved the sword away, shoving it under his belt before pulling the boy to his feet. Martyn shoved lightly at him, grinning. “You would be hitting me with a shield if our blades were steel. That stroke would cut any man’s arm to ribbons.”

“Then we both would be wearing plate and mail from head to toe. I will bet the royal fleet against that strike cutting through steel gauntlet and rerebrace.”

The next ones on the circle were Roland Rosby and Aron Lynderly, with his black and green quilted tunic peeking from under the leather armor. Unfortunately, this one was not even half impressive as fight before, with both Rosby and Lynderly gingerly circling each other, but afraid of ever meeting in between. “By the gods, are the two ladies afraid of breaking a nail? Fight already!” Ser Quenton reprimanded them, which served to urge the two boys to walk forward in half steps. In the end Aron was the winner of the bout, by the virtue of being the bigger boy. Though that happened not before he received hits of his own.

The last bout was her own, set against Marq Merryweather, a boy with tiny eyes hidden behind a shock of orange red hair. Visenya kept doing little swings with her wrist, testing her grip. She prayed to whatever god was out there to help her in this moment. Visenya would not fail here, in the eyes of training men. Such humiliation would only be used as fuel by her soon-to-be detractors.

Aegon was born mere days away, yet Visenya was prepared start hearing talks of the succession. It inevitably would grow bigger from now.

Visenya adjusted the halfhelm on her head and nodded to Foote, who announced the beginning of the fight. Both warily closed their distance, shields raised high. Despite the trepidation in reacher boy’s eyes, he was the one to swing first. Her round shield took most of the damage, but one swing sneaked from under it and hit her in the ribs. It didn’t hurt. The boy quickly stepped away, peeking behind his shield.

He’s going easy on me, she fumed. How was she to become better if they were going to give her half-hearted attempts against her?!

Visenya gave a cry and surged forward. Marq swung his sword to keep her away, but a swat from her shield left him open for a strike. Her left leg was between his two, body shoving against the boy as she pivoted and swung her sword, aimed at his helm. . .

The hit connected, and rang his head like a bell. Merryweather tumbled to the ground, pulling his shield close to his body. Her own sword fell too, slipping from her grip. The crossguard dug into the flesh of her hand, and she stood there, watching her sword spin away to the side.

Marq scrambled to his feet, still a bit dazed from the hit. “Finish her, Merryweather!” barked Ser Quenton to the side.

But Marq hesitated. “She’s unarmed!” he squeaked in protest.

“Do you want her to bash your head in with her shield? Go on and finish the fight!” Ser Quenton urged again.

Visenya tried to edge herself toward her fallen sword, but Merryweather moved to compensate, getting himself between the two. She cursed her younger body again.

She had to get her sword back, but without it she had no way of retrieving it! And barreling down against him would be dumb, she was both weaker and lighter than him. With a wide stance, her foe would remain rooted to the ground.

Marq started edging forward, his guard still raised even after she lost her sword. His steps making scissor moves, getting close then moving away. But what did it matter if she got back her sword, if only to have another heavy hit at him, then see it fly away again? She cursed her right hand. It had worked perfectly before, defeating bandits and soldiers alike, and even an Other. When Robb gave them their instructions, she had taken them quickly, meager as they were. Only Arya fumbled it first for then to get better when. . . oh, she though. Visenya had a dumb idea, but it was better than standing there with only a shield. She had to be fast, else it would end in her loss again. She started loosening the buckle of the belt at her left arm, holding the shield.

Merryweather moved again, left leg pulling to rest closer to its neighbor. Visenya darted, yelling to scare the boy. To her luck, he startled at the sudden movement, and hardly presented resistance at her pushing him down with a heavy strike of her shield. Marq tumbled down again, and almost took her with him. She sidestepped him, crouching towards her sword. The shield fell away, and Visenya gripped the sword with both hands, pulling it to a plow guard, off to her left.

Her opponent was already on his feet, advancing on her with his sword above the shield. Visenya breathed in deep, then let the air out from the mouth. I just need to mirror it. When they were close, Marq motioned to raise his right elbow. That was her queue. She pulled her sword high into a twist to cleave his head in two. Marq saw it and tried to meet the blow. Visenya feinted, and instead of completing the twist above her head, she stepped forward to a thrust, right at his face. Wooden blades glided against each other, her guard catching his sword and locking it, as the blunt point of her own weapon poked hard against his brow. Merryweather jerked his head away, and fell on his arse. In a second, Visenya was over him, setting a foot over his sword and putting her point at his throat. “Yield?”

The boy looked wide-eyed at her, and nodded. He looked dumbfounded. She leaned close and whispered. “Don’t ever throw your fight when facing me, Merryweather, or I’ll put you down with worse than a black eye.” He looked back fearfully at her words, and nodded furiously. She left the boy there on the ground.

“Enough!” cried the master-at-arms. “That was reckless, fighting without a shield. You didn’t even have the proper sword for that. On the battlefield, it would have gotten you one less arm, or a skewered gut.”

Visenya would not balk at him here. It was her only way of winning the bout. “But I defeated my foe with what I had. Would you rather I give up after losing my weapon? As it stands, I prefer to be amongst the living, battle or not.”

The knight raised a brow at her. “You shouldn’t have lost it in the first place.” One hand rose to pull lightly on his beard. “But you did win it, with a half-way decent stance for someone taking to the sword for the first time.”

Each got another spar after her own. Her cousin faced Aron Lynderly, winning without getting hit; she fought Rosby and almost won; and Marq was soundly defeated by Martyn Lannister. Surprising her, Martyn didn’t sneer or sinker at the red-haired boy, as she expected from a boy sharing the same family name as the Kingslayer.

“Didn’t know you were left-handed,” whispered her cousin in High Valyrian while Martyn and Marq met in the yard.

“Me neither,” she answered in the same tongue. “I used my right hand before, and it worked fine.” It was quite a mystery as to how did she change from that to now. Though, if she was truthful, this body she lived in now was different from the one before. She had purple eyes instead of grey, silver-gold hair instead of her mother’s brown.

“Huh, so that’s why your letters are impossible to read,” Aemon said absentmindedly. Visenya only glared at him, and the boy snickered. Both grew quiet when Ser Quenton glanced at them.

The training was done by the time the sun had made a fifth of its travel across the sky. “Follow me, princess. We will make our way to the Small Council meeting after you are readied,” said Ser Harold and she nodded, going back inside the holdfast with her tunic drenched in sweat. She felt good finally doing something physical, instead of wasting her day with the septa’s nonsense. But as good as swordtraining was, she knew she couldn’t just ghost on her lessons. She was to be a queen, a southron queen that is, which meant knowing at least a bit of the south’s faith.

She ate an assortment of cold meats with olives and cheese while she bathed, which caused the flustered Ser Harold to urge Visenya into hasting her braking of fast. Her maids had chosen an airy dress of sky blue silk and lace, quite comfortable for a lazy noon, even if that was the last thing she would do today. The council was already in session when Ser Harold and her entered the chambers.

“Apologies for my tardiness, father,” she said with a little curtsy to him. “I had little time to break my fast and bathe after my appointment with Ser Quenton this morn.”

Viserys smiled, beckoning her to him, and giving a big kiss to her cheek. Visenya wouldn’t admit to anyone, but it truly felt good to receive such affection from her father and in such an open environment. “There is nothing to worry, my sweet daughter. We hardly entered into matters yet.” She nodded, and claimed her seat at her father’s left. Beside her was Lord Lyman, who greeted her with a warm smile and a slight bow of the head. She greeting him with a smile of her own. Nods were what she gave for the rest.

Her father nodded forward, and asked to the room in general in genial tone. “So, what are the matters of today’s council, my lords?”

Hightower glanced at his papers before speaking. “But minor quarrels in the Dornish Marches, as Lord Boremund Baratheon writes us. He assures the crown there is nought to worry.”

“Is it the emergence of another Vulture King, like the one from Aegon I’s reign?” Visenya inquired. Conflict with the dornish would be bad for numerous reasons, she knew. First was the amount of gold and lives wasted in hunting them down in their own mountains, aside from the rather obvious connection they have with dornish law, and its most known characteristic: the equal rights of inheritance between men and women. The first thing Hightower would do is create a connection between these raiders, the fact they have ruling princesses, and her supposed incompetence in being heir due to her sex.

Otto regarded her with calm eyes, his voice lacked any emotion behind it. “He does not write it, princess. Nor have we heard any information of that sort from Ser Imry.” The mentioned Master of Whisperers nodded, with his ever-present frown plastered over his face. Such a warm man. Doesn’t even speak when prompted. It would be easier to conquer Dorne in the first place than getting his support. She just hoped he was this sour to everyone else too.

The king nodded content. “Then we have nothing more to discuss. Lord Boremund is not a man of making grandiose boasts. Let us move on the next issue.”

“Lord Malwyn Hunter, the Lord Protector and Regent of the Vale, writes us Lady Jeyne has imprisoned her cousin on the grounds of challenging her right of rule. He writes of Ser Arnold Arryn gathering swords for his claim,” informed Ser Otto.

“The Lady Jeyne Arryn did this? And her regent did nothing?” Lord Simon Staunton questioned.

Runciter, at Lord Beesbury’s other side, cleared his throat before speaking, his neck arching forward with the weight of his heavy chains. “Lord Malwyn is Lady Jeyne’s grandfather, my lords. It would be logical, if not obvious, the Lord Protector approved of his granddaughter’s actions.”

Her father wrung his hands together. “This is quite worrying. My grandfather the King Jaehaerys saw fifty years of peace in his realm, and I cannot let that which he strove to achieve be lost over done matters such as Lady Jeyne’s rights. What does the lords of the Vale think of this quarrel, Ser Imry?”

The dour man clasped his fingers over each other, leaning them on the table. His tone was as disinterested as if one was talking about the number of chicks a duck can lay. “Ser Ryman Templeton was supportive of his goodbrother, but has mellowed in tone since Ser Arnold has been put in under arrest. Lady Rhea of Runestone is a staunch supporter of her liege, it must be said, as well as Lord Arlan Redfort.”

“Lord Arlan’s son is a promising knight, I am told. My son oft meets him in tourneys across the Reach. A chivalrous lad,” added Lyman at her side.

“And quite eager for a good match, I am certain,” concluded the Hand in a final tone, cutting away the meandering matter. “The lords have their reasons to support this one or that one, but they all must abide by the King’s peace.”

“What do you suggest, my friend?” her father asked with a shrug, fingers tapping in a rhythm.

“We can summon Lady Jeyne and Ser Arnold and hear their sides of the matter. The best way to avoid more conflict is to end the matter of succession swiftly.”

“I don’t see any reason to interfere in Lady Jeyne’s ruling, father,” she butted in. She saw clearly what Otto was trying to do. Removing her kin from power to cut possible support of her own right in the bud while Lady Jeyne is still in her minority, as well as she in her rather recent role of heir. “No violence has occurred, and Lady Jeyne dealt with her problems swiftly. The King’s peace is intact.”

“That may be so, but she cannot maintain Ser Arnold indefinitely in chains, princess,” Otto Hightower said in a condescending tone. “Once freed, he will press his claim again, and the threat of conflict return at a later date.”

“You suggest the lady executes her cousin?” asked Staunton alarmed. “That would be kinslaying, my lord!”

Viserys raised one hand, stopping Otto from retorting at the accusation. “Let my daughter explain her line of thinking.”

Eight pairs of eyes looked at her expectantly then, waiting for her words. Visenya straightened her spine and swallowed. “Each kingdom has a certain level of autonomy on how their lords rule. The king does not select the number of gold tons mined in the Westerlands, nor the price of trout fished in the Riverlands. Conflict is bound to rise on them, and naturally the High Lords shall deal with them accordingly. The king interferes only when the matter involves two high lords to act as a mediator, or when said high lord requests assistance. Though, of course, the nature of the problem would have quite escalated to reach this option. Nonetheless, interfering in Lady Jeyne’s lawful solution to a matter already solved would be the definition of the king encroaching on the agreed autonomy of the high lords of this realm.

“Ser Otto is right to be concerned of a return of conflict once Ser Arnold serves his punishment, but he errs on the side of the solution. By all the laws of this realm, Lady Jeyne is the lawful heir to her father and the Lady of the Vale. She already sports the title of Warden of the East, given by you at the start of your reign, father. What more confirmation to her legitimate claim do we need to even “contest” against her?” She reclined back in her seat, shuffling against the additional cushion placed under her. “If this Ser Arnold thinks he has a stronger claim, then let him come to his king to set the matter over. Yet clearly, he prefers to start a war than find the most peaceful solution first.”

“Well spoken, princess,” congratulated Lord Lyman at her side. “I agree with Princess Visenya. There is no more use for us to remain debating a matter already over and done for. Let Lady Jeyne rule her realm and you the rest of the kingdom, Your Grace.”

Her father looked at her with shining eyes. He grabbed one of her hands and caressed it over the table. “It has long been known my daughters have been graced with bright minds from an early age. And it is no surprise I find value in her argument. We shall do as the princess say. Lady Jeyne has already dealt with the problem on her own. We should as well commend her on her steadfastness.” He smiled greatly at her, and Visenya returned it with a shy one of her own. Why is it so easy to forgive his flaws?

Viserys turned back to the rest of his council and prompted for the next matter. Repairs on the kingsroad passing by the kingswood. Unanimously the lords and Grand Maester Runciter agreed for the importance of doing so, even if Lord Lyman bemoaned the quantity of gold spent on doing so. After that, Ser Imry raised a matter of his own.

“With the announcement of Prince Aegon’s birth, some in court have spoken their concern in regards to the succession,” he growled, glancing at her. And here comes the prized filly. The market of the Small Council was about to turn heated, she knew. Visenya held a grimace before her displeasure was made known.

It was then that Lord Lyonel stirred himself from his mute spell. “I would like to add to. . . Ser Imry’s concern about the importance. . . of setting an iron precedent, . . . Your Grace,” the lord of Harrenhal said in his usual slow speech. “It is paramount to the stability of the realm. . . to let the matter of your. . . succession be made clear to the lords. . . in light of Prince Aegon’s birth. . . as he is your only living son.”

Viserys splayed his hands over the table, a look of confusion and mild irritation overcame him. “What else needs to be made clear, my lord? I already have an heir.”

The men in the table looked between each other. It was Ser Otto who braved to contest his king, speaking in soft tones. “Your Grace, Andal Law states clearly the rights of a son come before that of a daughter. This has been true since the conquest for the kings who succeeded Aegon I.”

“Andal Law was quite clearly ignored not once, but twice in the last fifty years, Ser Otto,” Visenya let the words escape her mouth.” And then miraculously remembered after my mother the queen’s death.”

The Hand straightened in his seat, but it was the Grand Maester who spoke. “The Council of 101 has established an iron precedent, princess. And I would like to remind for those who may have forgotten. His Grace was chosen heir by a margin of twenty to one against Laenor Velaryon, whose mother was removed from consideration in a previous ballot.”

“Are we a free city of Essos now, Grand Maester,” she shot back. “Do the lords elect their king? Are we to expect you bring an executioner’s axe the next time the crops fail to chop the king’s head off?” Runciter bristled at her remark, but she ignored him, directing her words to the rest of the room. “King Jaehaerys chose my father as his heir, just as he had chosen Prince Baelon before. The only “precedent” the Great Council has set is the truth that some lords of this realm prefer to ignore tradition and law when convenient.”

“I take it we are not considering cutting my head just for fear of having a bit less apples next year, yes?” her father japed, though only some gave light chuckles. Viserys sighed and rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands. “There is no doubt on the matter of succession. I chose Visenya, and heir shall she remain. There is no more need of action on this when my mind is set.”

Hightower leaned forward, and spoke in soothing words. “King Aegon I had an elder sister of his own, Your Grace. A Visenya, no less.”

Clearly her father had enough talk of it, for even the lords’ goblets shook with the table after a large hand slammed hard on its surface. “Enough! My mind is set on this matter. Visenya is my heir, I have decided so and my word is law!”

“But there is more talk of it, father.” Viserys swiveled his head toward her, surprised. “The fact that court is in doubt must be considered. A strong and final decision must be made. A confirmation of your choice.” The words tumbled out of her mouth perfectly, just like when she convinced him of giving her a seat on this very council.

Emotions crossed the king’s face. Anger and surprise, irritation and tiredness. But mostly irritation. Finally, it settled on resignation. “You are right, daughter. Just like your mother, you are right in most matters.” After a sip from his goblet, Viserys rose from his seat, splaying his hands over the table. “Tomorrow, when I take my seat in the Iron Throne and preside over court, all will know that my choice has remained the same.”

The councilors all gave their nod, either in agreement or resignation. She could see Otto’s jaw clenched. Serves you right, cunt. Visenya had the urge of sticking a tongue at him, but rightly she contained it.

For her part, Visenya breathed relieved. That was a great victory for her. None would contest the king’s words when he made his choice clear of having his daughter as heir over his son. But this victory was only one of many battles. The war for the Iron Throne would be waged in the next decades, and she should not falter to meet the Hightowers, blow by blow.

The sun was in its zenith when the session was over. When she found her sister on Rhaenyra’s chambers, Visenya grabbed hold of her hands and danced to a soundless tune around the room. Laughter escaped her lips easily, and the day progressed marvelously.

Dinner that day was taken with the rest of her family, at the queen’s urgings. Her father sat in the middle, with Visenya and Rhaenyra to one side and Alicent to the other. The latter had bristled for a second when she came in, bringing Aemon along with her and Rhaenyra.

“Visenya was in a good mood today,” her sister revealed to their cousin, holding a grin.

Aemon smiled fatherly at the little girl. “Did she now?” He chuckled at Rhaenyra, who vigorously nodded. “Well, that was expected, she won her first bout in the yard today. Did pretty well for a novice with the sword.”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to correct him, but their father entered their conversation then, ignoring what Alicent was whispering to him. The queen looked a little vexed for the treatment. Serves her right. “You haven’t told me how your first day went, my dear.”

“Well, I hadn’t gotten the time to do that, the Small Council had a lot of things to discuss today,” she answered amiably. A quick glance to her side told her Aemon caught to her meaning. She squeezed a hand over his knee under the table. Later, it spoke, and hoped he understood the message.

“We have time now. Please, tell us what happened,” her father asked, and she obliged. She told of her initial difficulties with holding the blade, then told of the quite disbelieving tale of besting Marq Merryweather without a shield. Were it not for Aemon and Rhaenyra, as well as all the others witnesses in the yard, she doubted her father would believe such incredible feat.

Alicent held a little smile, either it was forced down or forced upon her face, and dabbed the corners of her mouth clean with a napkin. “That is quite a tale, princess. You are one achieving quite a number of commendations in such a young age. My father the Lord Hand told me in passing of the Small Council meeting of today, as well as the king’s shining pride over you.”

Visenya heard the words, but felt little of the warmth they conveyed. “I achieve to be the best heir my father can have, Your Grace. Queenship awaits me, and it is not an easy burden to shoulder.”

“And you have pleased me greatly, my daring girl!” her father added, caressing her face. “Rarely have I seen someone as young as you with such a talent for words. Of my memory, the late Prince Aemon had a skill like yours, and he learned that from the Conciliator himself!”

Alicent shared a smile to the king’s words, thought they weren’t as bright as his or her own. “It makes me glad to see you so happy, princess. Surely the Father Above has great plans for you! I just hope to see your brother sharing them with you. It would be like Aegon the Conqueror and his queen come again!”

Her own smile thinned at that, the strained thing that appeared when Alicent spoke something remotely close to her half-brother’s rights. “We shall have to see then, Your Grace. Today was my day. My half-brother will have his chance at glory, I do not doubt.”

The green queen stared back at her in a silent challenge. “Yes indeed. But I must remind my dear stepdaughter, of the power of the Seven. The Father works in mysterious ways, and today’s victories could sour on the next day. We must always be ready for when the challenges placed before us are met.”

And she was right; in that convoluted way she weaved the Seven’s teachings into her “innocent” warnings and praises. Today was her day, but clearly the Hightowers would not take this defeat lightly. The first time around, it took two decades for them to enact their treasonous plan. It only showed they were ready to play a long game. Yet that did not take away the sweet taste of today’s battle, and she planned to continue her streak of foiling their plans for as long as possible.

Visenya nodded and smiled thinly at the queen, turning back to her food while listening to Rhaenyra chatter away.

If only all battles were won this cleanly.

Chapter Text

Back when the world was simpler, Aemon had played on being the Dragonknight, ironically, his namesake. Back then, the only worries he and Robb had were on what game should they play, or how would they fool Fat Tom this time, or how to sneak into the keep without Lady Stark catching them covered in mud.

Well, a child’s life was full of benign worries, and being inspired by great stories was the most delicious food one could partake in.

That was, of course, before his world crumbled.

And now, he knew he would be doubly miserable being a kingsguard. At least at the Wall he had other things to do, not just guard duty, having a facefull of frozen air that could cut through wool and fur like a knife through a cake.

Aemon felt a kingsguard at this moment. Worse yet, it was not even a royal he stood guard for. Just the most boring man in the known world: Otto Hightower.

His food was bland, his wine too sweet, and his duties too similar to each other. Sometimes it was him speaking with a guild master from the city, or the commander of the Gold Cloaks (of that Aemon remembered well. The large man who came kept glancing at him from time to time. Did he know him as his prince’s son?), or a blacksmith when one of his sons needed another bejeweled set of silver armor. One had even brought up the idea of tinting the metal a forest green. Not just enamel, but taint the metal itself into the color! Aemon almost blanched at imagining the garish color on a knight, strutting with big bright plumes on his helmet.

Rather tasteless, to his opinion.

You’re the man who likes nothing but black and grey, he chided himself. Aemon sighed; unfortunately that was true too. He was that attached to black, even if he despised the memory of the Wall.

Of all the bad memories he had of the Wall, his friends were not a part of it at all. Iron Emmett, Todder, Halder, Hareth the Horse. Dywen with his wooden teeth and magical nose, Grenn and Pyp, Edd and his dour humor, Sam and his hidden courage, who managed to survive against forces dubbed knights would have loosened their bowels. . . There was much he missed of those times, and much he was glad to be away from this time around.

Otto Hightower remained behind his desk, the sun already a quarter away from setting. The lazy afternoon just turned into a glacial crawl with him waiting to do something.

Instead of jumping over the table and throttling the Hand himself, Aemon resigned to observe the man’s office. Bookshelves laden with scrolls and, of course, books, lined one of the walls. Trinkets of brass and other metals occupied spaces in them too. Some Aemon recognized as instruments of navigation. Of course, many empty spaces of red stone were covered with grey banners with the white tower of their name.

If the question was if Aemon liked it, he was rather unimpressed in either way, though he did appreciate the rather sparing use of silver and gold. It never got to be as tasteless as Cersei Lannister’s private chambers. He remembered sharing a rare chuckle with Dany when they found it the day they took the Red Keep.

Laughter wasn’t foreign to her lips, you fool. It was you whose joy had died.

As always, memories of Dany tended to sober him up pretty quickly. They tended to remind him of himself, of the shadow that he had become in those final years.

“Does any of them catch your interest, my prince?”

The Hand’s voice snapped him out of his black musings. The man hadn’t stopped writing, his hand moving in elegant swirls on the parchment.

“Y-yeah, I like. . .” his eyes roamed the shelves for something. “History! I like war history, that is.”

“Really?” Hightower asked, his tone strangely polite. He finished the letter crossing some Ts and dotting the Is. “Can you tell me of a battle you find interesting from memory?”

Damn it, he cursed. Most of the battles he knew happened after the Dance of the Dragons, and that had yet to happen here! And if we are lucky, we will not have to see it withing our lifetimes. He raked his brain for any mildly interesting battle he studied. He remembered of his time pacifying the Riverlands with Dany, and the time they spent a night in Raventree Hall. Lord Tytos Blackwood had graciously given them his own chambers, and the day after showed a bit of his house’s history, since they were twice-over kin, with many Blackwood ladies becoming Ladies of Winterfell throughout millennia, and of both he and Dany being descendants of Betha Blackwood, Aegon V’s queen. It hadn’t escaped him the strange interest Lord Tytos has easily taken onto him. What other Targaryen-Blackwood man with white hair and red eyes set foot on that castle?

“I once read about the Battle of Six Kings.” When the Hand made no objections, Aemon continued. “It happened around four centuries before the Aegon’s Conquest, starting as a rebellion of many riverlords against King Humfrey I Teague. The rebels were almost decimated at one moment, until Lord Roderick Blackwood asked King Arlan III Durrandon for help against Humfrey’s tyranny, as Roderick’s eldest daughter, Shiera was married to a son of the Storm King.

“Arlan’s army relieved Raventree Hall from its siege, and from there the final battle was planned. Lords Elston Tully and Robert Vance joined the Blackwood lord there, and marched together against the main force of King Humfrey. The place of battle is a famous one to this day, though more for its name than the historical importance it holds.”

Ser Otto furrowed his brow. “What strange name is this place called to overshadow such a battle?”

“The rivermen call it “The Teats.” They are two mounds parallel to each other, you see,” he explained, and it took a slight chuckle from Hightower. “At the Teats King Humfrey met King Arlan in battle with his riverlord allies.

“The Teague king had reached the Teats first, so he controlled the westernmost mound, securing the high ground. Seeing this predicament, King Arlan mounted a slow charge to the top in a crescent formation. The loyalist forces pelted the encroaching enemy with arrows and javelins, and yet they still climbed the side of the mound. Halfway through, Teague commanded a charge of his own, to break the enemy. The Storm king hoped for this, and gave word for his troops to begin a slow retreat, but only to the center of his troops. The loyalists pushed, and the rebels gave ground. To many, it seemed to be the end, until King Arlan gave his final command, and began the encircling of the enemy by the flanks. To help him crush the encircled forces, his previously hidden cavalry had emerged at the top of the mound Teague once controlled, having dealt with their enemy’s horses beforehand. Arlan served as the anvil, and Lord Roderick the hammer.

“King Humfrey and his four sons died that day, ending the Teague dynasty, but allied lords had been slain too, amongst them were the Lord of Raventree Hall, as well as Lords Tully and Bracken. So Arlan had a conundrum in his hands. Roderick left a child of six as his heir, and the Storm King did not trust the boy’s uncles. He had planned to crown Shiera Blackwood as queen of the Trident with his son at her side, but many riverlords did not want a woman ruling them. In the end, King Arlan III chose to have the Riverlands for himself, and that remained so until the Hoares of the Iron Islands took the region by force.”

Ser Otto looked impressed. “Very good account, my prince. It seems you have a talent for history.”

Aemon shrugged. “Thank you, my lord, but I’m not really that good with it. It just happens to be easier to like when it comes to battles.” It had always been so with him and Robb. They tried hard to remember every house sigil from the North and their words, but were quickly riveted when Maester Luwin brought them lessons in warfare and battles. They even had a little competition on who got most details right. The winner had the choice parts of a dessert usually, or had to gather all their armament after their training with Ser Rodrik Cassel.

The Hand chuckled. “I understand, lad. We are more inclined to learn what we like in the first place. That is a fact that, unfortunately is too true with my sons. Only Garth had a pleasant venture into the deeper studies of history and administration. He had an affinity for battle like you, my prince. But that didn’t happen with the others. They just wanted to be in the yard and hammer each other with their swords.”

An awkward silence hovered between them after Ser Otto revealed this bit of information. Aemon knew next to nothing about Otto’s children aside from Alicent, but knowing more about them would serve he and Visenya better, right?

It was the Hand that continued, when unprompted. “I once had that curiosity in me, Prince Aemon. Even enrolled into the Citadel to study the numerous books they had.” A fond smile grew on his lips. “Got to forge my own links of gold and pewter- economics and administration, that is; but the life of a maester wasn’t what I sought for me.”

The man rose from his seat, walking over to one of the windows. “Outside of Oldtown, there are many a holdfast laying in abandonment. Remnants of the time the old gods lived in the mind and heart of man in the Reach, and tales of Garth the Gardener were recollected in more than just fond folk lore. My father had plans on restoring some of them, and even promised to give me a seat of my own, to raise my own family.

“Young that I was, I held up to that belief, even if it never bore fruit. Oh, my father had his reasons to postpone this project: the Cobblestone Guard needed the gold to bolster their forces, or a fleet of galleys was in need of repairing for longer voyages. The dowry of my sister’s marriage needed it. Whatever the reason, it always got in the way of this summer dream my father gave me.”

Aemon felt something within him for the man. Was it empathy? It could be, for he had held the very same dream within him. Aemon remembered of the time his father told him of his plans to restore and repopulate the New Gift, and even entertaining the notion of giving him and Bran holdings of their own. But back then he was just a child of summer, dreaming of great conquests for someone whose fate was decided to waste away at the Wall. His father knew of it, all of it, and he suspected Uncle Benjen knew it too. Yet only the one made objections to his childish yearning of taking the black.

The word “father” still meant more to him than most people had use for. It meant love, and the lack of it; betrayal, lies and protection, all rolled into the same parchment, meant to convey the same message in different words.

“There are opportunities for you out there, lad,” Otto Hightower turned and said to him. At that moment, he looked anything but the traitorous snake and ambitious man history had painted him. He spoke out of understanding, not of contempt or venom. “My brother rules Oldtown now, I’m certain he could give you great honor and fortune. Maybe even win a holdfast of your own at the banks of the Honeywine, a sweet girl to fall in love with. Have children of your own. Just say the word and I can write him with a proposal.”

Aemon just nodded mutely, a cold feeling washing over him like the ocean was rising to meet him, swallow him into its eager embrace. “Is there anything you wish my help, my lord?” Aemon asked, wishing to be away from there and him.

“There is,” and the haughty Lord Hand was back on the fore, sitting in front of his desk. “I have a batch of letters for the Grand Maester to dispatch. After this you are dismissed.” He motioned for the pile in front of him, and Aemon quickly cradled the bunch, closing the heavy door to the Hand’s solar behind him. Two grey-cloaked spearmen stood guard behind it. Aemon nodded to the two of them, who returned the gesture, and bound down the spiraling stairs.

The yard was lightly populated now, most of the training was done in the morning. Now only a few men-at-arms tested their swords against each other. Aemon spied Martyn and Roland loitering about, messing with the steel swords near the armory. They waved at him. “Hey Aemon! Wanna explore the sea balconies today? I hear they have secret entrances only Maegor the Cruel knew about!”

Even if I knew all of them, I wouldn’t should them to you. As disturbing and cruel Maegor’s acts were, he had his reasons to slay every stonemason who worked on the Red Keep. “Not now, Martyn. Just need to deliver these letters, then I’m free.” He left the two boys behind and got to focus on his task. Despite carrying the name Lannister, Martyn was a fun and friendly boy to be around, one of his few friends outside of Rhaenyra (who is a girl) and Visenya (who is a girl and an alternate version of himself from a life where he was born girl too). It was nice having simple company such as Martyn and Roland, it reminded him of Sam Tarly and his batch of recruits from the Wall.

Aemon crossed the yard, descended the serpentine stairs and passed by the drawbridge to the Holdfast, instead entering at one of the towers lining the high walls of the castle. This one occupied by the Grand Maester and his helpers. It was one of those men who met him at the ground floor, and accompanied Aemon toward the top, where Runciter had his office.

“Hmm. These ones are in perfect condition,” commented the Grand Maester, with his great spectacles hovering over his eyes, examining the wax seals on each letter. “Keep this way, my prince. A letter is useless if the seal is damaged.”

Aemon grumbled. “I told you it was an accident.” It wasn’t really, but it was better to claim incompetence than simply come to the man and say “oh hi, Grand Maester. Don’t fret over those seals, they are real. Also, I used a dagger and fire to remove them and read their contents.”

“Hmm” the man hummed. “Even the warmth of a hand can damage the design of a seal, little prince. Just don’t grab them too hard. It is paper, not a sword.” Aemon remained to see the maester releasing the ravens with the messages, then writing something in a book. He quickly made himself vacant out of the tower after that.

And with that done, Aemon was free from his duties for the day. A whole lot of afternoon without anything to do. He supposed he could train a bit with Martyn and Roland-

Oh, right, he remembered. They were waiting him in the outer yard. But what would they do, just walk around balconies he already had spent years exploring them?

The novelty of exploring the grounds of one’s home wore fast, to Aemon’s experience. He himself only got mildly interested in the Red Keep due to the usefulness of the secret passages to their plans. Aemon could hardly remember the first time he walked around outside the Great Keep in Winterfell. Maybe when he was five, six? He didn’t know. He only remembered that Robb was at his side, as they always did everything.

So many adventures, good times lost in time to him, destined to one day fade from memory. He did not even have the comfort of visiting Robb’s grave, and that of their father. Only empty sarcophaguses, niches on the wall for their statues to one day fill.

Despite the melancholic line of thought, it brought Aemon an idea. One of his and Robb’s pranks, the best one, his memory told him. He just needed to inform Visenya of it, and it would be perfect.

Robb was dead and gone, but his smile still shone bright in his memory, the snowflakes melting in his hair as they last saw each other.

By the time he met his friends that afternoon, the sun was close to setting, and their little trio had doubled in number.

After talking with Visenya, Aemon felt bad for possibly excluding Rhaenyra. Naturally, he knocked on her door, and the girl jumped to the opportunity of evading her septa.

Heh, it seems Targaryens were naturally averse to the Seven’s teachings.

Well, it wasn’t just her that ended up failing to uphold the pure daughter optics too, seeing as his cousin brought her friends along with her. The two daughters of Lord Lyonel Strong: Alla and Careleen. The former was the same age as Visenya, while the latter was Rhaenyra’s. Both had the same shade of brown hair of their father, but none of his brutish appearance to the face. They were quite comely, Aemon had to admit.

But not as close as Dany, he thought. Or Visenya. . .

Shut it! He chastised himself. Shaking his head, Aemon walked forward with torch in hand, leading the little group. “Stand close to me, the cellars have steps and hidden cracks. Without light, you’ll fall and crack a leg,” he warned.

As expected, the three girls huddled close to him. The cellars of the Red Keep were a thing Arya had long ago told him about. Back then, they had held the skulls of dragons that hung from the rafters in the Throne Room, casting fear on any who came to pay fealty to the king in the Iron Throne. That is, until Robert Baratheon killed his father Rhaegar, and took down those skulls to hide in the darkness.

Martyn looked unimpressed. “Casterly Rock has many of these cellars dug into the mountain. We once had lions deep in its bowels! I used to ride barrels down the long stairs with Jason and Tyland along with my brother, and even bet on who had the courage to stick a hand inside the empty cages.”

“Why would anyone stick hands inside empty cages?” Rhaenyra asked the Lannister boy. “There’s nothing there to need the bet.”

“Well, it was pretty dark, and the challenge was to go down there without a torch, then go to the cages to prove you did it, carrying a piece of bone or something.”

Roland looked impressed. “Lions in cages! Casterly Rock seems pretty nice! I wonder if I will ever see it myself.”

“Maybe you will! My uncle likes to host tournaments in the fields outside Lannisport, and we could enroll in one once we are knights!” Martyn made wide gestures with his arms. “The Rock is an immense castle, ten times bigger than the Red Keep, and excavated from the mountain itself! It is the most secure castle in Westeros, I guarantee.”

And there it is, that famous Lannister pride. Roland held his impressed face, but Rhaenyra retorted. “My cousin is the Lady of the Eyrie, and they say the Eyrie is impregnable.”

Aemon held his laugh in time, remembering a jape Tyrion Lannister had told him once. Glancing to the side, he could see the Imp’s kin thought of the same jest. “Don’t you say it, Martyn,” he warned him, glaring.

The boy gave a look of false innocence. “What, I said nothing.”

“But you were going to say, don’t deny it.”

“What was he going to say?” his cousin asked.

“Nothing!” both of them said at the same time.

“Anyway, forget about Casterly Rock. We are here to look for ghosts,” Aemon spoke to all, gathering their attention.

“A ghost? How?” the younger, Careleen asked. Her blue eyes were as big as saucers.

Aemon smiled and turned to continue their way. “It is a tale every Targaryen knows.” He moved the torch from left to right, the shadow of the pillars jumping with the moving flame, twisting and flickering. “Many years ago, this castle was only known as the Aegonfort, the first residence of the king of the Iron Throne in mainland Westeros. After Aegon I passed, his son Aenys became king, who soon began a project of enhancing the palace to one fit for a dragonlord and king.

They passed under an arch that connected two columns, creating the design of the vaulted ceiling. Shadows retreated as they walked, creeping back as they moved on. “Aenys never saw his project to completion, and it was his brother Maegor who finally saw it done. But it was not only sweat and bricks that made these walls. Along with creating a keep, Maegor commanded his masons to carve passageways inside every wall of this castle, a secret for when he needed to escape invaders.

“The masons toiled hard and long, and Maegor was pleased with their work. As a sign of admiration and reward for the tired workers, he feasted them himself in the new Throne Room, in sight of the Iron Throne. Good food was served, and rich wine given freely to all.”

“What happened next?” Alla asked, now a bit more fearful.

Aemon smirked, the light of the torch casting long shadows on his face. “Maegor had more in mind than just stone to make his castle, and the feast was part of his plan. Once every man had had their fill of the wine, he commanded the doors shut, then his men slew everyone inside that room, for Maegor wished only he to be privy to his castle’s secrets.” A CLACK was heard somewhere behind him, at the direction they were going. Stone falling and breaking. The three girls were shaking, even if Rhaenyra was pulling a brave face. Roland was no better, and Martyn seemed hesitant. “To this day, ghosts of those masons roam the dark corners of this castle, and some say it was one of them who killed Maegor in the end, to take their vengeance on the king.”

It was then that they heard a shuffling. Out of the flame’s reach, a shadow shifted amidst the dark. The outline of a hammer on one hand, the other grasping at its face. The shadow moaned, a deep guttural sound that could be felt in their bones. The shade shuffled forward, reaching the edge of light. It revealed a pale body, old boots over tattered trousers. A pocked leather jerkin over an emaciated body. It moaned again, and the three girls ran away, screaming in terror. Roland’s knees shook like branches in the wind, and he fell hard on his rump. Martyn’s eyes had grown wide, and he almost made to follow the girls. He saw the boy grasping the handle of his dagger, and decided to end it here. He gave a high shrilling whistle, and all froze in place.

Then, laughter erupted. Both his and Visenya’s, who now stood next to him, covered in flour and wearing those old clothes they had snatched from the drying lines. She dropped the hammer with a sharp CRACK on the stone floor, and took the horn his uncle Lord Rickon had given him away from her mouth. The two of them laughed hard at the boys’ faces.

“Gods be good, Aemon! That looked real!” said Martyn, disguising his initial fear. “Almost made me piss myself here,” he heard him mutter.

“Good idea using the horn, cousin! That really put the idea of a ghost in them!” Visenya told him, having trouble holding her laughter.

“Maybe next time we can tell the Red Keep was built over an ancient barrow of the first men, with the Bay Kings of old rising from their graves clad in bronze and iron to slay the thieving andals,” he suggested, and got a glare from both Rosby and Lannister.

“House Lannister has a proud history; I’ll have you know. We are as old as the Age of Heroes, founded by Lann the Clever,” said Martyn in a haughty voice.

The four of them found Rhaenyra and her companions just outside the cellars. The three of them were huddled at Ser Arryk’s feet, who was comforting the girls, with Careleen’s shoulder shaking from crying. The other two had tears on their eyes as well. Once Rhaenyra saw her sister doused in flour, the dots connected on her mind, and the princess flew to her feet, punching the pale heir. “How could you! Why are you so mean!?”

“It was just a jest, Rhaenyra. Only for fun! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t find it funny if you saw Martyn and Roland pissing their silky breeches?”

“We didn’t piss ourselves!” they protested, but it awarded a little laugh from the younger princess.

Ser Criston eyed him warily from the side. Aemon just stared at him until the man avoided his gaze.

The sun had already set by the time Visenya returned to her chambers to clean herself, and each child went on their ways to eat their evening supper. Aemon dined with Visenya and Rhaenyra in the eldest’s chambers (which were bigger), but the affair ended quickly when both claimed tiredness. Rhaenyra was sent on her way, just a few yards to the door of her own chambers, and Aemon left soon after.

The first place he went was to his rooms, with Ser Robert Redfort following him. Aemon locked the doors of his chamber when the kingsguard stood sentry outside, changed out of his clothes and fell into bed. They still felt the bed of a stranger, what with almost twenty years of sleeping in straw beds, along with the odd black cloak over hard packed earth. Many of the changes in his life were done over dirt and rock. The day he and Ygritte made love in the cave, the day Daenerys told him she was pregnant, the day he got back to his own body. . .

That vision was too painful, too raw to even think. Knives in the dark, the red witch had warned him. Skulls surround you, Lord Snow. That deep, melodious voice promised many things, and some had become reality in the end. But not without adding a twist in them, as witches and sorcerers were wont to do in stories.

Stannis was Azor Ahain reborn, but he ended up serving only as a means to bring him back, his sword of light.

Aemon scoffed. What a load of bollocks. Nothing good ever came from Melisandre, not even his own life.

Sleep eluded the troubled mind. Aemon dressed himself again and left his room by the passage on the wall.

Under the cloak of darkness, and a dark cloak of wool, Aemon made his way out of the Holdfast, slipping past sentries to climb the castle wall. He settled between two merlons, legs dangling over the precipice beyond it. He watched the darkened city in front of him, still somewhat illuminated by pockets of lamplight. The moon above hardly a sliver of silver, sharp as a razor, just a hair’s breadth away from vanishing. Some gatherings of light nestled over at the manses close to the Iron Gate, another bunch shone at the buildings close to the Old Gate, where the Streets of Flour and Silk were at. The wind blew gently through his cloak, washing away the by now familiar stench from the city below.

He had visited Wintertown sometimes when he lived in Winterfell. All of those moments were when the town was most deserted, with little to no folk living in those stone hovels and houses. Yet, taverns and brothels made their presence known. Hells, there was a brothel near Castle Black, of all places.

Robb and Theon had once made a venture to the place, the one near their home, that is. Aemon knew Greyjoy was a known customer there, but he never knew how willing was Robb on having another fill of the women there. For all he knew, his brother went the just the once, and acted as nothing changed.

Aemon sighed. King’s Landing had their own discoveries to make, the streets his father patrolled. It was possible he could call some of those gold cloaks to help him choose a nice place to start. Maybe even bring Visenya for a change in nighttime activity.

But what did it matter? They were tired, and all their minds were occupied with war, and its constant threat.

He was tired. Tired of thinking of the past; tired of fretting over the future. He was tired of thinking about his father, and he didn’t even know if he meant Eddard Stark, Rhaegar or Daemon Targaryen. It didn’t matter which he picked, they were far away. Gods, it had been a full year since the last time he saw Daemon Targaryen.

It might have been an hour or just a few minutes he was sitting there, musing about his bleak misfortune when someone announced their presence. “Having trouble sleeping?” The voice was melodic, soothing. Not as thin as that of a young child, but still young. Aemon didn’t even need to turn to know who was there. “I thought you said you were tired.”

Visenya chuckled, but it might as well have been a contained giggle. The sound was sweet and soothing all the same, like a perfumed bath. “I was having my own share of troubles.” He turned and saw her walking towards him, cloaked in a dark green cloak, pinned with a silver dragon on flight. She glided next to him, the hood of her cloak lifted to hide the shine of her silver hair.

“How lucky of me. The gods didn’t just curse me with bad sleep, they had to make someone else suffer the same fate, and grant me pleasant company.” The words he spoke were meant as a jest, but way they sounded tired seemed almost a lament.

“What did afflict your mind this time?” she asked softly.

He considered lying to her. Aemon knew Visenya once had a close connection with Robb, one much deeper than what he and his brother had, the dragonsblood running hot on the girl since she was merely Stark’s bastard. “I was thinking of Robb. And Aryan. And Sansa, Rickon. Dany. The ones I left behind.”

He hadn’t. Not left behind, in truth. Sansa was the last one of Lord Eddard’s children alive at that point, and it was his face the last thing she saw. That only served to add another brick of ice in his heart’s wall of guilt.

“But not of Bran?”

Aemon shook his head. “Don’t know if my brother was ever my brother, or if the little boy I knew died somewhere beyond the Wall, and something else came back.”

Visenya was quiet at that. Surely she had the same trepidations, right? She had to be, for her to be here in the first place, a “Bran” had to become whatever it was he became. Gods, if only their lives became a little less confusing and convoluted.

“I’m just tired, Visenya. Tired of this doom we march into,” he ended up whispering. “However many good times and memories we have here, it is all swirling towards our deaths.”

“I have heard this tune before,” she said lightly. “Do you remember?”

He thought for a moment. “No,” he simply said.

Visenya gave him a sad smile. “You are getting stuck in your head, cousin. I said those same words once, back in Harrenhal. Yet you, the hopeful fool, brought me out of that darkness.” When he avoided her eyes, she inclined her head, searching for his look. Begging. “Do you think I would still be here if you hadn’t convinced me otherwise?”

Aemon believed her, but he didn’t know where that resolve had gone. Not even ten years and he had changed completely. From man to monster, then a babe with a surrogate mother, and now back at the precipice. The whiplash was making him dizzy.

Visenya was at his side, tugging at his hand. He allowed himself to be led, and slided out of the crenel. Her arms darted forward, and suddenly he was enveloped in a hug. A strong, warm, and unique hug. Hesitantly, he hugged her back.

When she pushed away some time later, her beautiful purple eyes were glistening with tears. He looked down, and the front of his tunic was wet. “Don’t worry Aemon,” she whispered at him. “I’ll be here for you. Just hang on for a little bit, and we will be well and happy, free to live our lives as we see fit. With no sword of doom or threat of war hanging over our necks.” Gently, she leaned forward, and a soft kiss was laid on his cheek. The still round cheeks of a child. His skin was soft, he remembered, with no scars over his eyes, nor sickly pallor coloring it. She caressed the back of his head and pulled him close again, his body flush against her warm chest.

It was nice being held. When was the last time he felt something like this? Was it only seven years ago, when Queen Aemma still lived? Gods, it felt like a lifetime ago, when he could forget and forgive himself for living and enjoying the woman’s warm bosom.

They untangled themselves out of the hung, but his partner and dear friend still held his hands on her grasp, her head leaning on his shoulder. They stayed like that, watching the city for a few minutes, the twinkling of the starts their only witness.

“I was remembering what you told me about Arya’s suspicions on the maesters,” Visenya broke the silence.

He was startled by the change in conversation. Aemon had almost forgotten he had told her that memory, almost a year ago. “I confess to know little of it, cousin,” he informed her. “Marwyn have had his suspicions even before hearing of Wallys’s whispers and Lady Dustin’s fears.”

“Even so, I still think on it. Remember that Small Council meeting from earlier this sennight?” He nodded. “We already know Otto sees any opportunity to curb my potential supporters, and who else would be my greatest ally than the ruling lady of the Vale, right? But I remember hearing Runciter being so eager to settle the matter of the Vale, seriously considering Arnold Arryn’s claims to the Eyrie.” She looked at him. “Maesters are supposed to loyal to the king, but what he proposed could only bring chaos.”

He shook his head. “Maesters swear their vows to be loyal to their lord, but they remain to be man, and a man’s words can be their bind or just sweet drivel.” He shrugged with one shoulder, careful not to bump her head. “Doesn’t matter, words are wind. He was partial to your father marrying Laena Velaryon, remember? We must thank the gods the king chose the lesser of two evils here for a second time.”

“Third time.”

“What?”

“I said “third time.” I’m counting my past too,” she answered cheekily.

“Whatever,” was his answer, exasperated.

“But I understand what you mean. And still disagree. Runciter knew my father would not accept Laena. Remember what he said? “The girl is too young, not even a woman grown.” Father was hesitant from the start, that’s why Otto’s list only had his daughter and Laena in it.

“And so, if Marwyn was right, then we must consider the Grand Maester’s actions from now on. He may have meant they caused this great war that decimated the dragons.”

Aemon grimaced. “Our true enemy, and as common in the realm as the grey rats people call them.” He cursed under his breath. “Just the worst enemy to have, when they can heal a leg and poison you under in a moment’s notice.”

“Don’t worry,” she tugged at his arm, nestled in the still budding valley of her breasts. “You are lucky to live with someone who had little to do but read the hundreds of books in Winterfell’s library. I’ll not be able to remember everything, but we’ll find things out as we go.”

Her smile was sweet and reassuring. He truly was lucky to have her here.

“Oh, and I gotta tell you something.” He looked back to her, curious. “I saw Otto crossing the yard when I was getting here. He went into the Grand Maester’s tower.”

He creased his brows. “And you tell me that just now?”

Visenya shrugged. “Better now than before, when you wouldn’t understand my meaning. Besides, I thought you needed some help here,” she said, giving again that rare soft smile.

Visenya truly was a beauty.

Aemon led the way, pulling his cousin behind him. They made the circuit of the wall all the way to the Grand Maester’s tower. They passed by the White Sword tower, and had to slow their pace so no white knight caught them up late at night and running around the walls.

The Red Keep’s rookery was a tower like all the other ones that connected the curtain walls of the castle. The difference was that the ravens were kept just one floor under the top, and that was itself above Runciter’s apartments, and those for his helpers. Near the edge of the tower, where its battlements covered the lip and right under it was the southern window from which the ravens flew away when sent. The two of them pressed hard against the stone, and strained to hear a conversation.

“-s a good boy. He just had the bad fortune of being born Daemon Targaryen’s son,” he heard the man’s voice. It was certainly Otto’s.

Oh wow, very nice, ser. Praise me and curse my father’s name under the same breath. That will surely make me trust you.

Another voice countered, this one older, more used and tired. “It doesn’t matter who is his father. The boy is a dragonrider. Against normal beings, their kind will stand united. It is through conflict of interest mistrust is brewed between them.”

“We could send the boy away, maybe to my brother. Having a family of his own would surely skewer his views to his closer kin then.”

“That may be, but if you want the boy out, the best way is to send him to the Citadel. Have him closer to his great-uncle, if that is what is needed. This way a good mind is not wasted with swords and tourneys.”

“Not everyone is keen in abandoning a future to be a chained fellow, maester,” Ser Otto chastised the man. Huh, so that story was true.

“Be that as it may, removing him is paramount. The fact he is a boy complicates things. He can breed and give his name forward. A direct male line to the Conciliator lords may use for their own gain.”

“Very well, Grand Maester, I will think of something. Aemon didn’t seem wholly opposed to the idea in the first place. Also, have you sent those letters to Oldtown?”

“Indeed I have, Lord Hand. Sent them as soon as the boy came in. They weren’t damaged this time.”

“This time? What do you mean, maester?” asked Otto. He sounded surprised.

“Some of the letters he brought had damaged seals, your sigil was marred, but still there. The boy informed me he had made an accident on them, clutching them too hard.”

The Lord Hand hummed. “I will make sure to discipline him, then.” He didn’t sounded all that convinced by Runciter’s explanation.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” he said, seemingly ignoring Otto’s reluctance. “Children trust less those who hurt or berate them too harshly, and princes can be vindictive. A softer hand may prove to be the right one, my Lord Hand.”

“I will take your words in consideration, Grand Maester,” said the man who sounded utterly unconvinced by the maester. “Have a good night.”

The two men greeted each other, Aemon heard the sound of a door opening, then closing. Soon after, they could see the form of Ser Otto Hightower walking toward the serpentine steps. A few minutes later, the Grand Maester had blown out his candle, presumably finally going to sleep.

They moved on to the next tower, away from Runciter’s window.

He looked back at Visenya, her face in contained shock, contrary to his frozen glare toward the kingswood. “We have to inform my father. They can’t just send you away without his explicit approval!” Visenya argued in harsh whispers.

“No,” he said. When disbelief appeared on her face he elaborated his point. “We cannot tell the king. This would make him confront both Runciter and Hightower, and thus our knowledge of their plans. Besides, didn’t you say your father considers Otto his friend? What guarantee do we have he will not simply ignore our warnings?”

His cousin snorted. “Again you come with this “stand and do nothing” nonsense? We can stop this while it’s still forming, right here, right now.”

“No, I said! Think about it, what evidence do we have they conspire against us, hm? We’re just two children speaking of things we heard. If not liars, Viserys will think us just too innocent to understand what we heard.”

“Then what do you suggest? This is the start of something big, Aemon. We can’t let this fall through!”

Aemon grimaced. The idea wasn’t ripe yet, but it was what he had. “I have a plan, one which would bring my father back here again, and believe me, he would be our greatest ally for the moment.” He passed a hand over his hair, disheveling it more than the wind had already done. “I just need a bit more time to iron out the details.”

Visenya looked angry and fearful, so he closed the gap between them. “Do you trust me?” She hesitated for a moment, but nodded after a moment, and he pulled her into a hug, a mirror to the one she had offered him earlier that night. He caressed her back, speaking softly. “Thank you for trusting me. You’ll see, this will work, I promise.”

The night was cold with the soft wind, but in their embrace it was warm, and Visenya’s presence served to stoke a fire of resolve in his heart. They lurked back into their rooms, their hands leaving its opposite pair when Visenya’s room came into view. She had opened her mouth to say something, only to give up before simply speaking a shy good night and closing the hidden door. Aemon walked back to his rooms alone, but more certain of their path with each step. Plans and memories of purple eyes and sweet pink lips continued to fly about his mind, but eventually tiredness forced his eyes closed. Aemon dreamt of bright smiles and childish laughter, a looming for hovering near them, sometimes clad in white wool, other times changing to black. The grey getting lost in the snowfall. War drums sounded from outside the great grey walls, and dragons snapped at the air. Be ready the drums said, be ready, be ready, be ready. A steady wave of doom from far away, slowly encircling them as he looked beyond the grey cliffs, cold wind burning down his nose and throat as the enemy came to them.