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Chapter Text

Chapter One  

Return to the Red Keep  

They waited in the entrance hall as instructed. Alicent stood at the front, her children lined up in a neat row behind her, arranged as the Hand had ordered them to be. The torches on the bare blood-coloured walls flickered uneasily, casting an orange light over the polished stone floor. 

Aegon adjusted his collar for the third time. He wasn't looking at anyone. Just staring straight ahead, his expression blank as he worked his jaw silently. Helaena stood to his left, keeping her gaze determinedly on the floor, seemingly trying to fade into the shadows where nobody could find her. Where nobody could hurt her. 

Aemond's hands were clasped tightly behind his back. His eye scanned the room restlessly - doorways, shadows, exits. He was always looking for an escape route, ever since he was a child. He stood rigidly, his only physical movement being the tip of his boot tapping faintly against the floor, once every ten seconds. A steady beat, akin to the rhythmic ticking of a clock. 

Daeron was trembling. Small and slight as a babe of three despite his five namedays, his frail hand clung to Helaena's sleeve. The little boy's face was pale, his green eyes wide with terror. His sister didn't try to comfort him. She couldn't find the strength, consumed by her own fear and dread. All she could do for her youngest brother was allow him to maintain his grip on her. Her own arms were wrapped tightly around her midsection, as though holding her ribs in place. 

In front of them, Alicent was murmuring under her breath - barely audible prayers to the Maiden for protection, repetitions of instructions, reminders directed more at herself than her children. Her voice shook despite her best efforts. 

"They will test us. Smile. Bow. Do not speak unless spoken to. Remain still. Do not-" 

"Do not provoke them," Aemond finished flatly from behind her. 

Alicent flinched, turning to her children. "I didn't say that," she protested weakly. 

"But that is what you meant," Aemond replied, voice hollow, defeated. 

"Enough," Aegon murmured, stepping subtly in front of both his younger brothers. The eldest prince's voice wasn't harsh - just quiet, edged with a kind of bone-deep exhaustion that had come from a lifetime of suffering and trying (and failing) to protect his family. "We will get through this," he promised. "Just as we always have." 

He glanced sideways at Alicent. Her face was pale, her jaw tight. Her cuticles were bloodied from her anxious picking at them. 

Aegon lowered his voice further, until it was only barely audible even to his family. "We will survive this." 

But his words didn't sound convinced, even to himself. 

Helaena shifted beside him, her fingers twitching at her sides. She stared at the floor, whispering under her breath. "Dragons with two heads. Red and grey. Teeth behind the smile..." 

Aegon silently hoped that she would be quiet when they met with the Queen and her party. Viserys had hated her strange mumblings, and he doubted Queen Rhaenyra would be any more merciful about it. He didn't want them to earn their new Queen's ire so soon. 

At Helaena's side, Daeron was hiding behind his sister's skirts, his eyes, so like their mother's, wide with fear.  

Aegon reached out to gently adjust Daeron's collar. Then he looked at Alicent again. "If they say something - if they try anything - I'll handle it." 

Alicent turned towards him, startled and alarmed. "You will not start anything, Aegon, not under any circumstances. We will do nothing to make them doubt our loyalty. Do you understand me?" 

"I didn't say I would," Aegon stated defensively. "But our mere existence makes us a threat to them. We have been the Queen's enemies since my birth." 

Aemond gave a short laugh, sharp and mirthless. 

"We are not their enemies," Alicent insisted, voice shaking. "And we will show it to them." 

"Do you really think they'll believe that?" Aemond asked cynically. 

Alicent didn't answer, the hall going silent again. 

The clang of armour had the small family stiffening and hurrying back into their ordered positions. Ser Gyles led the way, sneering as he looked over the group, searching for any flaws he could punish them for. Ser Arryk and Ser Steffon had neutral looks on their faces, while Ser Marston was eyeing Alicent suspiciously. 

"The Queen has arrived," Ser Gyles announced. "Remember to be respectful to Her Grace." Or face the consequences , went unsaid, but was clearly heard by the others in the hall. Ser Steffon and Ser Arryk clenched their jaws in disapproval but stayed quiet. They knew from experience that protesting would only earn the royal family more pain. 

"Open the doors," Ser Gyles directed the servants. 

Alicent's spine was straight, but Aegon could see the faint tremble in her arms. Glancing briefly at the Kings- Queensguard, he checked that Ser Gyles and Ser Marston were distracted, knowing that the other two would overlook his discreet action. After ascertaining that it was safe, he took a half-step closer to his mother. 

"Just breathe, Mother," he whispered, voice barely more than a breath, not daring to turn his head to look at her lest it draw Ser Gyles' or Ser Marston's attention. They had not been given permission to speak, after all. "We will be fine, so long as we stay together." 

Alicent didn't answer. She couldn't. 

And when the great doors finished creaking open and Ser Gyles sharply gestured for them to lead the way out, Aegon straightened his shoulders and made sure Daeron and Helaena were shielded behind him. Not by accident, but by design. 

It was early evening by the time they arrived at the Red Keep, and Rhaenyra thought they were lucky with their timing: the cloudy, grey skies looked heavy with a coming storm. Combined with the eerie tension Rhaenyra had sensed from the moment she stepped off the ship that had brought her family from Dragonstone, the whole atmosphere felt strangely ominous. 

Rickon held out a hand to help her dismount, while her loyal guards, Ser Harrold Westerling, once-Lord Commander of Viserys' Kingsguard before giving up the title to follow her on her marriage, Ser Erryk Carrgyll and her ever-loyal Criston Cole, all helped her sons dismount, Sara having been passed from her father's embrace to that of her nurse before Rickon went to help Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra accepted her husband's helping hand as she took in the gathered courtiers. Everyone was silent and tense, even her husband and children's direwolves. 

It was disappointing to see such a lacklustre reception. She'd worked hard to build up a reputation as a compassionate but strong and firm ruler, working to gather allies throughout Westeros. But still, it seemed that the Red Keep, at least, was reluctant to accept a woman as Queen Regnant, although the smallfolk in King's Landing itself had cheered for her arrival, at least. 

Rhaenyra hid her disappointment with practiced skill, reminding herself that she had been prepared for this. She would prove that she deserved to be Queen, that she would be a good Queen who would leave behind a better Westeros than she inherited. She would always have to fight to prove herself in a way a King Regnant did not, but she had always had the heart and soul of a dragon, and she was backed by a wolf. 

Movement at the entrance to the Keep caught her eye and she spotted Alicent and her children with the remaining Queensguard behind them, all dressed in black mourning clothes, but strangely pale and off looking. It put an uneasy feeling in Rhaenyra's stomach. Alicent led her children towards Rhaenyra's party, her fists clenched in her skirts. The part of Rhaenyra that was still the girl who ate cakes with her best friend in the godswood took control of her body and her eyes briefly flicked down to Alicent's hands. Despite the black colour of her skirts, Rhaenyra could spy the subtle tells that the other woman had been picking violently at her cuticles. 

The approaching group stopped a few feet from Rhaenyra and her family and Alicent fell into a deep curtsey. Rhaenyra wondered if the Dowager Queen was or had been ill recently, as she was as thin as a peasant at the height of Winter, and she trembled from what Rhaenyra assumed (hoped) was physical weakness (and not fear) when she gave obeisance. Her children copied her, and Rhaenyra couldn't help but notice the way Helaena seemed to be hiding behind her brother, while little Daeron clutched at his mother's skirts. A young babe clinging to his mother when faced with a new situation or new people wasn't unusual, but there was something in the child's eyes when he briefly glanced at them that made Rhaenyra wary. Some fear and uncertainty were natural, but no child should look that frightened by new strangers. 

It was only when she looked properly at Aemond that she spotted the eyepatch, and her stomach twisted in horror at the scar peeking out behind it. What had happened to cause a child of only ten namedays, less, to judge by the faded colour of the scar, to receive such a wound?

She forced herself to look away, turning back to Alicent as the Dowager Queen spoke, voice trembling.

"Your Grace, welcome back to the Red Keep," Alicent said in a tentative, hoarse and nervous tone. "May your reign be long and prosperous. And may the Old Gods and the New help you guide her, Your Highness." She and her children held their bows, despite their trembling.  

Rhaenyra suppressed a frown, though she noticed Jace and Cregan exchanging confused glances, and pasted a polite smile on her face. "Please, all of you, rise. There is no need for such formality among family." 

Alicent and her children slowly straightened, Helaena stepping closer to Aegon and Daeron nestling deeper into Alicent's skirts. Alicent's hand twitched, as if she wanted to rest a hand on her youngest son's head in reassurance but was unwilling to move for some reason. 

"The children have grown so much since I left," Rhaenyra said, smiling gently at her little siblings and infusing her voice with a warmth that contrasted heavily with the grim atmosphere. "Aegon looks like quite the young warrior now. And Helaena...you have the Targaryen colouring, but your face is the image of your mother's when she was your age." 

None of the children responded. Helaena blinked rapidly, before fixing her gaze on the floor, shoulders tight and up around her ears. Aegon stared straight ahead, not reacting. Aemond's mouth was a flat line, and Daeron simply buried himself deeper in his mother's skirts.  

"Your Grace is very kind to say so," Alicent said flatly, as she shifted slightly, shielding Daeron with her thin forms. 

The air thickened. Sara, always sensitive to the atmosphere of a room, whined from her nurse's arms. Rhaenyra quickly turned to take her, spying Aegon and Aemond's eyes widening in alarm while Helaena and Daeron flinched. Unease twisted her heart as her sweet babe buried herself in Rhaenyra's chest, her ear against Rhaenyra's heartbeat, a pose the girl always found comforting. The twins exchanged wary looks, before reaching out to grab Luke and Joff's shoulders comfortingly.  

"My condolences on the death of your husband, Queen Alicent," Rickon told her, his Northern burr breaking the uncomfortable silence. "But my commendations at your success in holding the Keep together. It's not easy, keeping such old stones standing proud." 

Alicent bowed her head. "We have done our duty to House Targaryen, Your Grace," she answered. 

"No doubt, but all the same, your strength is clear," Rickon replied. Rhaenyra wondered if Alicent was aware of what a compliment it was for a Northerner to call someone 'strong'. Probably not. Few southrons understood the people of the North, and even less wanted to, content to label them as 'tree-worshipping savages' and leave it at that. 

There was another pause, stretching like a rope frayed at the edges. Then Joffrey, four namedays old, small and brave, pulled away from Cregan's gentle grip to give a broad grin and wave at Daeron.  

"Hi," he chirruped cheerfully. 

Daeron jerked as if Joffrey had struck him. He backed so far into Alicent's skirts that his little shoes were tredding on her dress, trembling violently with the green eyes inherited from his mother wide with sheer terror. Alicent stiffened, eyes darting briefly, and fearfully, to Rhaenyra and Rickon even as she gently rested a hand on her son's head, murmuring something too quiet for Rhaenyra to hear to soothe him. 

Rhaenyra's smile faltered briefly before she forced herself to fix it. A sense of increasing dread was rising in her chest, but she forced herself to put it aside as a man she didn't recognize, with the Hand's pin on his cloak, stepped forward. 

Ser Gyles Belgrave. A scion of a minor Crownlands House that had rocketed to power when he was appointed as Hand of the King after Otto was executed in disgrace, having been discovered colluding with the Triarchy along with his brother and nephew. At Ser Gyles' side was a man a few years older than him, wearing the attire that marked him as Lord Commander of the Queensguard to replace Ser Harrold and fill the empty space left by Ser Rickard Thorne after the man died protecting the Queen from a small riot. 

Rhaenyra disliked them both immediately. She had trained for years under Rhaenys, her mentor and teacher, to see past the masks worn by the lords and ladies of the realm, to see a person's heart. All she saw in the pair's hearts were cruelty and a lust for power. 

Neither man showed any of that openly, however. 

They both gave deep bows, before straightening, not waiting like Alicent and her children for permission to rise. Ser Gyles smiled at her, a smile that made Rhaenyra feel like she was covered in oil and long for a bath. 

"Your Grace, welcome home," he began in a lofty voice. "While we mourn the loss of our beloved King Viserys, we are overjoyed to have the opportunity to witness you making history as the first ever Queen Regnant. As Hand, I have kept a careful eye on the matters of the realm since His Grace fell ill, and have much to discuss with you. The arrangements for the coronation, of course, must take precedence. I am available at your leisure to speak with you regarding these matters." 

"Thank you, Ser Gyles," Rhaenyra replied, hiding her distaste for the man with carefully honed skill. "I will meet with the Small Council on the morrow after breaking my fast to receive a report on the state of the realm. In the meantime, please have Grandmaester Mellos send letters to the Lords and Ladies of the Realm, summoning them for the coronation. Include invitations to Prince Daemon and his family in Pentos, and to Lord and Lady Velaryon." 

"Are you certain, Your Grace?" Ser Marston interjected. "They were banished for good reasons. What message will it send should you recall them?" 

"It will send the message that the royal family is united once again," Rhaenyra replied firmly. "Send them the invitations." 

"As you wish, Your Grace," Ser Gyles nodded graciously, as if he were the King and she the servant. "I took the liberty of ordering the steward to have a suite of rooms prepared for you, as well as having the attached nursery opened for your younger children. I also have your old set of chambers ready for Prince Jacaerys and Prince Cregan, as I assume that they have outgrown the nursery." 

"Again, my thanks, Ser," Rhaenyra repeated with a polite smile."I am well-pleased with the arrangements made." 

Rhaenyra then turned back to Alicent, maintaining her gentle, gracious smile as she did so, pretending not to notice the look in her once-best friend's eyes, which she lowered deferentially when they briefly locked gazes.  

"We'll allow you all to rest," Rhaenyra told the other woman. "I'm sure you're as weary as I am after the shock of my father's death. On the morrow, perhaps you and my siblings will join us for supper? No ceremony. Just family reuniting after so long apart." 

"If that is your wish, Your Grace," Alicent replied, voice barely audible. 

The Stark-Targaryen children were already turning, puzzled but quiet. Rhaenyra and Rickon had raised them to know how to read a room, when to keep quiet and when to speak, and they had been excellent students. Sara was still curled up in her mother's arms, but Rhaenyra shifted her to one arm so she could rest a hand on Luke's shoulder, rubbing her most sensitive son's shoulder reassuringly while Rickon picked up Joffrey. 

The youngest of the boys looked over his father's shoulder one last time at Daeron, whose tiny fingers still gripped his mother's skirts like a lifeline. 

Rhaenyra tried not to think that the sound of the doors closing behind them was akin to the sealing of a tomb. 

The door to the royal family's wing creaked open under Rickon's firm hand, revealing a long corridor lined with old stone and quiet echoes. Moonlight seeped in through the narrow windows, casting thin silver beams onto the tiled floor. No servants hovered about. The Keep had been meticulously prepared for the new Queen and her family to arrive, but there was no warmth in it. 

Cregan, always brave, always determined to protect his family, was the first to step over the threshold, shoulders square as if bracing for battle. 

"This place feels haunted," the young Heir to Winterfell muttered. 

"Don't be dramatic," Jace said, but he kept his voice low despite his words. "It's just empty." 

'But why is it empty?' Rhaenyra wondered. 'When half the royal family should have been housed here for over a decade?' 

Luke padded past them, his boots tapping softly against the stone. "It smells like...dust and flowers," the young boy stated, wrinkling his nose. 

Rickon chuckled softly behind them. "Rose oil. It's the same perfume they've always used. Your mother has never liked it." 

"And I still don't," Rhaenyra muttered. 

Joffrey tugged at Lucerys's hand and pointed at a wall sconce shaped like the snarling head of a dragon. "It's scary," the youngest of the boys pouted. 

"It's just metal," Lucerys replied. But even he avoided looking into its eyes. 

Sara whimpered in Rhaenyra's arms. The Queen rocked her daughter gently to soothe her, pressing a soft kiss to her silver curls. "It's late," she said to her sons. "Let's find your rooms." 

They passed a tapestry of Aegon the Conqueror slaying Harren the Black. A servant must have cleaned it recently - there was a single thread out of place - but it hung too stiffly, as if even the wall hangings were afraid to move. 

The suite at the end of the corridor had been prepared carefully, down to the oak cradle carved with dragons and cushioned with red velvet for Sara that nearly all royal infants slept in and a stack of Northern furs neatly folded for Rickon. But the air inside was too still. 

Rhaenyra kept Sara in her arms, reluctant to put the child down and deprive her of her mother's warmth when their environment was so...cold. 

And not in a Northern way. 

Cregan opened the door to the balcony and took in a breath of fresh air. "No birds," he noted. "No wind. Not even the sea." 

"There's something wrong here," Jace whispered, barely audible. Like always when uncertain or afraid, the twins gravitated towards one another until their hands brushed, seeking the comfort of their other half but reluctant to show their true fear to their younger siblings. 

Lucerys looked up at Rhaenyra. "Why were Alicent's children so quiet?" He asked, always empathetic towards others' feelings. "They didn't even smile." 

"They were frightened," Jace replied in place of his mother, who had a troubled expression on her face as she absentmindedly rocked Sara. "You saw the way Daeron hid behind her." 

"Were they afraid they would be...punished?" Lucerys asked hesitantly. The children knew of abuse, having seen such a situation when Lord Bolton was arrested for tyrannising his family and household just seven moons ago. Alicent and her children acted disturbingly similar to Lady Bolton and her sons, and Rhaenyra's children were clever. They knew how to put two and two together and come up with four.  

"No," Rickon said, the word coming too fast, too certain. Then, because he and Rhaenyra never held the truth away from their children, he added, "They couldn't be. There's no one here with the authority to punish them." 

He looked at Rhaenyra. 

But she was already walking towards the far end of the chamber, her face unreadable. She shifted Sara to one arm and used the free one to touch the edge of the hearth with two fingers. The stone was cool. 

"They bowed like they were facing judgement," she said quietly. "Even Aegon. He used to run barefoot through the halls screaming at the top of his lungs, just for the sake of it." 

"And now he barely breathed," Rickon stated. 

There was a silence.  

"They're afraid of me," Rhaenyra whispered. "But I don't know why." 

Later that night, after the children had been tucked into unfamiliar beds with familiar furs, Rhaenyra sat by the fire in her and Rickon's shared bedchamber, staring at the wall, but seeing something far away. The flames cast a soft golden glow over the stone walls, its warmth failing to fight the cold atmosphere of the Red Keep. Shadows moved like silent ghosts against the floor. 

Rickon stood by the balcony windows, arms crossed, staring at the black sky above King's Landing. Not a single star was visible tonight, only the pale light of the lonely moon. 

"He looked right through me," Rhaenyra said at last, breaking the heavy silence that had been hanging in the air. "Aegon. Like I was no one. A stranger." 

"He was only three namedays when you left," Rickon reminded her gently. "He no doubt cannot remember you." 

"I rocked him when he was a babe," she whispered. "I used to walk him up and down the gallery until he fell asleep." 

She paused, her voice cracking slightly. "And Helaena... I used to take her into the godswood to show her the flowers and the butterflies. She was always trying to catch them with her little fists, but always so gentle. I was the only one able to soothe her when she had nightmares." 

"And then we wed, and you left," Rickon said, gently. 

Rhaenyra flinched, clenching her hands in the fabric of her night dress. 

"It wasn't your fault," he added, coming over to crouch by her side and hold her hands. "You had to. You couldn't stay here - not with how things were with your father." 

Rhaenyra's lips tightened. "He told me they were happy. He said Alicent was overbearing, but that the children were safe. Protected." 

Rickon didn't respond. It was clear the King had been lying, and there was only one plausible explanation as to why. 

He was the one terrorising Rhaenyra's siblings. 

"Did you see how Aegon stood?" She went, voice trembling with emotion. "Shielding Daeron and Helaena. Like he expected me to attack them." 

"Like he has had to stand that way before," Rickon acknowledged grimly, jaw clenching. Children were sacred to both the Old Gods and to the New. As a father, as a man , Rickon could never understand how a man could raise his hand to those beneath his protection. It was abhorrent. 

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra let out a slow exhale, releasing one of Rickon's hands to press her palm to her forehead. "And Alicent...she looked right through me. Not with anger or betrayal. But with fear." 

"He was her King and husband," Rickon pointed out. "She had no power to protect them. No doubt she was simply struggling to survive, same as they were." 

Rhaenyra's voice turned brittle. "Why didn't I see it?" 

"You weren't here," Rickon told her gently. "You had no idea what he was doing. You trusted your father." 

Rhaenyra looked into the fire. Her reflection trembled in the flames. 

"I have to make this right," Rhaenyra said at last. "I have no idea how. But I must." 

Rickon gently squeezed the hand he still held. "Then we'll start tomorrow." 

Chapter Text

Chapter Two  

Shadows in the Court  

The air in the Council chamber was thick with the smell of dust and damp velvet. Rhaenyra entered with her shoulders straight and her face composed, but she could feel the weight of history clinging to the walls. Her shoes echoed against the cold tiles as she approached the long oaken table that had seen decades of her father's reign - and, she now realized, decades of silence and complicity. 

Rickon walked at her side, his expression unreadable, every step deliberate. Behind them was their loyal Queensguard, Ser Criston. Ser Harrold and Ser Erryk were guarding their children as the group explored the castle together. 

They took their places at the table, Rhaenyra settling into the high-backed chair at the head, as was her right as Queen Regnant. Rickon sat to her left. Rhaenyra's gaze swept across the room, taking in her father's Small Council. Ser Gyles, whom Rhaenyra would be removing from his position as soon as possible, sat across the table in the Hand's seat, wearing a robe of deep green, his rings clinking softly as he clasped his hands before him. Beside him sat Ser Marston, Lord Commander, white-cloaked and stern, his eyes slightly narrowed as he assessed his new Queen and Prince Consort. On Ser Gyles' other side, Master of Whispers Larys Strong watched from the shadows with a quiet, almost-cruel, amusement. Grandmaester Mellos sat with a pile of scrolls, already fussing with a cracked seal, while Ser Tyland, Master of Ships, Lord Unwin Peake, Master of Coin, and Lord Jasper Wylde, Master of Laws, all whispered to one another. 

Rhaenyra didn't trust any of them, and as soon as she could, she intended to replace them. She already knew who her councillors would be, all she needed was for them to arrive. 

"My lords," Rhaenyra began, voice calm and even. "My thanks for attending this council. I am aware it is early, but I wish to get to work immediately." 

"Of course, Your Grace," Ser Gyles replied smoothly, folding his hands neatly. "We are eager to know the direction of your rule." 

"Excellent," Rhaenyra murmured. She turned to Mellos first. "Firstly, Grandmaester, has there been any replies from my uncle's family and from Driftmark, stating the date of their arrival?" 

Mellos bowed his head. "Lord and Lady Velaryon will be arriving within the fortnight, but there has yet to be a response from Prince Daemon." 

"Inform me when you receive word of their arrival date," Rhaenyra instructed. "We will hold the coronation ceremony within a fortnight of their arrival, to give the Lords and Ladies an opportunity to arrive and swear allegiance." 

"Of course, Your Grace," Ser Gyles said, inclining his head too little to be truly respectful. 

"Now," Rhaenyra continued. "I will hear a report on the crown's finances, and the state of the City Watch." 

Before anyone could respond, Ser Marston, who also acted as Commander of the City Watch, interjected. "The Watch has remained loyal, Your Grace. The captains were appointed by your late father. There has been no need for any... reshuffling." 

Rickon narrowed his eyes. "Yet from what my lady wife and I understand there were a dozen captaincy changes in the past five years alone. Why is that?" 

Ser Marston didn't flinch, but his tone turned cold as a snowstorm beyond the Wall. "Some men did not prove... capable of performing to His Grace's expectations." 

"Or incapable of suppressing their conscience?" Rickon countered quietly, his grey eyes piercing through to Ser Marston's soul. 

The atmosphere in the chamber was tense. Rhaenyra glanced briefly at Ser Criston. Her devoted sworn shield was staring suspiciously at Gyles with a dark expression. She pressed on. 

"And the castle staff?" She inquired firmly. "I noticed unfamiliar faces. Many of the old retainers - those who served during my youth - are gone." 

"They were... replaced," Ser Gyles explained evenly, not even batting an eyelash at the undercurrents in the room. "The King deemed it prudent to bring in more efficient attendants." 

"Efficient," Rhaenyra echoed softly, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. "And loyal, I imagine?" 

"As all servants of the Crown should be," Gyles replied. 

There was an edge to Gyles's smile, just enough to make Rickon shift in his seat, while Criston carefully, casually, placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. 

Rhaenyra sensed it as well - that barely veiled contempt. She remembered how, from all reports she had received from King's Landing, limited as they were, Viserys had trusted Gyles implicitly, the same way he had once trusted Otto. Trusted him to keep order in the realm on the King's behalf while Viserys worked on his precious model of Old Valyria. Trusted him to manage Alicent's household. And now, the man had the audacity to sit across from her, smirking at her as if he were the one with the power and not serving at her pleasure. As if he hadn't conspired to help torment her once-best friend and siblings. 

She could hear Lucerys's voice in her memory - " Why were Alicent's children so quiet? They didn't even smile " - and the fear glinting in Alicent and her children's eyes when they met. Her jaw tightened. 

"I want a complete listing of all changes to the staff since I left the capital," Rhaenyra announced abruptly, her voice slicing through the air like a knife through melting butter. "Every dismissed servant. Every promotion and the reason for such. And the same for the past decade." 

Gyles blinked, surprise briefly flashing across his sneering face. "Surely Your Grace does not intend to revisit every minor appointment-" 

"I intend to revisit every appointment, including those to this Council, and decide if the recipients are deserving of their posts," Rhaenyra cut him off curtly. 

Ser Marston's jaw clenched in anger. "This is a ridiculous whim, Your Grace," he sneered. "It's disrespectful, in fact. We served the late King faithfully." 

Rhaenyra rose slowly, gracefully, from her seat, like a she-dragon uncoiling from a curl. The room went still, as if the men were all in the presence of a deadly predator without a weapon for self-defence.  

"I am not my father," the Queen declared, cold and precise. "I do not reward silence with trust. You will provide what I have ordered. Otherwise, I will find those who can." 

She sat again, her every movement deliberate. Rickon leaned slightly toward her, his voice low. "We'll know by nightfall." 

Across the table, Larys Strong smiled faintly, as if watching a play unfold. Rhaenyra had always been fond of Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin, but Larys... something was off about that man. 

Rhaenyra looked at her councillors once final time. "That will be all for this morning," she said coolly. "Dismissed." 

As the lords and knights filed out of the chamber, uneasy and quiet, Rickon remained at her side, reaching out to clasp her hand gently as he whispered to her, "They are hiding something." 

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, her eyes lingering on the doors where her father's council had just exited the room. "Then we find out what," she murmured softly in response. 

The corridor outside the council chamber was quiet, lit by pale shafts of morning sunlight slipping through high, dust-laced windows. The guards posted at either end stood like statues, their faces hidden by their helms. 

Rickon stepped through the tall doors alone, letting them close softly behind him. Rhaenyra was going through some of the reports on the Crown's finances that had been left behind when the Small Council was dismissed. She'd entrusted him with the responsibility of investigating the secrets hidden in the Keep, and he fully intended to find answers for her. He walked with purpose but not haste, his gaze scanning the faces of anyone who passed by, servants, guards and nobility alike. He wasn't searching for any courtiers or maesters. They wouldn't give him the answers he sought. No, Rickon was looking for knights. The right ones. 

He found his quarry near the western stairwell - Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Arryk Cargyll, dressed in Queensguard white, speaking in low tones near an alcove where one of the dragon banners was beginning to wear at the ages. 

They saw him before he called to them. Rickon noticed how quickly they straightened, and how Ser Arryk's hand dropped instinctively to his sword hilt. Tense, wary. Distrustful. But there was no greed and cruelty in their eyes, only exhaustion and guilt. 

Yes, these were the right ones to target for answers. 

The Prince Consort approached, voice calm. "Ser Steffon," he greeted the pair. "Ser Arryk." 

"My lord," Steffon said with a short bow. "Is there something you require." 

Rickon studied them shrewdly. "I am a Northman, Sers. I have more important things to do than play the south's game of words, and so I will be blunt with you both: I require answers. Honest answers." 

The knights exchanged a wary glance before turning back to him. Arryk spoke first. "About what, Your Highness?" 

Rickon stepped close enough that no servants might overhead. "You both served under my goodfather. And under his Hand." 

The words hung heavily in the air. Neither knight answered immediately. 

"I know you weren't blind," Rickon continued. "I know you saw what was happening in this Keep. We've been here less than a day and already see the signs. The children. The Dowager Queen. The way they flinch should someone so much as breathe too loudly." 

There was a short, heavy pause. Then Steffon lowered his gaze, shame flashing across his face. "Aye. We saw it." 

"Then why did nobody intervene?" Rickon pressed, voice quiet and calm. 

"We tried," Ser Arryk said hoarsely, despair and guilt-ridden shame coating his voice and words. "Gods help us, we tried . But we were outnumbered. Any time we spoke against the Lord Commander's actions he had us reassigned. Or threatened. Or worse." 

"He had one of our brothers sent to the Black Cells to rot," Ser Steffon added. "Ser Willem. Said he 'betrayed the Crown' after he stepped between Prince Aegon and the king." 

Rickon's jaw tightened. "And Viserys allowed this?" He asked, just to confirm what he already knew. 

"He ordered it," Ser Steffon whispered. "Not in words, as such. But in his silence. He would sit on the Throne while Gyles delivered his commands. And when the Queen or one of the children disobeyed... they all paid for it." 

"How?" Rickon demanded, a dark fury, like a rising blizzard in the North, was building in his gut. He wanted to rage, to take justice for his goodfamily with Ice. Viserys was dead, but his sycophants still lived. Their flesh would have to suffice, while Rickon would comfort himself with imaginings of Viserys rotting in the Valyrian Fourteen Hells and suffering the pain he had inflicted on Aemma, Alicent and her children a thousand times over. 

"Tell me," Rickon demanded when the silence built. 

Steffon spoke again, reluctantly, eyes on the floor with shame. "They were confined. Denied food for days and given scraps when finally allowed to eat. Whipped, sometimes. Not always publicly. Sometimes... sometimes the punishments came from the Hand, or the Lord Commander. But no dared to protest it, because the King gave it his blessing." 

Rickon wanted to snarl. At his side, Shadow did snarl, whipping his dark tail from side to side in agitation. Like all direwolves, and dragons, he was sensitive to his companion's moods. Rickon raked a hand through the direwolf's black fur, anchoring himself on the feel of Shadow's body heat. 

"So they were broken," he muttered bitterly. "Bit by bit. And the whole court just watched." 'And did nothing' , he added mentally, full of disgusted rage. 

"Not all of us watched," Ser Arryk said. "Some of us did what we could. We smuggled them food. Medical supplies, seeing as Mellos did nothing to help them. Made it worse, on occasion. Sent the softer servants to tend the children. But we could only do so much without losing our positions, and being completely unable to help them." 

Rickon studied them both, searching for any sign that they were displacing the blame onto others to protect themselves. "Why not go to Dragonstone? Send word to Rhaenyra?" 

Arryk swallowed heavily. "We didn't know who to trust. And what could she have done, when it was all sanctioned by the King? And then, when Aemond was born... things got worse." 

Rickon blinked, the only sign of the dread in his chest being the stutter in his rhythmic stroking of his direwolf's fur. "Worse?" He repeated, voice wary. 

"He was fierce. A fighter from the start. The King... he feared the prince would be too defiant, too similar to Prince Daemon. He made an example of the others in front of him. As a warning, a lesson. When Daeron came... even the Dowager stopped speaking above a whisper." 

Rickon stepped back, releasing his grip on Shadow's fur. The ache of guilt and grief in his gut grew stronger, lying like a stone in his gut. He was their family. They were a part of his pack. And he had failed to protect them. Hadn't even realized there was something to protect them from. 

"Did the other members of the Small Council participate in these atrocities?" He demanded, jaw painfully tight. 

"Yes and no," Ser Steffon sighed heavily. "Larys Strong... he has a... fascination. With the Dowager's feet. The King gave permission for him to 'play with her' on occasion. Ser Tyland, Lord Peake and Lord Wylde... They have never treated them as the royalty they are. More like servants." 

Rickon really did growl this time. 

"We will fix this," he stated, a vow made as much to himself and his absent goodfamily as to the Queensguard knights. "But first, I need proof. Records. Witnesses. Names. Can you get them for me?" 

Both knights nodded without hesitation, hope rising in their eyes for the first time, replacing the guilt and despair. 

"We kept copies of as many orders as we could without drawing suspicion," Ser Steffon stated. "And we know which servants were turned out for trying to help the Dowager and her children. Some of them live in the city still." 

"Bring me whatever you can gather by tomorrow morning," Rickon instructed them. "Quietly. Those traitors must not get the chance to destroy the evidence we require." 

"And if they resist?" Ser Arryk asked. 

Rickon's expression hardened. The two knights thought his eyes looked frighteningly akin to those of his direwolf when he replied. 

"Then they will answer to the Queen. And to me." 

That evening, Rickon went searching, for what he wasn't quite certain. 

He hadn't intended to bring Sara. But she had toddled after him when he made to leave the nursery attached to his and Rhaenyra's suite, the blanket Rhaenyra had knitted for her and embroidered with dragons and direwolves clutched in her tiny fist, and her direwolf pup, Princess, trotting at her side as she insisted that "Papa bring them with him!" He never had the heart to refuse his only daughter anything, and so he had brought her with him as they wandered the east wing in silence. 

The Red Keep's upper halls were quiet in the mornings, save for the soft whisper of servants who fell silent and looked at the floor when the royals passed. 

They arrived at the old nursery, finding the door ajar. 

Sara tugged at his cloak, demanding his attention. 

"Yes, my wolf princess?" He asked gently, stroking her braided silver curls soothingly and wondering how any father could treat his own child the way Viserys had treated his own sons and youngest daughter. Rickon himself would rather cut his own hands off than raise one to any child, let alone his own. 

"What's in there, Papa?" Sara replied with the innocence of a child loved and cared for all her short life. 

An innocence Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Daeron had been deprived of. 

“An old playroom,” he explained. “Where your cousins lived before we came back.” 

Sara walked inside with the confidence of a child unafraid of ghosts. Inside, the air smelled of dry lavender, old linen, and dust no one dared disturb. The hearth was cold. The toy chest sat half-open, empty. 

Rickon followed her in. The echoes of pain felt stronger here than the rest of the keep. 

“Was it nice?” Sara asked, kneeling near a toppled wooden block. 

He hesitated. Rickon and Rhaenyra made a point of never lying to their children, and they were all precocious, but Sara was still so young. A mere babe, raised in love and safety. She was too young to understand the pain her uncles and aunt had suffered. “It was meant to be,” he finally settled on saying. 

His little girl looked up at him with furrowed brows. “But not really.” 

“No,” he confirmed softly. “Not really.” 

She found a broken doll under the settee—its arm snapped off, its hair tangled and singed. She held it up. “Somebody didn’t love this one.” 

Rickon didn’t answer. He was staring at the fireplace. 

A flicker crossed his vision—sharp, vivid. A memory not his own. 

— 

Lord Jasper Wylde’s voice boomed in the stone room. “I asked for quiet, not tears!” 

Alicent, younger and paler, held Daeron in her lap. The boy couldn’t have been more than three. He sobbed softly into her shoulder, his arms clutched tightly around her neck. 

“He’s only tired,” she said, voice meek. 

Jasper’s hand struck the stone mantel with a loud crack, making the Queen flinch and Daeron whimper in fear. “Then put him down and make yourself useful. There are scrolls to be delivered to Lord Tyland.” 

Another voice, colder, joined his — Ser Marston Waters, just inside the door. “ Queen Alicent, it is beneath you to coddle brats.” 

Aemond, five namedays old, stood rigidly by the hearth. His tunic was buttoned too tight. His lip was split. And he did not cry. 

— 

The image vanished, leaving an ache in his heart and head. 

Rickon blinked hard. His hands had clenched into fists without him noticing, drawing slight pinpricks of blood. At times like this, he wished he was not a greenseer. Seeing such cruelty while unable to do anything to help was a nigh-unendurable torment. 

He was distracted from his bitter thoughts by his daughter. 

Sara had crawled onto one of the small chairs now, the broken doll in her lap. She swung her legs back and forth. 

“Did the other children have muñas?” she asked, not looking at him, but instead fidgeting with the battered toy, rocking it like a mother with her babe. 

Rickon’s throat tightened in grief, feeling a deep pain for Alicent, and how battered into submission she had been, far from the firey woman who had worn Hightower green at his wedding to Rhaenyra. “They did,” he choked out, forcing his voice to remain even. 

“Did they get stories? And songs? And nice warm blankets?” 

He knelt beside her and brushed a delicate silver curl from her cheek. She looked so like her mother, with his eyes. “They should have. But not always.” 

She looked at him with a wide, solemn gaze. “Why?” 

He paused. Then he gave her the only truthful answer he could. 

“Because their muña was always afraid.” 

Sara was quiet for a moment. 

Then she held out the broken doll. “Can we help her not be afraid anymore?” 

Rickon nodded in determination. “Yes. We can.” 

He straightened, picked Sara up, and carried her out of the nursery, Shadow and Princess falling into step behind them. 

Behind them, the room settled back into silence—but not the same kind. It was softer now, just a little. As if the walls had heard, and remembered. 

The solar felt colder than it ought to with the fire crackling in the hearth. Rhaenyra sat at her desk, jaw set in suppressed rage. A single scroll sat unrolled across the war table: a Kingsguard disciplinary report from five years past, signed by Ser Marston Waters. The handwriting was elegant, the content brutal. 

There was a respectful knock. 

"Enter," the Queen called grimly. 

The door opened. 

Ser Harrold Westerling entered with Rickon beside him, flanking Ser Gyles. He no longer moved with the smugness of a man who thought he held all the power. His lips were tight, his brow damp. 

Rhaenyra didn’t look up at first. She finished reading a line of text, then rolled the scroll closed with slow precision. 

“Ser Gyles,” she began, voice cold. “You’re no longer Hand. But you’ll answer as if you truly are the loyal servant of the Crown you claimed to be.” 

Gyles bowed stiffly. “Your Grace.” 

She looked at him. “You served my father. You served him for over a decade. And during that time, Queen Alicent and her children were systematically isolated, humiliated, beaten, exploited.” 

She rose to circle the table slowly. “Aegon and Aemond were made to be used as footstools for members of the Small Council. Helaena was berated in public for her ‘hysteria.’ Daeron was ignored entirely until he forgot how to speak.” 

Gyles’s lips parted, but Rickon cut in. 

“Your court turned royal children into errand boys and scullery hands. Into things to manage and punish. Lord Tyland made Aegon clean his boots. Lord Jasper struck Helaena for correcting his wording in a royal decree. Lord Peake beat Aemond with a horsewhip for dropping a stack of books when he was three! Maester Mellos neglected to do anything for their health, in fact he reported them for punishment when they were ill!” 

“And what did you do?” Rhaenyra asked, voice as icy as the landscape of the North. “When they cried? When they appeared covered in too many bruises to count? When they broke?” 

“I followed the king’s will,” Gyles answered, too quickly. 

“Did the king order Larys Strong to put his hands on the queen?” she shot back sharply. That had been a particularly nauseating revelation courtesy of one of the maids dismissed by Ser Gyles. It had nearly pushed Rhaenyra to her breaking point. She was clinging to her composure by the tips of her fingers, but she was determined not to break. She could do this. 

She had to do this. For Alicent and her siblings. 

Gyles hesitated. Rhaenyra thought he looked like a rat. Fitting, that the outside matched the inside. “That was… a private matter,” he hedged uncomfortably. 

“There are no private matters when a queen is bartered for silence!" Rhaenyra snapped in outrage. "When her dignity is stripped so a man might indulge his sick fantasies. And you knew .” 

Gyles lowered his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. Rhaenyra had no doubt that he was only uncomfortable at being in trouble, though. He had revelled in tormenting the Queen and her royal children. Revelled in the power of cruelty he had wielded with such vicious skill. “Everyone knew,” he muttered. 

“And no one spoke,” Rickon scoffed in contempt. To a Northman, there was nothing more disgusting than hrming to an innocent, especially one unable to fight back. 

Rhaenyra looked to Ser Criston, standing silently by the door. She had only seen him look so grim one time, when she slipped while with child and went into labour with Joffrey, a full moon and a half early, and the maester feared for both their lives. 

“Have you secured the records?” she asked her loyal knight. 

“All compiled,” he confirmed with a sharp nod. “Scrolls, ledgers, and incident logs from Viserys’ reign. Nothing altered. Nothing burned.” 

“Good,” she replied. “We’ll need every word.” 

She turned to Gyles one last time. 

“You are hereby stripped of all titles and command, including your knighthood. You are to be confined to the Black Cells until your trial. You will be questioned under oath. If you lie, you’ll answer for it with your tongue.” 

Belgrave’s composure cracked at last. “Your Grace — surely this can be handled privately. For the sake of the Crown’s dignity—” 

“You mistook my mercy for silence,” Rhaenyra cut him off briskly. “You won’t make that mistake again.” 

She nodded once. 

Ser Harrold and Ser Criston stepped forward. Gyles tried to speak again, but the words failed as they took his arms and escorted him from the chamber. 

When the door closed behind them, Rickon spoke quietly. 

“That’s one.” 

Rhaenyra looked down at the table. “Waters goes next, followed by Mellos. Then Lannister. Then Wylde and Peake. One by one.” 

Rickon nodded. “And Larys?” 

“He’ll run,” she replied. “But we’ll find him.” 

Her eyes shifted to the stacked parchments on the edge of the table—orders, signatures, evidence. She rested a hand atop them. 

“Keep it all,” she ordered. “When we judge them, we won’t speak in whispers. The realm will hear every name, every bruise, every silence.” 

She looked up at Rickon, fire in her gaze. 

“We’ll break the Red Keep open from the inside.” 

The Queen Dowager’s solar had always been meticulously kept — each cushion aligned, each scroll stacked neatly, every trace of colour soft and serene. The sole piece of personality was a small hanging above the hearth, embroidered with the Seven-Pointed Star. But Rhaenyra saw the room now for what it truly was: a cage dressed in silk. 

Alicent sat near the window, half-lit by morning light, tiny rays creeping through the drawn shutters. She hadn’t moved since Rhaenyra had entered. She sat still, hands folded in her lap, back straight, her face calm — too calm, given the blood around her fingernails. She'd been picking at them again. 

Rhaenyra didn’t sit yet. 

“I had Gyles Belgrave taken to the Black Cells this morning,” she said quietly. 

Alicent didn’t react. 

“Ser Marston is next. Then Mellos. Lannister. Wylde, and Peake. We’ve gathered records, testimonies. You won’t have to relive it all in secret. We'll do our best to avoid you and your children having to testify too much. Though I fear it cannot be avoided entirely.” 

At that, Alicent twitched. Her eyes flicked to Rhaenyra’s — briefly, then away. 

“Will there be… punishments?” she asked. Her voice was thin. Cautious. 

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said. “And justice.” 

Silence again. 

“I didn’t know what they had done to you,” Rhaenyra continued. “I thought—” Her voice faltered. “I thought you were a rival. A threat. I thought you wanted my crown.” 

Alicent gave a small, breathless sound. It might have been a laugh. Or a sob. It was hard to tell. 

“I used to,” she admitted. “For a little while. When it still felt like it might mean safety for my children.” 

She looked out the window. “But it was never real. Not with Viserys watching. Not with Larys waiting. Not with my children being… broken slowly, day by day.” 

Rhaenyra sat at last, across from her — not close enough to touch, but near enough to provide comfort (she hoped). 

“Tell me,” she urged gently. “Tell me everything.” 

Alicent’s hands trembled. She held them tighter. “Ser Tyland would summon Aegon to the council hall at dawn. To pour wine. To carry messages all over the Keep. They would have him working without rest, food or drink until long after dusk, even if he was injured. And if he dropped something, or if they felt that he took too long, Lord Wylde would cuff him in front of the stewards. Once he cuffed him so hard, he cut his head on the hearth, and they made him clean up the blood with his own shirt. They wouldn't agree to him being treated.” 

Rhaenyra closed her eyes, imagining the babe Aegon had been, trembling and crying with an injured head, using his tunic to clean up his own blood. It broke her heart, but she refused to cry. Not now. She had no right to cry when Alicent did not. 

The Dowager Queen's voice shook as she continued. “They made Aemond stand for hours if he spoke out of turn, taking a whip to his legs if he trembled. They told him he’d never be trusted with a blade. That if he cried, his dragon would eat him.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “They knew he has no dragon.” 

Alicent nodded, a single jerking movement. “That was the point.” 

A pause. And then, quieter than a whisper— 

“Larys would come in the evenings. Always after the candles were lit.” 

Rhaenyra said nothing, letting her speak. 

“He would sit near my chair and ask me questions about the children. About my husband’s health. About what I thought of you.” She swallowed. “And if I answered properly… he would ask to see my feet.” 

She closed her eyes. “And I would let him. Because if I didn’t… he’d tell Viserys I was conspiring. And Viserys would execute my children without a second thought.” 

Rhaenyra’s hands clenched slowly around the arm of her chair. She said nothing for a long time. 

Then, softly, “He’s fled the Keep. But we’ll find him.” 

Alicent opened her eyes and looked directly at her. 

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, sounding weary and defeated. “Why are you… being so kind to me?” 

Rhaenyra hesitated. “Because I see now what I refused to see before. And because it’s too late to stop what happened — but it is not too late to help you heal.” 

“I don’t know how to heal,” Alicent whispered. 

“Then let us learn together.” 

A sound stirred at the doorway. Aegon. 

He lingered half-hidden behind the carved frame, his shoulders tense, his face pale. His eyes flicked between them, guarded. 

“Your Grace,” he said stiffly.  

“You don’t have to call me that when we’re alone,” Rhaenyra said gently. "I am your sister. You may address me as Rhaenyra or hāedar. Or perhaps 'Nyra', if you are comfortable with that. It's what you called me when you were still a babe." 

He didn’t respond. His jaw moved slightly, as if to speak. Then he looked down. 

“I did not mean to interrupt,” he answered instead. "My apologies for disturbing you." 

“You’re not interrupting,” Rhaenyra assured him. “You’re welcome here. It's your mother's solar.” 

He looked at his mother. Alicent gave him a small nod. 

Aegon stepped into the room, but his hands were still clenched at his sides. “Is this real?” he asked. “Are they really gone? Marston. Gyles. The ones who…” 

Rhaenyra stood. Walked slowly to him and leaned down to meet his gaze with her own. She wanted to reach out, to cup his jaw or hold his hands, but she didn't want to push too hard, too fast. 

“They’re in the Black Cells," she promised him. "And they will be judged. Not in shadows. Not behind closed doors. In front of the realm.” 

He didn’t speak. But he stood straighter. 

“I failed to protect you, your mother and our siblings," she went on. "I will never forgive myself for that. But now we are here and we are rebuilding what was broken. And you’re part of that. If you want to be.” 

Aegon nodded once — sharply, awkwardly. 

“I’ll try,” he muttered obediently, though Rhaenyra suspected he did not truly understand her. 

“That’s all I ask.” 

She turned back to Alicent. “Both of you. No more silence.” 

Alicent didn’t answer, but her eyes followed Rhaenyra as she left the room. 

And in the quiet that followed, Aegon sank slowly into the chair beside her — for the first time in years without being told to stand and wait. 

The throne room was colder than usual. 

Rhaenyra had ordered the great windows left open, though the wind had picked up from the Blackwater Bay. The black and red banners of House Targaryen stirred in the draft, flickering on the wall above the Iron Throne like the wings of a waiting dragon. 

The court gathered slowly. Not for a feast, nor a coronation, but for something less common — and far more dangerous. 

Justice. 

Ser Marston Waters entered with his white cloak trailing behind him, perfectly arranged, as if he still believed in the dignity of it. As if he still believed he had earned it. He walked with the precision of a knight born to command. The court parted for him, but no one bowed. 

Rhaenyra watched him descend the long, carpeted aisle from her seat atop the throne. Her crown, the crown of Jaehaerys (she intended to have Viserys' revolting crown melted down and give out as alms. He would have hated that), rested lightly on her brow. At her right standing on the step below was her husband, his arms folded across his chest, a stoic look on his face. Ser Harrold waited at the foot of the dais, flanked by Ser Criston and Ser Erryk. Ser Steffon and Ser Arryk were guarding the children, and they were still short one Queensguard, as Ser Lorent Marbrand had recently been removed by Ser Marston for 'disobedience to his vows' shortly before Viserys's death. 

Rhaenyra assumed he had protested the treatment of the royal family, and made a mental note to find out what had happened to the man after he lost his position. He could very well be trapped in the Black Cells. 

“Ser Marston,” Rhaenyra said at last, after looking coldly and silently at the false knight for some time. “Come forward.” 

He did. 

“Kneel,” she ordered. 

He hesitated for a moment, making Criston growl and touch the hilt of his sword in outrage at the disrespect towards the Queen, but finally obeyed. 

“You served as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for eleven years under my father,” Rhaenyra stated. “And in that time, you oversaw the protection of the royal family. Tell me, Ser Marston: how do you define protection?” 

He met her eyes, unafraid. His voice was steady. “Obedience. Discipline. Order.” 

“Not care?” she asked softly. “Not safety? Interesting. Your definition differs from my own.” 

He said nothing. 

“Did it fall within your understanding of ‘discipline’ to stand idle while Lord Wylde struck a Princess of the Blood across the face?” 

No answer. 

“Was it ‘order’ when Prince Aegon was made to kneel and clean blood from the floor of the council chamber after Lord Peake beat him with a ledger?” 

A murmur ran through the crowd. Lord Celtigar turned pale. Lady Fell looked away. 

Rhaenyra stood. 

“Was it protection,” she hissed, her voice ringing in the chamber, “when you ignored the cries of children — when you shut loyal knights out of their rooms — when you enforced silence in place of compassion?” 

Ser Marston raised his chin defiantly. “I followed the King’s word.” 

“You followed the word of a man who broke his own children,” she snapped back. “And you made sure no one stopped him.” 

She gestured. 

Ser Criston stepped forward and unfastened the clasp of Gyles’s white cloak. It fell to the ground like a shroud. Ser Harrold took his sword. Ser Erryk removed the gilded pins from his breastplate. 

“You are stripped of your cloak and your titles of Queensguard and knight,” Rhaenyra declared. “Effective this hour.” 

“On whose authority?” Marston spat. Criston snarled in outrage at the impertinence towards his beloved Queen. 

“Mine,” Rhaenyra stated simply. “The Queen’s.” 

He opened his mouth again, but Ser Criston gripped his arm, firm and unyielding. 

“You will be confined to the Black Cells,” Rhaenyra said. “You will be tried for wilful neglect, for collusion in abuse, and for failing the oaths sworn to the Crown. If you are found guilty, you will not die quickly.” 

Marston’s face twitched. Just once. Not fear — anger. He didn’t resist as he was led away, but his eyes never left Rhaenyra’s. 

The great doors shut behind him. 

The court was silent. 

Rhaenyra looked down at them all. 

“Do not mistake my crown for softness,” she warned. “I will not rule over silence. Not anymore.” 

And without waiting for applause or approval, she descended the throne and left the hall, Rickon at her side, a comforting pillar of strength. 

The gardens behind Maegor’s Holdfast were unusually quiet and empty in the late afternoon. The wind was soft, and the ivy-cloaked walls damp with dew, the scent of jasmine and wet stone rising gently from the paths. 

Aegon didn’t mean to linger here. He was meant to be unseen unless summoned. That had always been the rule. But something had pulled him out of his chambers — restlessness, maybe. Or something like dread at the sudden, incomprehensible, changes to his world that Queen Rhaenyra had brought in her wake. 

" Rebuilding what is broken " she had said. What did that even mean? 

He stood near the fountain, watching the fish circle slowly in its basin. It was a peaceful scene, but he kept his hands tucked behind his back, posture ramrod straight even now. Even with no one watching. 

Except someone was. 

A rustle came from the far hedges. 

He stiffened. Then relaxed — just a bit — when the small form of a child emerged. 

Joffrey. Rhaenyra’s fourth-born and the youngest of her sons. Still a threat, but he was likely too young to harm Aegon or his family personally. The main concern was that the boy would casually reveal Aegon's presence in the garden without the Queen's permission, and Aegon would be punished. 

He still didn't know what a punishment from the Queen or the Prince Consort would involve. 

Joffrey walked toward the fountain without fear, a woven crown of daisies lopsided on his curly head. He held another in his hands. Smaller. Messier. Obviously made by clumsy fingers. 

Aegon didn’t move. He watched, wary, feeling like a rabbit cornered by a wolf in the dark. 

Joffrey stopped in front of him and held the little crown out with both hands. 

“This is for you,” he announced. "Sara and I made it." 

Aegon blinked, confused. “Why?” 

“You looked sad,” Joffrey replied with complete sincerity. “And you’re my kepus. That means you're family, and Muña and Papa always say to help people, especially family.” 

Aegon looked down at the child, at the crooked little circle of flowers. There was no mockery in his face. No command. Just a gentle offering. 

Aegon reached out slowly and took it. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words foreign on his tongue. He looked around nervously. “You shouldn’t be out here. What if someone sees?” 

Joffrey tilted his head. “Why would that be bad?” 

Aegon didn’t answer. 

Joffrey leaned in conspiratorially. “Luke says I always make things better by smiling. You could try.” 

Aegon didn’t. 

But when Joffrey skipped off toward the trees, humming to himself, Aegon looked down at the flower crown in his hands. 

He didn’t put it on. But he didn’t drop it either. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Three  

The Queen Who Never Was  

The room felt too quiet. 

The shutters had been opened, letting in soft morning light, but Aemond still sat in the shadows near the hearth, unmoving. His hair hung loose around his face, his good eye fixed on nothing. The scar where Viserys had sliced open half his face itched, but he knew better than to touch it. Mellos had trained him out of that with a heavy rod to his palms. 

Those scars itched too. 

Aegon paced the length of the chamber like a caged animal. 

“They’re really gone,” he muttered for the fourth time, more to himself than to Aemond. “Ser Gyles. Ser Marston. Mellos. Ser Tyland. Lord Wylde. Lord Peake. All of them. Gone. No summons. No punishments. No shouting. Nothing .” 

His voice echoed slightly in the stillness, as though the room wasn’t used to words being spoken in confusion instead of fear and pain. 

Aemond didn’t answer. 

Aegon stopped at the window and stared out over the courtyard. He could see servants bustling to prepare for something — banners being raised, guards at attention. Another visitor, probably. Another noble come to pass judgment or stare at the royal Andal mutts. 

“We should have been called by now,” he said. “They’ll come. They’re just waiting until our guard’s down.” 

Aemond blinked. Slowly. “No one’s come in hours.” 

“That’s what I mean,” Aegon said sharply. “That’s not normal.” 

He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “Remember the last time I spilled ink on Tyland’s report? Twelve lashes. In front of everyone.” 

Aemond gave the barest nod. 

“I’ve been ready since dawn,” Aegon said. “Waiting for the knock.” 

Aemond’s fingers tightened against the arm of the chair. “Me too.” 

The silence that followed was suffocating. It wasn’t peace. It was absence. And absence, to them, was not safe. It meant someone was watching from behind a door. Or waiting with a command. Or worse — waiting to be disappointed. 

“Do you think it’s true?” Aegon asked finally. “That they’re in the Black Cells?” 

Aemond’s eye flicked to him. “They said it. So did Mother.” 

Aegon’s lip curled. “She believed in Viserys too.” 

That landed with a thud. 

Neither of them spoke for a long while. 

Finally, Aemond stood — stiffly, like someone expecting to be struck. He crossed to the corner where his books were stacked neatly, untouched for days, and picked one up. He didn’t open it. Just held it like armour. 

Aegon leaned against the wall, sliding down until he sat with his knees pulled close. 

“They’re gone,” he said again, softer now. “But I still feel like I’m going to be punished.” 

Aemond nodded. “Because we always were.” 

Aegon looked at him. “And now what?” 

“I don’t know,” Aemond whispered. 

Neither did he. 

The Great Hall had never felt so quiet. The table had been set for only twelve, Rhaenyra having ordered a private supper for the royal family, but despite the two families sitting around the table, the room was quiet save for the soft clinking of cutlery against plates and Sara's noisy slurps from her drink.  

The long table had been set with care but without extravagance — warm breads, freshly baked, soft cheese from the Stormlands and poached fruit from the Reach, with salted meats from the North. A fire crackled in the hearth, and only two guards stood at the doors, Ser Steffon and Ser Criston. Rhaenyra had hoped the presence of one of the guards who had been kind might put Alicent and her children at least somewhat at ease. 

Unfortunately, to judge by the way that Alicent sat like a woman waiting to be judged and the children's pale faces and faint trembling, it wasn't working. 

The Dowager Queen's hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her gaze rarely lifted from the plate in front of her. When it did, it darted in a repetitive glance — first to Rhaenyra, then to her children, then to the door. Then it went back to her plate. 

She hadn’t taken a bite. 

At her side, Aegon sat stiffly, his fork untouched, his eyes hollow. He flinched every time a dish clinked, or someone cleared their throat too sharply. He drank only water and kept both hands on the table, in plain sight. 

Aemond sat upright and utterly silent, one hand wrapped so tightly around his knife that his knuckles were white. He didn’t look at anyone. 

Helaena sat beside him, whispering to herself about lemon blossoms and honeybees, her fingertips moving across the edge of the table like she was tracing an invisible picture. 

On the other side sat Rhaenyra’s children — struggling to draw their terrified uncles and aunt into conversation, and repeatedly failing. 

Jacaerys kept glancing down the table at Aegon, as if searching for something he could not find. Cregan was quieter than usual, seated beside Aemond, his shoulders relaxed but his eyes cautious. 

Lucerys had chosen a seat beside Helaena, his small hands folded in his lap. Across from him, Joffrey and Daeron sat at the children’s end — Daeron nearly hidden beneath the table, Joffrey fidgeting with the salt dish. 

Sara sat between Rickon and Rhaenyra in a high-backed chair piled with cushions, swinging her feet under the table and humming softly. She was sensitive to the atmosphere of the room, but the comfort of her parents soothed her unease. 

Rickon watched the hall with a Northern wolf’s stillness, his face unreadable. 

Rhaenyra raised her cup. “In the North, we offer bread and salt to those we do not wish to harm. It is a pact ordained by the Old Gods — an old one, older than thrones or crowns.” 

The silence after her words was taut. 

Rhaenyra continued, gentler now. “We are not enemies. Not anymore. Whatever came before—” 

“Still lives in memory,” Alicent said quietly. 

Everyone turned to look at her. 

She hadn’t raised her voice, but the words landed like stone in the water. Her gaze didn’t lift. “Memory doesn’t yield to salt and bread.” 

Her children flinched, looking anxiously at the Queen and Consort, clearly fearing their retaliation for their mother's slightly defiant words. 

But Rhaenyra did not so much as bat an eyelash. “No. But neither will I ask you to forget. Only to eat. In peace.” 

Rickon leaned down and whispered something to Sara that no one else save Rhaenyra could hear. She nodded with a smile, and he lifted her down to the ground, where she, wobbling slightly and holding a small wooden plate with two slices of dark bread sprinkled with salt on it. 

She carried it carefully down the length of the table — past her brothers, past Alicent’s children — until she stood beside Helaena. 

Helaena blinked at her. 

Sara held out the plate with both hands. “You can have this.” 

Helaena looked at her mother unsurely. Then at Aemond. Then — tentatively, as if fearing a trick — she took one of the bread slices. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

Sara beamed and turned, now facing Daeron. 

He looked terrified. 

Joffrey, trying to be helpful, nudged him. “It’s just bread.” 

Daeron didn’t move. 

Lucerys leaned across and spoke gently. “You don’t have to. But you can, if you want to.” 

Daeron reached out, not for the bread, but for the edge of Helaena’s sleeve. She slid the bread into his hand herself. 

Across the table, Aegon was still staring at his plate. 

Rickon met his eyes. “Would you like some of the cheese, Aegon?” 

Aegon blinked. “If I say yes, will I be punished for asking for too much?” 

The question made the air freeze.  

Rhaenyra’s voice was calm but heavy, almost tired. “No, Aegon. You may eat as much as you like. No one here will punish you for hunger. Ever. Nor will any of you ever be denied food.” 

He said nothing, but Rickon passed him the dish anyway. 

He didn’t touch it. 

But a few minutes later, when no one was looking, he slipped a slice onto his plate. 

Cregan broke the quiet next. “In Winterfell, meals are noisy. Loud enough that you can’t think. It’s strange eating in silence.” 

Lucerys grinned. “Mostly because Joffrey won’t shut up.” 

Joffrey puffed his cheeks and elbowed him. 

“I like quiet,” Aemond said suddenly. 

All eyes turned. 

He stared at his cup. 

“I like hearing what isn’t said,” he added. 

Rhaenyra met Alicent’s eyes. “Then let it be said now: you are safe in this hall. No matter what you remember. No matter what you fear.” 

Alicent didn’t speak. 

But she placed one hand lightly over Daeron’s. 

That, too, was a kind of answer. 

The courtyard had not seen banners of House Velaryon in years — not since Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had been banished from King's Landing by King Viserys for taking up arms against the Triarchy without permission from the Crown. But today, they were raised alongside the black dragon of House Targaryen. Silver seahorses flared against deep teal silk, catching the afternoon light as the procession rode in beneath the city’s wary eyes. 

Rhaenyra stood at the base of the steps with Rickon beside her, one hand resting gently on Sara’s shoulder. Jacaerys and Cregan flanked her on either side, straight-backed and grinning in spite of themselves. Lucerys shifted from foot to foot, his excitement poorly hidden. Joffrey, already bouncing, was only kept in place by Rickon’s firm hand on his tunic. 

After Aemma's tragic death (at the hands of Viserys - Rhaenyra should've understood her father's cruel heart then, when he heartlessly butchered her mother, his supposedly 'beloved' wife, for a son who didn't live an hour) and Rhaenyra being elevated to Crown Princess, Rhaenys had stepped in to act as surrogate mother to the reeling and uncertain Heiress. She had mentored her in the art of ruling, in the deadly game of cyvasse that was politics. She had been the one to sit down with Rhaenyra the night before her wedding and explain what the wedding night itself would involve, had attended each of her childbirths save for Joffrey's early one, and soothed her fears, holding her hand and wiping her brow. 

She and Corlys were the only grandparents Rhaenyra and Rickon's children remembered, with Benjen Stark having died putting down a King-Beyond-the-Wall when Rickon was two-and-ten, and Lysa Stark having died of Winter Fever three years after the twins were born. Aemma, of course, had died when Rhaenyra was four-and-ten, long before she was even betrothed, let alone birthed her children and Viserys... Viserys was no one Rhaenyra would ever consider her father again, and she refused to connect him with her beloved children. And in truth, Daemon had been more of a father to her than Viserys ever was, the late king having been too consumed with desire for a son to pay any attention to his daughter until the death of his first wife. But he had been banished before her marriage and never allowed to return during Viserys' reign, and so the children had never met him, or his wife Laena, though they sent regular gifts from their manse in Pentos.  

But despite those gaps, the role of grandparents had been amply filled by the Velaryon couple, and the pair were dearly loved by the Stark branch of the Targaryen clan. 

Alicent and her children stood farther back in the shadows of the archway. She had not insisted they attend — but neither had she objected when Rhaenyra gently suggested it. So they came. Quiet. Watching. 

The guards at the gate called out, “The Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys Velaryon of Driftmark!” 

The Sea Snake rode in through the gates with his body tall and regal, his posture straight in spite of age and salt-weathered bone. Beside him, Rhaenys dismounted first — fluid, elegant in Targaryen black and Velaryon silver, her silver hair braided with shells from Driftmark and black ribbons for mourning. 

But she smiled as soon as she saw them. 

She crossed the yard without hesitation, bypassing every courtier and squire. Her arms opened wide before she reached the steps. 

“My girl,” she said. 

Rhaenyra was already moving. 

They met in a tight, wordless embrace. Rhaenyra breathed in the scent of sea air and lavender oil — a familiar, grounding smell. Rhaenys held her like a mother who’d missed every moment and still remembered them all. 

“You’ve not changed,” Rhaenyra whispered. She felt as if a heavy load she had been carrying since returning to the Red Keep had been lifted at last. Rhaenys would know what to do. She would know how to help Alicent and Rhaenyra's siblings. 

“You’ve gotten stronger,” Rhaenys replied tenderly. “But I knew you would.” 

Behind them, Corlys dismounted with a slower grace and clapped Rickon on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “The North hasn’t worn you down yet?” 

“Not for lack of trying,” Rickon said. “But your granddaughter here helps.” 

He lifted Sara into the air dramatically. She giggled and buried her face in his neck while Corlys tenderly stroked her back. 

"Hello, sweetling," he crooned. "Do you remember me?" 

"G'anpa!" Sara squealed, pulling away from Rickon and reaching out to Corlys, who accepted her and began peppering her sweet little face with kisses. 

Meanwhile, Rhaenys turned to address the children one by one. 

“Jacaerys,” she said, hands on his shoulders. “Taller every time I see you.” 

“You say that every time,” he grinned. 

“Because it’s always true.” 

She kissed his cheek, then pulled Cregan into a tight hug. “And you — still guarding everyone like my fierce little wolf knight?” 

Cregan flushed. “I try.” 

Lucerys ran up and nearly knocked into her legs as he hugged her tightly. “Did you bring us shells?” 

"Lucerys," Rhaenyra scolded him gently, but the stern tone was betrayed by the fond smile on her face. "Your grandmother's presence is appreciated for more than just giving you presents." 

"Nonsense, Rhaenyra," Rhaenys said dismissively. “What else is a grandmother for besides spoiling her grandchildren? And my darlings are easy to please with such a simple gift of seashells." She then turned and crouched before her middle surrogate grandson. "Of course I brought you shells, and more. You think I’d come from Driftmark empty-handed?” 

She held him tightly for a moment longer, then looked up and caught Joffrey already scrambling toward her with a squeal. 

“Careful, little dragon!” 

“I missed you!” he cried, arms flung around her waist. 

“Fourteen save me, I have missed you more.” 

Then Rhaenys noticed the eyes beyond the archway. 

She straightened slowly, her gaze settling on Alicent and her children. She did not smile this time. 

But she did not scowl. 

“Queen Alicent,” she said, inclining her head — not too deeply, but respectfully. 

Alicent bowed her head. “Princess.” 

Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron stood quietly behind her. Helaena offered a soft curtsy, her hands clasped in front of her like folded petals. 

Rhaenys looked at them all. Not with suspicion. With calculation. 

Rhaenyra stepped beside her. 

“They live with us now,” she said. “As family.” 

Rhaenys didn’t argue. She only said, “Then we are their family, too.” 

The council chamber was no longer tense — but it was far from comfortable. 

Maester Gerardys, who had been swiftly called from Dragonstone to replace Mellos, sat straight-backed with a blank scroll in front of him, waiting. Ser Harrold stood watch by the door with Criston Cole and Erryk Cargyll on either side. They had escorted Ser Tyland, Lord Unwin and Lord Jasper to the Black Cells the day before. The silence of their absence echoed now, a hollow gap in the chamber’s balance. 

Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her crown settled lightly on her braids, her hands folded before her. Rickon stood behind her right shoulder, silent and still. 

Rhaenys entered last, trailed by Corlys, who nodded politely at the others but took no seat. Rhaenys didn’t bow. She of all people didn’t need to. She sat without ceremony across from her queen. 

The air shifted. 

“Thank you all for coming,” Rhaenyra began. “We are no longer in crisis, but we are not yet in peace. The damage of the past twelve years will not be undone by arrests alone.” 

She looked slowly around the table. 

“We require more than power. We require judgment, clarity, and strength of will. The kind of strength that raised me.” 

Her eyes met Rhaenys’s. 

“And so I name Princess Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon as Hand of the Queen.” 

A breath caught somewhere in the room. Not defiance — just surprise. 

Maester Gerardys set down his quill. “Your Grace, this is… unusual.” 

“Not without some precedent,” Rhaenys pointed out smoothly. “Queen Visenya and my namesake, Queen Rhaenys, often acted in King Aegon's stead, and Queen Alyssa Velaryon acted as Queen Regent for my grandfather in his minority. Many ladies rule, for example Lady Jeyne Arryn in the Eyrie.” 

She leaned forward. “But if it is unusual, good. This court could use some upheaval. It brings progress.” 

“Rhaenys has advised me since my marriage,” Rhaenyra continued, nodding at her mentor. “She has been present for the birth of each of my children. She flew between Dragonstone and Winterfell more than the ravens did. She is loyal not to power, but to family. To our family. I will consider no one else as Hand.” 

Criston nodded slightly. Ser Harrold said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders eased. 

Rhaenyra turned to Maester Gerardys. “Please record it formally. The Seal of the Queen is to be pressed on her chain before sundown.” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Gerardys inclined his head in acceptance. 

She turned to Rhaenys. “Do you accept?” 

Rhaenys smiled — not soft, but proud. “Gladly.” 

Corlys finally stepped forward and bowed his head — first to Rhaenyra, then to his wife. 

“I fought through a hundred storms to make this house great,” he said. “And now I see the winds finally shift.” 

The chamber seemed to exhale. Quietly. Slowly. 

But it was Aegon — standing hidden just outside the ajar door, submerged in the shadows behind a pillar — who watched most intently. 

He hadn’t been summoned. He might be in trouble for spying if he was caught. But he had come anyway. 

He stared at Rhaenys, at her sharp eyes and her calm composure. And then he looked at Rhaenyra. 

A queen who named a woman who might once have been Queen in her place as her Chief Advisor. 

Aegon didn’t understand this court. Not yet. But for the first time, he wasn’t sure he hated it. 

The solar Rhaenyra had claimed as her own since returning to the Red Keep was still sparsely furnished. The bookshelves remained mostly empty and there was only a single hanging, of Old Valyria. The majority of Rhaenyra's non-essential possessions had yet to arrive from Dragonstone and Winterfell. The fireplace was newly swept, but the fire within burned low. Outside, the sky had turned a dusky rose colour with the close of day. 

Rhaenys entered without bothering to knock. She and Rhaenyra were too close to require such formalities between them. She poured the wine herself. A Dornish vintage. Red and bracing. 

Rhaenyra took the cup with a quiet thank you and sat near the fire. She looked tired in a way Rhaenys rarely saw — bone-tired, soul-worn. Not battle-weary, but gutted . 

The Queen-Who-Never-Was sat down across from her with her own goblet and looked at her adoptive daughter with a gentle expression. "Tell me," she urged softly. "I see that a lot has occurred since your arrival." 

“I’ve put six men in chains in as many days and I've been here for barely a sen'night and a half,” Rhaenyra said, staring into the flame. “My father’s court was a pit of vipers, and poisonous ones at that. I knew he was weak. I didn’t know how cruel he was.” 

Rhaenys sipped at her wine, waiting for more information and letting Rhaenyra release her burdens in words before she responded. 

“They hurt Alicent,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice low. “They humiliated her. They used her. And the children — gods, Rhaenys. Aegon flinches at kindness. Aemond watches every movement like he’s preparing to block a blow. Helaena does not speak above a whisper, and Daeron barely speaks at all! They were broken under my father’s roof. And all the while I flew between Dragonstone and Winterfell, raising my children in love and laughter, while my brothers and sister cowered in terror.” 

“You weren’t here to stop it,” Rhaenys said gently. 

“But I should have known ,” Rhaenyra said. “I should have asked more questions in my letters. Written to them and sought out answers as to why they did not respond. I could have sent spies if I had to. Instead, I let myself believe he would raise them properly. That he would love the sons he butchered my mother and married my best friend for in the way he never loved me as a child.” 

Rhaenys didn’t speak right away. She let the silence stretch until it softened. 

“You were raised by a man who only looked at what he wanted to see,” she said at last. “And you learned to do the same. That is not a crime. But it is a habit.” 

Rhaenyra closed her eyes. “I keep thinking of Helaena. She sits at my table like a ghost.” 

“She is not dead yet,” Rhaenys stated firmly. “Nor is Aegon, nor Aemond, nor Daeron. The damage was real. But so is the chance to undo it.” 

“How?” Rhaenyra asked, letting her hopelessness spill into her typically composed tone. She could only ever let herself show her true emotions to Rhaenys and Rickon, and in the past few days she had been too focused on acting to break down in her husband's strong arms.  

“They don’t trust me," she went on helplessly. "They barely even meet my eyes, let alone speak to me. And I have no idea how to reassure them that I mean them no harm. That I will not let them be harmed.” 

“Then stop trying to be trusted,” Rhaenys replied frankly, after taking another sip from her goblet. “And start trying to be known .” 

Rhaenyra looked at her. 

“Invite them in,” Rhaenys continued. “Let them see the queen who brushes her daughter’s hair. The mother who stitches her son’s cloak. Let them see the part of you that wasn’t shaped by politics. That’s what they were never allowed to have.” 

Rhaenyra’s voice cracked. “And if they never accept me?” 

“Then they will still have had your honesty,” Rhaenys shrugged. “And that is more than Viserys ever gave them.” 

The fire crackled between them. 

“You’re a queen now,” the new Hand added. “But you’re also their last hope of knowing that not every Targaryen rules with fire and blood alone.” 

Rhaenyra laughed softly — a dry, but not bitter, laugh. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered a moment later. "I have needed your guidance these past few days." 

Rhaenys raised her cup in a silent toast. “You never needed my presence to rule, or help your siblings. Just my patience.” 

Rhaenyra smiled, her exhaustion and worry easing. “You’ve never had much of that.” 

Rhaenys tapped her goblet against hers. “And yet here I am.” 

The dining table had been moved to the smaller hall, where the ceilings were lower and the walls muffled sound from outside the chamber. The torches in the sconces flickered gently, casting a golden warmth that felt almost too intimate for how awkwardly everyone sat. 

Rhaenyra and Rickon occupied the centre seats. To Rhaenyra’s left sat Joffrey and Lucerys, Sara between them, as usual. It made it easier to ensure the babe did not make a mess with her parents there to keep an eye on her. Jacaerys and Cregan were seated on Rickon’s right, whispering quietly to each other about the differences between King's Landing and Winterfell. 

Alicent sat opposite Rhaenyra, still upright and cautious, with Aegon to one side and Aemond on the other. Helaena sat beside Aemond, her head bowed as she studied the folds of her napkin. Daeron was tucked between her and Rhaenys, who had insisted on sitting next to the young child, Corlys sat on his wife's other side. 

The conversation was quiet. Careful. 

Cups were passed without eye contact. Dishes were shared with murmured thanks. No one raised their voice, but the tension remained, especially on Alicent's side of the table. Aegon hadn’t touched his food beyond moving it with his fork. He answered no questions, offered no words unless spoken to directly. When Rickon passed him the pitcher of watered wine, he blinked at it like it was a test before pouring a drop — exactly one — and setting it down too quickly. 

Aemond sat beside him, rigid as stone, one hand gripping his goblet with barely contained tension. His gaze moved constantly — tracking hands, glances, tones. He didn't speak, and he didn’t eat. 

Daeron, small and tucked close to Helaena, stayed mostly hidden. He kept his fingers curled into his sleeves, and though Joffrey smiled at him twice, he looked away both times, blinking rapidly. 

It was not yet a family gathering — but it no longer felt like they were on a battlefield either. 

Rhaenyra caught Aegon watching Jacaerys slice his meat and pass the knife to Lucerys, who used it with some ceremony. Aegon glanced away when he realized he had been caught. 

Rhaenys finally set her goblet down. 

“I have received word from Pentos,” she said lightly. “The ship reached Sunspear four days ago. They should be in Blackwater Bay by week’s end.” 

Rhaenyra blinked. “They are almost here?” she breathed, heart thumping. 

“They are, all of them,” Rhaenys confirmed. “Daemon and Laena, and the girls.” 

Sara’s eyes lit up in excitement. She was used to being surrounded by her brothers, and Helaena had made no effort to reach out to her since their arrival, nor had Sara's own offers of friendship to the older girl been warmly received. “There are girls ? Will they play with me?” 

“Twin girls,” Rhaenys said, smiling at her. “Baela and Rhaena. They’re just a year older than Lucerys. Fierce, Baela especially. Baela once bit a pickpocket who tried to take her carved dragon. Rhaena is gentler. She loves to dance and sing. I am sure that both of them will be delighted to play with you.” 

Joffrey laughed in amusement at the thought of a young girl biting a pickpocket in defence of her toy, while Lucerys perked up. “Do they have dragons too? They could come riding with us!” Alicent's children stared hard at their plates, hiding their hurt and longing at their lack of dragons. 

Rhaenyra glanced at them discreetly from the corner of her eyes, picking up the pain radiating from her siblings and quickly figuring out the source of their distress. It planted the seeds of an idea in her mind, and she mentally began to plan. It would probably take a few days to arrange it and carve out the time, but she could manage it. 

She was the Queen, after all. 

“Not yet,” Rhaenys said with a gentle smile. “They never received dragon eggs." She didn't say that Viserys had refused it, claiming that Daemon was too reckless to deserve to receive dragons for his daughters, simply skipping the explanation entirely. "But they watch the skies more than they watch their tutors. Baela especially is bouncing off the walls in eagerness to become a dragonrider. No doubt Daemon and Laena will take them straight to Dragonstone after the coronation to claim their dragons.” 

The mention of Daemon distracted Rhaenyra, and she sat back in her chair, a tightness in her chest. “It’s been eleven years.” 

“Daemon wrote often,” Rickon pointed out sympathetically. He knew of the truth behind the salacious rumours about Rhaenyra and her beloved uncle, and he knew how much she missed him. 

Rhaenyra nodded in acknowledgement. “But that’s ink and parchment. It’s not him. Not his presence, his guidance and reassurance. He has never even met our children, yet he has been my most faithful supporter since I was a babe. He was the first man who ever told me I was enough. The one who taught me Valyrian and what it means to be a Targaryen, who took me flying for the first time... He was my father in my heart, if my uncle in blood.” 

Rhaenys’s voice softened. “And now your children will meet their grandfather. No doubt Sara will be the apple of his eye the moment he lays eyes on her.” 

Across the table, Alicent’s gaze flicked toward them. She hadn’t spoken since the meal began. 

“My daughter and goodson will bring a different kind of storm,” Rhaenys went on, a hint of a smirk at the thought of the chaos Daemon and Laena always brought in their wake. “But this time, you’ll have sails to meet it.” 

Rhaenyra smiled faintly. 

Aegon shifted in his seat. “Will they be staying?” His voice was cautious, and so soft it was barely audible. If someone else had been speaking at a normal volume at the same time, it would have gone unheard completely.  

The question silenced the table, everyone surprised at Aegon's uncharacteristic question. Alicent looked anxiously at the Queen, clearly fearful her son would be punished for speaking without permission, but to her and her children's surprise, Rhaenyra's lips had curled up at the sides in pleasure at him having the courage to speak at all, though no one made any open fuss, lest they simply make Aegon uncomfortable. 

Rhaenys looked at him directly. “They will stay for as long as they’re needed,” she promised.  

Aegon nodded. Then reached for the wine jug and poured for his mother before she could move to do it herself. 

Alicent gave him a small nod. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Four  

Valyrian Lessons  

The kitchens were already humming when Aegon slipped in, though dawn was only beginning to lighten the sky outside.  

Steam rolled out of great iron pots, fogging up the room and making sweat break out in small beads on his forehead. Bread was baking in neat rows inside the large hearth ovens, and copper kettles clanged gently as they were moved from hook to hook. Scullions moved quickly through the heat, eyes lowered, hands busy.  

No one stopped him. No one looked twice.  

He had long since learned how to become invisible, especially here.  

Years ago, Lord Tyland had made him come to the kitchens every morning to "learn humility.” Aegon had scoured floors with a brush, hauled sacks heavier than his limbs could bear, and stood with shaking arms holding trays too long without anyone bothering to care.  

Once, he’d dropped a bowl of pepper sauce.  

He hadn’t eaten for two days after that, unless you counted the bits he had secretly licked off the cleaning rag he had used to clean the spill.  

Now, the smells made his stomach twist. The food wasn’t for him. It never had been.  

But this morning, he couldn’t stay still, hidden in the shadows, safely out of sight.  

He walked slowly past the prep tables, eyes flicking to the platters of cooled bread loaves stacked for the day’s meals. He reached out to touch one — soft, warm, with a divine smell — and froze.  

A kitchen girl had seen him.  

She was young, maybe ten namedays, with flour on her cheeks, blonde hair wrapped in a neat cloth. She looked at him — not with fear, not with mockery. Just confusion.  

Then she asked, simply, “Are you hungry?”  

Aegon blinked. His fingers curled back from the bread before touching it.  

“I — no,” he muttered.  

She nodded, as if he had made any sense at all. Aegon supposed she was simply polite. “Do you want me to ask the steward if you’re allowed?”  

Aegon stiffened, imagining how Queen Rhaenyra or Prince Consort Rickon would react if the steward reported him stealing food. “No. I’m not — I’m not taking anything.”  

“I didn’t say you were.”  

He looked at her then, truly looked. She didn’t recognize him — not as a prince, not as anything. Just a boy in the wrong place.  

And still… she hadn’t snapped at him. Or struck him. Or shouted for a guard.  

He took a slow breath. “Sorry.”  

She shrugged. “If you get hungry later, I saved an end crust. Most people don’t want those, but they’re best when warm.”  

Then she turned and walked away.  

Aegon stood in the corner for a long time after she left, hands clenched at his sides.  

He wasn’t sure what he felt.  

Only that it stayed with him as he made his way — late and silent — to the lesson his Queenly sister had ordered he, Helaena and Aemond share with her elder children.  

The sun filtered gently through the tall windows of the library’s upper chamber, casting pale gold light across rows of books and scrolls. The high table had been dusted, the floor rugs freshly shaken out. A stack of parchment, sharpened quills, and inkwells sat neatly arranged at each seat.  

Maester Gerardys stood beside the lesson board, hands folded, his long chain glinting in the light. He was calm as always, but his eyes were sharp — watchful. He was a kind and clever man, and the Stark-Targaryens' favourite tutor.  

“High Valyrian,” he said as the children filed in, “is not simply a language. It is a legacy. You carry it in your blood, and it will serve you, should you choose to respect it. For example, you will use it to command your dragons. Today, we will go back to basics, to ensure you do not lose such vocabulary.”  

What Gerardys did not inform his students was that Mellos' records had made it clear that the education of Alicent's children had been limited, and going over basics was primarily for their benefit.  

Jacaerys and Cregan sat first. Confident, if not quite eager. Jacaerys leaned forward with a quiet kind of pride, tapping the end of his quill against the table. “I can already write recite the declensions in three different ways,” he said.  

“That’s because you get it wrong three times,” Cregan teased.  

Lucerys laughed and took his seat beside them, already thumbing through the primer in front of him.  

Then came the others.  

Aegon stepped in with his head lowered slightly, his mouth set in a neutral line. He took the seat furthest from the others and placed his hands neatly on the table. His fingers were pale, tense.  

Aemond followed, silent as ever, slipping into the chair beside him like a shadow folding in on itself. His eye swept the room once, then landed on the chalk slate on Gerardys’ desk.  

Helaena drifted to the table’s edge, hesitating. She reached for a seat beside Lucerys — then hesitated again and shifted closer to Aemond, who moved slightly to give her space without looking at her.  

Maester Gerardys noted their silence but made no comment.  

“Let’s begin with greetings,” he said. “Prince Jacaerys, perhaps you’ll start?”  

“Rytsas,” Jacaerys said clearly. “That means hello.”  

“Correct. Lucerys?”  

“Rytsas, ābra — hello, lady,” Lucerys said, glancing toward Helaena with a nervous grin.  

She blinked at him, then repeated softly, “Rytsaas…” she whispered, fumbling the pronunciation a bit, but not enough to do more than give her words a heavy Westerosi accent.  

“Very good,” Gerardys complimented instead of correcting her, giving her a soft smile. He intended to be very gentle with his new students. They would learn better through kindness than through fear.  

He turned to Aemond. “And you, Prince Aemond?”  

Aemond’s lips tightened. His hand curled on the table.  

After a moment, he said, stiffly, “I don’t remember.”  

“That’s alright,” Gerardys assured him calmly, gently. “You will.”  

But Aemond was already shrinking into his seat.  

Gerardys turned, slowly. “Prince Aegon?”  

Aegon didn’t look up. “Rytsas,” he said, so quietly it could’ve been mistaken for a soft exhale of breath.  

“Excellent. Now—”  

Aegon flinched.  

Gerardys paused. He made a decision and nodded briskly to himself, crouching so he wasn't towering over his timid students. “You will not be punished for imperfection. Do you understand?”  

No answer.  

“None of you will ever be struck by me," he vowed determinedly. "None of you will be mocked. You are here to learn, not to fear.”  

Jacaerys glanced at Aegon. Then at Aemond. Then looked down. Beneath the table, he and his twin brushed hands against one another for comfort.  

Meanwhile Lucerys, emboldened by the silence, said, “When I couldn’t say ‘dracarys’ right once, Cregan told me to try again the next day. And he never even called me stupid.”  

“I said you were just a bit slow,” Cregan muttered.  

Lucerys stuck out his tongue. A few chuckles rippled through the room.  

Aemond’s gaze flickered toward them — just for a moment.  

“Do you know what ānogar means?” Helaena asked suddenly. She had turned toward Lucerys. Her voice was barely a whisper.  

He blinked. “No.”  

She traced something invisible on the table with her finger. “It means fear.”  

Gerardys bowed his head solemnly. “That it does, my princess.”  

Aegon looked away.  

Jacaerys spoke, quieter this time. “And what’s the word for hope?” He already knew, of course. This was for their benefit. Not his or his brothers'.  

No one answered at first.  

Then, softly, Helaena said, “Sȳz.”  

Good .  

Gerardys nodded. “Very good, Princess.”  

She lowered her head. But her mouth, almost imperceptibly, curved.  

The corridor outside the library was wide and echoing, lined with windows that let in pale midday light. The floor was tiled with polished marble that made every footstep sound too loud.  

Aemond was already several paces ahead by the time Aegon caught up to him, his boots striking hard against the stone.  

“Would you slow down?” Aegon hissed.  

Aemond didn’t stop. “You shouldn’t have made us go.”  

“No one made us,” Aegon snapped. “We were summoned. We obeyed. Like always.”  

Aemond stopped suddenly and turned.  

His single violet eye was bright with the inner rage that had burned in his soul from his birth. “You think that was better?”  

“I didn’t say that.”  

“You said ‘rytsas’ like you were begging for permission to breathe.”  

Aegon stiffened. “I didn’t see you saying anything.”  

Aemond’s jaw clenched. His fists trembled at his sides. “He didn’t even correct me. He just nodded. Like I hadn’t failed.”  

“That’s because you didn’t.”  

“That’s not how it works,” Aemond said coldly. “It never did before.”  

A silence settled between them — sharp-edged and sour.  

Helaena’s voice broke it softly. “Fear has long roots.”  

They both turned. She stood behind them, her hands folded before her, her gaze lowered but steady. “It grows into things. It grows around things. And sometimes, it grows through.”  

Aemond stared at her. “What are you talking about?”  

She tilted her head. “We are not being punished. That is why it hurts.”  

For a moment, no one moved.  

Then a new voice joined them.  

Cregan Stark stepped lightly down the corridor, a step slower than his usual soldier’s gait. He didn’t smile, didn’t joke. Just nodded toward Aemond.  

“You’re fast with your gaze. Bet you’d be faster with a blade. Want to spar later?”  

Aemond’s brow furrowed. “Why?”  

“To learn something,” Cregan replied simply. “Same reason you’re here.”  

“I don’t need your charity.”  

“I wasn’t offering charity,” Cregan corrected him. “I was offering my time.”  

Aegon looked between them — Cregan’s calm face, Aemond’s rigid frame. For a heartbeat, he thought Aemond might spit a refusal.  

But instead, Aemond only said, “Maybe.”  

Cregan nodded. “I’ll be in the yard after luncheon.”  

Then he left, his steps echoing away.  

Aegon turned back to his brother. “You going to go?”  

Aemond shrugged. “Maybe.”  

Aegon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why does it feel worse now that we’re not being beaten?”  

“Because no one’s telling us how to fix it,” Aemond responded sullenly.  

They didn’t speak again as they walked, but they stayed side by side.  

Behind them, Helaena trailed a few paces back, murmuring softly to herself.  

“Fear has roots… but so does light.”  

Rhaenyra was reading through a sheaf of proposed tax remittances when a quiet knock pulled her from her thoughts.  

She looked up. “Enter.”  

The door opened, slowly, and Alicent stepped inside.  

She moved with her usual quiet grace, but Rhaenyra could see the tightness in her shoulders — the way her gaze flickered around the solar warily as she curtsied, before settling on Rhaenyra herself, though she kept her gaze deferential. Her hands, as ever, were folded neatly at her waist, the cuticles lined with crusty blood.  

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” the Dowager Queen murmured softly after rising from her obeisance.  

“You’re not.” Rhaenyra set the parchment aside and rose from her desk. “Would you like to sit?”  

Alicent hesitated. Then nodded. She took the chair opposite the window, where the light was softer and her eyes didn’t have to meet Rhaenyra’s directly.  

“They had their first lesson on Valyrian this morning,” she said. “All of them except the babes.”  

Rhaenyra nodded. “Maester Gerardys told me that it went as well as could be expected. He was impressed with their effort.”  

Alicent’s fingers curled over each other in her lap. “Effort.”  

She said it like a foreign word.  

“They were quiet,” Rhaenyra added gently. “Cautious. But they tried.”  

“They’re afraid of trying,” Alicent muttered, picking at her thumb and staring blankly at the wall. “Because trying was always the most dangerous thing.”  

Rhaenyra tilted her head. “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously. She braced herself to either soothe Alicent if her old friend became distressed or else to hear something else horrific about the suffering that her siblings had gone through.  

Alicent continued to stare at the wall, lips pressed thin. “Do you remember… when Aegon was small, he had trouble with letters?”  

“Yes,” Rhaenyra acknowledged quietly. “He was slow to form them. But bright.”  

Alicent nodded. “One morning, when he was six, he miswrote the name of Aegon the Conqueror during a lesson. He left off a rune — just a stroke, nothing more. Ser Gyles had ordered the Kingsguard to oversee instruction that week. When Grandmaester Mellos pointed out the mistake, Aegon looked confused. He didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.”  

Her voice dropped.  

“So Ser Marston beat his hands with a cane until he drew blood, then made him write out the correct spelling, without being told said correction, until he was satisfied Aegon remembered it. The writing part of the punishment alone lasted for five hours.”  

Rhaenyra inhaled sharply, swallowing down the bile she felt, but said nothing.  

Alicent went on. “After the first half-hour, Aegon began to cry. Marston would hit him once every time he misspelled that Godsdamned name.”  

She swallowed.  

“I stood in the hallway and did nothing,” she whispered. “Because Viserys had already made it clear that my attempts to protect them would only make things worse for them.”  

A long silence followed.  

Rhaenyra crossed the room and sat beside her, not across from her. She didn’t speak right away. She simply waited.  

“They’re behind,” Alicent went on finally, still not turning to look at the Queen. “All of them. Aemond reads fine but has never been taught to write without copying something. Helaena knows a hundred things but doesn’t know which ones are allowed to be spoken aloud. Daeron… he flinches when someone opens a book too loudly.”  

She looked at Rhaenyra, and her voice cracked. “What if I’ve ruined them?”  

“You haven’t,” Rhaenyra told her firmly.  

“You don’t know that.” Alicent's voice trembled, her eyes glistening with pain.  

“I do,” she insisted. “Because I’ve seen them survive what would have destroyed others. And because they still care enough to try — even now.”  

Alicent shook her head. “They’re so careful, Rhaenyra. So quiet. That’s not how children are meant to be. Your babes... they are so happy , so kind and innocent. The opposite of mine.”  

Rhaenyra reached for her hand. This time, Alicent didn’t flinch. Their fingers touched — awkwardly at first. Then with a quiet steadiness.  

“I won’t lie to you,” Rhaenyra said gently. “It will take time. More than we want. And they may never trust people completely. But you’ve brought them this far. That is not nothing.”  

Alicent stared down at their joined hands.  

Rhaenyra added, softer, “They don’t need to catch up. They only need space to grow.”  

Alicent exhaled slowly.  

“And what if they never believe they’re safe?” she whispered.  

Rhaenyra gave a faint, sad smile. “Then we show them every day — until they believe it without needing to ask.”  

The sea wind whipped through Baela’s silver-gold curls as she leaned out over the rail of the ship, eyes narrowed toward the horizon. The tips of the Crownlands were just beginning to rise like misty teeth from the distant waters.  

“I can see the top of the Red Keep,” she called. “Barely. It looks smaller than I expected.”  

“It’s far away,” Rhaena muttered, clutching the rail beside her. “It’ll get bigger.”  

Baela snorted. “That’s what castles do.”  

The twins stood side by side — mirror images in face and form but not in spirit. Baela’s stance was wide and bold, one foot up on the rail like she was daring the sea to argue. Rhaena, on the other hand, stood with her arms tucked close to her chest, hair pulled back, her dragon-carved comb still in place despite the wind.  

Rhaena glanced up at her sister. “Do you think they’ll like us?” she asked nervously.  

Baela shrugged. “Who cares?”  

“ I care,” Rhaena huffed. “What if they think we’re strange?”  

“We are strange,” Baela said with a grin. “But we’re Targaryens. And Velaryons. That means we can be whatever we want.”  

Behind them, footsteps creaked on the wooden deck.  

“Laena,” Daemon called, “your daughters are plotting again.”  

Laena approached with the hood of her cloak pushed back to reveal her dark silver curls, her sea-coloured eyes filled with amusement. “They wouldn’t be my daughters if they weren’t.”  

Daemon leaned on the rail beside Baela. “We’ll dock by dusk tomorrow. Rhaenyra will have your rooms ready.”  

Baela grinned. “Do we get dragons, too?”  

“That depends,” Laena teased. “Are you ready to meet them?”  

Baela nodded eagerly.  

Rhaena, always softer, more careful, than her sister, hesitated. “What if they don’t choose us?” she whispered fearfully.  

Daemon’s voice softened. To the world at large he was 'The Rogue Prince', Scourge of the Stepstones, rider of Caraxes. But to his girls, he showed a softer, more caring side.  

“Then we wait," he promised his younger daughter, running a hand down her braids. "Dragons choose their riders when both are ready. But the blood in you is strong. I have no doubt you will claim a dragon, and they will become your other half, just as Caraxes is mine, and Vhagar is your mother's.”  

There was a quiet beat. Then Laena looked at her husband.  

“You haven’t seen Rhaenyra in eleven years,” she commented. "Are you prepared to see her again?" Laena had no jealousy for her good friend. She knew Daemon had no lust for his niece, only familial love.  

“I’ve read every word she sent me,” he replied with a wistful smile. “And dreamed of hearing her voice again.”  

His voice carried that familiar edge, a tone unique to the infamous Rogue Prince — half laughter, half steel.  

Rhaena looked down at the water, frowning. “Muña?” she began tentatively. Laena turned to her with a loving smile.  

“Yes, sweetling?”  

“What if they already have sisters?" Rhaena whispered. "What if there’s no room for us?”  

Laena crouched and brushed a windblown curl from her daughter’s face. “Families don’t shrink when you add to them, Rhaena," she explained gently. "They grow. Like roots twisting together. You’ll see.”  

Baela said nothing, but she watched the coast with narrowed eyes.  

“I want to spar with someone strong,” she stated, ever her father's daughter. “No fawning. No coddling.”  

Daemon chuckled. “You’ll like Jace and Cregan, then.”  

Laena stood and linked her arm through her husband's.  

Ahead, the Red Keep rose taller now — sharpening as the ship drew near.  

The sun was slipping low, painting the courtyard in streaks of amber and grey. The air smelled of warmed stone and damp soil, and the rustle of leaves overhead barely masked the voices drifting up from the garden below.  

Aegon stood alone, hidden in the shadow of a window and a curtain of ivy. His body stayed still, but his fingers twitched restlessly at his sides.  

He was watching them.  

Rhaenyra sat cross-legged on the grass with her daughter in her lap, gently untangling Sara’s curls as the girl babbled a story about her direwolf, Princess, who was lying beside them. Lucerys was nearby, waving his arms as he described something about maester birds and storms, while Joffrey tried (and failed) to look interested.  

Jacaerys and Cregan practiced sword drills in the corner of the green under Prince Rickon's watchful, caring gaze. The twins laughed when they stumbled, encouraging each other without hesitation, unafraid of earning their father's wrath should they step out of line.  

No one shouted. No one corrected. No one struck.  

Aegon’s stomach tightened.  

He remembered a lesson when he was six — his hand trembling as he copied Andal runes onto a slate. He’d made one crooked. Just one.  

Ser Marston had grabbed his wrist and slammed it onto the table so hard his knuckles cracked. The sound of it had echoed in the stone chamber. Aegon had already learned by then that he wasn’t allowed to cry. He had to bite through his cheek to stay silent, filling his mouth with the taste of blood he'd been forced to swallow to hide from his tormentor.  

Another time, Lord Jasper had taken a cane to his legs for speaking out of turn during a council review. The bruises bloomed from knee to ankle, deep enough for him to limp for three days. Alicent had wrapped them in silence that night and told him, “If you are still, they won’t see you.”  

Stillness had become survival.  

Now, down in the courtyard, Rhaenyra laughed as Sara flung her arms around her neck and gave her a slobbery kiss on the cheek.  

No fear. No retribution.  

Aegon’s hands balled into fists.  

He didn’t understand this family. He didn’t trust it.  

But gods help him, a part of him wanted to.  

A soft scuff behind him made him tense — but it was only Helaena. Barefoot, as usual. Quiet as a breath.  

“You’re watching,” she said. Not accusing. Just true.  

He didn’t speak.  

“They’re not pretending,” she murmured. “You keep wondering that. But they’re not.”  

“How would you know?”  

“I listen better than I speak,” Helaena stated.  

She sat down beside the wall and folded her legs beneath her. “You can, too. If you stop looking for what you fear.”  

He didn’t respond. Just stared out into the courtyard where Cregan and Jace were mock wrestling on the grass while their younger brothers cheered and laughed.  

It was like looking at another world.  

And it hurt.  

“They don’t flinch,” she added. “Even when they fall. No one hits them for it.”  

He looked down. “They used to beat us if we misspoke. Or stood wrong. Or… just existed too loudly.”  

She nodded once, slowly. “I know.”  

Aegon leaned back against the stone. “I don’t think I know how to be anything but quiet.”  

“You don’t have to be loud,” she said gently. “Just… open the window.”  

He turned toward her, brow furrowed.  

“What?”  

Helaena looked up at the sky, eyes following the flight of a bird he hadn’t noticed. “If you want warmth, you have to let the sun touch your skin. Even if it stings the first time.”  

He didn’t answer.  

In the garden below, Rhaenyra had stood and was spinning Sara in large, laughing circles. Rickon approached and wrapped his arms around them both, pressing a kiss to Rhaenyra’s cheek.  

Aegon stared at the scene like it was a foreign language.  

He couldn’t speak it.  

But he wanted to understand.  

And, although he refused to admit it, even to himself, he wanted to be a part of it.  

Chapter Text

Chapter Five  

The Rogue's Return  

The morning mist curled low over Blackwater Bay, clinging to the dock ropes and coiling beneath the hulls of ships like sea serpents in slumber. But above it all, the black and red banners of House Targaryen snapped against the rising sun, heralding the arrival of the Rogue Prince's might.  

Rhaenyra stood at the quay in a gown of deep crimson with a regal black cloak, her silver hair braided in a crown atop her head and decorated with black pearl-tipped pins. Rickon stood beside her, tall and composed in Northern leathers, one hand on Cregan’s shoulder. Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey waited just behind them. Sara sat atop a carved bench, her small boots swinging idly, her eyes fixed on the sails approaching through the fog. Rhaenys and Corlys had remained at the Keep, where they would greet their daughter, goodson and granddaughters in private.  

Alicent and her children kept their distance — present, but silent, as was so typical of them. Aegon and Aemond stood flanking their mother like shadows. Helaena was wrapped in a pale green shawl, her gaze cast downward, whispering to herself. Daeron peeked around his mother's skirts but said nothing.  

The ship eased to the dock. A dragon figurehead gleamed at the prow, sea-wet and proud.  

When the gangplank dropped, Daemon Targaryen stood at its head.  

He had not changed much, despite the two-and-ten years that had passed since his final exile. His hair was still long and silver, but now streaked at the temples with grey. His riding leathers were worn but rich, and his famous Valyrian Steel blade, Dark Sister , still hung at his hip. He moved like a man who had not been broken, though time — and separation from his home — had worked their weight across his shoulders.  

He descended the plank with Laena beside him, tall and graceful in a Velaryon-sea green cloak embroidered with silver stars around the edges. Their daughters followed - Baela, her chin raised with unshakable confidence, wearing a red tunic with a silver dragon curled around the hem over brown breeches, her wild curls straining against the braid they had been forced into, and Rhaena, wearing a silver dress with scarlet seahorses dancing on the skirts, her hands twisting nervously in the fabric of her sleeve.  

Rhaenyra stepped forward. Her breath caught.  

She had not seen Daemon in over a decade.  

Not since Viserys had quietly ordered him to leave Westeros, and stay gone — “for your own good, and hers,” he had said. Daemon’s letters had come only once she had left King's Landing after wedding Rickon and Viserys could no longer censor her ravens.  

Now he stood before her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.  

Rhaenyra’s voice was quiet. “You came.”  

Daemon gave a dry smile, laced with bitterness and resentment, though Rhaenyra knew that it was aimed at Viserys, not her. Never her. “When your father could no longer stop me.”  

“You could have fought harder,” she commented, but there was no edge to her voice.  

“I did fight,” he replied. “But even I couldn’t fight a crown I didn't wear.”  

Their eyes locked.  

And then — slowly — they stepped into each other’s arms.  

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.  

But it was real.  

Laena embraced Rhaenyra next with warmth and ease, murmuring, “You’ve aged well.”  

Rhaenyra laughed shakily. “You’ve aged not at all.”  

Baela had already stepped past the adults and marched straight to Jacaerys. “Are you the one who practices dual-sword forms?”  

Jacaerys blinked, a little bewildered by the younger girl's abruptness. “Sometimes?”  

“Good. You’re sparring with me before the week is out.”  

Luke snorted. “You’ll like her.”  

Rhaena followed her sister more hesitantly and curtsied gracefully to Rhaenyra. She peeked at Luke, then quickly looked away when he smiled.  

Sara approached Laena, small and curious. “Are you really Muña’s friend?”  

Laena crouched. “I was her sister long before you were born.”  

Sara considered this. “Do you have dragons? My dragon is Morning. She lives in the Dragonpit now.”  

Baela answered that one. “Not yet. But we will.”  

A few feet away, Aegon watched it all, his arms crossed tightly, protectively, over his chest. Aemond’s eye followed Daemon’s every step.  

Daemon noticed them but said nothing — just inclined his head slightly. His expression was unreadable. He had not approved of his brother remarrying (to a dowerless Andal daughter of a second son at that) and endangering Rhaenyra's crown by siring sons, but they were his blood, blood of the dragon, and had yet to be an active threat towards his niece, so for the moment he would be polite, if not warm, to them.  

Laena caught Alicent’s gaze and offered a quiet nod. Alicent returned it, strained but polite.  

And then the family began to move together — toward the gates, toward the feast that waited, toward something new.  

Not yet one house.  

But no longer divided by silence.  

The throne room had been cleared of petitioners and lesser nobles, but it still brimmed with eyes — eyes from the gallery, from behind carved screens, from the shadows of the columns. Word had spread quickly: Daemon Targaryen had returned at last, no longer a royal embarrassment, but now the Queen's beloved and trusted uncle.  

Rhaenyra sat on the Iron Throne, not with ostentation, but with quiet gravity. Her crown rested lightly atop her hair, her fresh gown trimmed with the black and red of House Targaryen. Rickon stood at her side, garbed in the somber greys and whites of Winterfell, a Stark through and through.  

On the tiered steps below, Rhaenyra’s children stood in two neat rows, their direwolves at their sides: Jacaerys and Cregan stood tall and composed, already showing the makings of the strong, clever leaders they would be one day. On the step below them stood Lucerys and Joffrey — they were wide-eyed and curious, exchanging whispers whenever they thought no one was looking. Beside them Sara was cradled against her nurse’s hip, fidgeting with the end of her braid.  

To one side of the dais stood Alicent, her hands folded tight, and her children arrayed around her — Aegon, Aemond, Helaena and Daeron — each wearing their masks in different shades: suspicion, silence, soft bewilderment and fearful confusion.  

Rhaenys stood opposite, resplendent in black with the golden chain of Hand of the Queen around her neck. Corlys was beside her, upright and silent, his cane grounded firmly on the stone floor. 

The great doors creaked open.  

“Presenting Prince Daemon of House Targaryen,” the herald intoned, “his lady wife, Laena Velaryon of Driftmark, and their daughters, Baela and Rhaena Targaryen.”  

The chamber straightened as one.  

Daemon strode forward first. His steps were deliberate, unhurried, his expression calm but unreadable. The sword at his hip was sheathed, but present. The hall watched it almost as closely as they watched him.  

Laena walked a step behind him, graceful as a sea-borne queen. Baela strode with the same swagger as her father, chin raised high. Rhaena followed in her mother’s shadow, eyes flicking nervously from stone to noble to unfamiliar face.  

When they reached the base of the throne, Daemon stopped and looked up at Rhaenyra.  

They had seen each other only hours ago — but this was different.  

This was ceremony.  

Daemon bowed — not deeply, but without mockery.  

“Daemon. Laena,” Rhaenyra said with warm formality, rising to step down from the throne. “Welcome home.”  

Laena curtsied, then embraced her tightly.  

When she turned to the twins, her voice softened.  

“Baela. Rhaena. You are most welcome at court. As cousins, and as blood of the dragon.”  

Baela bowed deeply, a near-perfect imitation of knightly form.  

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied confidently.  

Rhaena dipped her head but said nothing. She shifted subtly to move closer to her mother, who rested a hand on her shoulder in comfort.  

Jace took a half step forward, then paused.  

Rhaenyra noted it. “Jacaerys, Cregan — come greet your cousins.”  

The boys approached. Jacaerys bowed slightly to Laena, then turned to Baela and Rhaena with an uncertain grin.  

“We’ve heard a lot about you.”  

“Good things, I hope,” Baela said.  

Joffrey whispered loudly to Lucerys, “That one’s going to beat Jace in the yard, isn’t she?”  

Lucerys nodded. “Probably.”  

Baela beamed.  

Across the hall, Aemond stood perfectly still. His eye followed Daemon, flicking briefly to Baela, then back. The line of his shoulders was taut.  

Aegon, beside him, said nothing — but his gaze narrowed as he took in the ease of the arrivals, the warmth in Rhaenyra’s voice. His fingers twitched.  

Helaena murmured something to herself and did not raise her eyes. Daeron curled close to his mother's side.  

Daemon’s gaze swept over them.  

He didn’t speak to Alicent or her children.  

But he saw them.  

Rhaenyra turned back to the court. “The family of my uncle and his wife shall remain here at the Red Keep as honoured guests for as long as they wish. Let all remember: they are blood of the dragon, as much as any who walk these halls.”  

There was no applause. But there was no dissent.  

The tension in the hall was thick — but not the kind that precedes violence.  

The kind that precedes change.  

The kitchens were warm. Not comfortable, but rather a suffocating type of warmth. The air was humid from stews and boiling kettles, the smell of flour and fish mixing in the air like clashing armies. It was a world of clatter and heat, and Aegon moved through it like a ghost.  

No one stopped him.  

He walked as if on reflex, feet knowing the path between the prep tables and the bread ovens without needing guidance. He kept his shoulders tight, his eyes low, his hands at his sides — not behind his back, not curled, just… visible.  

That had been the rule once: keep your hands where they can see them. Keep quiet. Keep out of the way unless you’re called.  

The rules were different now, but he had yet to understand them, other than the fact that following the old rules made the Queen's eyes turn sad.  

He didn’t know why he had come to the kitchens. Maybe to see if it still felt like punishment. Maybe to remind himself that it had been real.  

The servants looked unfamiliar, the cruel tyrants who had mocked and tormented him having been replaced with strange faces who ignored him or, if they recognized him, gave bows or curtsies and polite smiles and nods.  

A cook passed him with a basket of chopped onions. Another girl stood kneading dough. A scullion hummed. No one barked orders. No one shoved him toward the back with a mop.  

That felt… wrong.  

He found his way to the pantry alcove and stopped just outside it, out of view.  

Then a voice said, “You’re here too?”  

He froze.  

Lucerys.  

He stepped into view from the side, a linen-wrapped tray in his hands. On it were six small pastries — honey-glazed, fresh from the oven. One had already been bitten. Lucerys gave a sheepish grin.  

“Sara wanted one,” he explained. “And Joffrey wanted two. So I came to beg.”  

Aegon said nothing.  

Lucerys hesitated, then offered the tray toward him. “There’s an extra. If you want.”  

Aegon stared at it like it might bite him.  

He didn’t move.  

Lucerys shifted, not nervously, just… unsure. “I’m not teasing. You don’t have to take it.”  

Aegon’s voice came quiet, dry. “Why would you give me anything?”  

Lucerys blinked. “Because you’re hungry?”  

“I’m not.”  

“You look like you are.”  

Aegon’s jaw clenched. “Do you pity me?”  

Lucerys frowned. “No. Should I?”  

A beat of silence.  

Lucerys glanced toward the hearths, then said softly, “I used to be afraid of you.”  

Aegon gave a dry laugh — no humour in it. “You should’ve been.”  

“I was,” Lucerys said honestly. “But I don’t think you’re the same now.”  

“You don’t know me.”  

“I know you looked at that tray like it owed you something.”  

That landed. Harder than Aegon wanted it to.  

He didn’t answer. Just stepped back, as if to disappear the way he used to.  

Lucerys added, “You don’t have to talk. Or take anything. I just thought… maybe you were tired of being hungry.”  

He turned to go, leaving a pastry behind.  

Aegon didn’t stop him.  

But he did wait until the boy was gone, and the kitchen noises returned to their rhythm.  

Then, slowly, he stepped forward, picked up the abandoned pastry, and took a bite.  

It wasn’t just good.  

It was sweet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had something sweet. If he'd ever had.

He swallowed hard.  

And left before anyone could see the tears he hadn’t meant to cry.  

The clang of practice blades echoed across the training yard, ringing sharp against the stone like struck bells. Dust kicked up with every footfall, drifting in the afternoon sun like mist made of grit and sweat.  

Baela grinned widely - a grin reminiscent of her father - as her practice sword struck Cregan’s again and again, so harshly that sparks were flying from the blunted edges. Despite being three namedays younger than her opponent, Baela had her father's skill and the speed of a Lysene panther, and was keeping up with Cregan well, already having beaten Jace and Luke. Cregan, however, was the best of Rhaenyra's sons at sword fighting, Jace being more naturally inclined towards the bow, and was putting up the best fight of the three.  

“You’re stronger than you look,” Baela said breathlessly as their practice swords clanged against one another again.  

Cregan laughed, sliding back a pace to recover. “And you’re faster than you should be.”  

From the side, Jacaerys called out, “She’s faster than any of us.”  

“She cheats!” Lucerys added, shielding his eyes from the sun. “She feints with her eyes.”  

“I do not,” Baela shot back mid-parry. “You just fall for it!”  

Cregan lunged again, and the rhythm resumed — steel on steel, grit on grit.  

At the edge of the yard, Aemond stood still, one hand on the hilt of a practice blade resting upright in the dirt beside him. He wasn’t wearing training gear. He hadn’t asked to join.  

He watched.  

Watched Baela's footwork. Her balance. Her shoulder work on each thrust. She didn’t waste movement. She didn’t hesitate.  

He’d never seen a girl fight before, let alone with such skill. It was so unladylike. If Helaena had acted that way, she'd have ended up bedridden from Viserys' rage at the embarrassment. Baela, meanwhile, was completely relaxed and at ease, not even batting an eyelid when an adult passed by, uncaring of the prospect of being punished for acting inappropriately.  

Jacaerys tossed Aemond a waterskin from the bench nearby.  

“You can join if you want,” he offered. Not unkindly.  

Aemond caught the skin without a word. He didn’t open it. Didn’t drink.  

Baela noticed. She pulled back from the next strike, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “You’re the one staring,” she said to Aemond. “You want a match?”  

The yard quieted.  

Aemond’s fingers tightened slightly on the hilt of the sword beside him.  

Then he shook his head. “Not today.”  

Baela didn’t press. She just smirked. “You’re not ready yet.”  

That made Cregan snort, trying to hide it behind his glove.  

Aemond didn’t rise to the bait. But his eye tracked her again as she turned back to Cregan, the sword swinging lightly in her hand, as natural as breathing.  

Not ready yet.  

He remembered the words.  

And remembered being told he’d never be.  

Not with only one eye.  

--  

On the shaded stone bench nearby, Helaena sat beside Rhaena, watching without blinking.  

Rhaena’s hands were folded in her lap. She said nothing, and neither did Helaena, at first.  

Then Helaena leaned close and opened her palm.  

In it was a small, wingless beetle, green with speckles of red.  

Rhaena blinked. “What’s its name?”  

“I don’t know,” Helaena whispered. “But it likes soft things.”  

Rhaena gently extended her fingers. The beetle crawled into her hand.  

They smiled, small and secret.  

--  

Farther off, near the shade of the armoury door, Daeron stood apart, his hands clutching the little carved wolf Rickon had given him days ago. His eyes moved between Baela’s sword swings and Aemond’s stillness. Between Helaena and the strange, quiet girl beside her. Between everything and nothing.  

Rhaenyra spotted him from across the yard.  

She didn’t approach. Not yet.  

Instead, she nudged Joffrey, who was kicking at a pebble.  

“Take him this,” she said, handing over a second wolf carved from the same wood. Smaller. Cruder.  

Joffrey grinned and trotted over to Daeron, offering the toy without a word.  

Daeron stared at it. Didn’t reach out.  

But didn’t turn away either.  

After a moment, Joffrey set it beside him on the bench.  

And then ran off again, laughing as Baela declared herself Champion of the Yard .  

Daeron looked down at the little wolf.  

He didn’t pick it up.  

But he shifted slightly closer to it.  

The solar was dim, lit only by the embers of the fire and the soft gold flicker of two candles. The windows were shuttered against the breeze. The door was locked, granting privacy to the Queen and her uncle.  

Daemon stood by the hearth, one arm braced against the mantle, his gaze fixed on the flames. His sword belt lay across the table, discarded, but Dark Sister was never far from her wielder's reach.  

Rhaenyra sat nearby, her goblet untouched.  

“I’ve read your letters a hundred times,” he said at last, voice low. “But I never thought I’d hear your voice again.”  

“I thought the same,” she replied tiredly. “For a long time, I hated you for obeying him.”  

“I didn’t obey,” he stated flatly. “I was removed. The day I boarded the ship to Pentos, there were guards on the pier. And ravens already sent ahead to block my passage back.”  

Her eyes narrowed. “He told me you left willingly.”  

Daemon scoffed, not bitter — just tired. “He told many lies. That one kept you still.”  

Silence stretched between them like thread drawn too tight.  

Then Rhaenyra exhaled. “I don't know why I'm surprised. He did far worse things than simply lie.”  

Daemon turned, his body tense, his face unreadable.  

She didn’t sugarcoat it.  

“Viserys abused them,” she said. “Not just Alicent — her children too. He humiliated them. Controlled them. Beat them.”  

Daemon stared at her, his jaw going tense. Despite his bloodthirsty nature, Daemon had a code of honour, one inherited from his father Prince Baelon, and this was far from the image he'd always had of his elder brother, even after all his many betrayals. That Viserys would harm their blood - the blood of the dragon that Daemon held so sacred - was even worse for the prince.  

But he didn't dispute her words. He knew Rhaenyra would never say any of this unless it was true. Viserys was her father, after all, despite all the pain he had caused her even before marrying Alicent.  

“And he let his council do the same. Ser Marston Waters. Ser Gyles Belgrave. Tyland Lannister. Lord Jasper Wylde and Lord Unwin Peake. They were his dogs, and they tore the family apart while he sat on his throne revelling in his wife and children's terror.”  

A long pause. The only sound was the hiss of the fire.  

Daemon stepped forward slowly. His hands were clenched into fists, his violet eyes darkened to nearly black with suppressed rage, fury radiating from him. “You’re certain?”  

“I’ve seen the bruises. I’ve read the testimony. I’ve seen what it’s done to them.”  

She swallowed. “They flinch when spoken to. They freeze when corrected. They speak as though they expect to be punished for every word.”  

His jaw clenched. “And what of Larys Strong?”  

“He’s escaped.”  

Daemon's lips curled in something between a snarl and a grimace. “Of course he has.”  

“The others are in the Black Cells,” she continued. “Along with about three dozen servants who've participated in the abuse in some way. They're all awaiting trial. But I want more than trials. I want the truth from their mouths. I want to know everything — every one who was complicit.”  

“Then you need a blade in the dark,” Daemon told her steadily. “Not just a banner behind a throne.”  

Rhaenyra rose.  

“I need you.”  

He looked at her — really looked, searching for any doubt in her indigo gaze.  

“You’re still sure of that?”  

“I’ve never been surer of anything.”  

He gave a small nod.  

She stepped closer. “I am having you reinstated as Commander of the City Watch.”  

He didn’t react, waiting in silence, as he could tell she wasn't finished.  

“I also name you Master of Whisperers,” she went on. “You’ll have full access to the Black Cells. I want the truth pulled from every last rat in the dark.”  

“And Larys?”  

“Find him. Bring him to me.”  

Daemon’s smile was razor thin, a glint of cruel glee sparkling in his eyes. “Alive?”  

She held his gaze. “Alive. Until I’ve heard everything he made her endure.”  

He inclined his head. “Then I’ll need men who don’t ask too many questions.”  

“You’ll have them.”  

“I’ll need coin.”  

“You’ll have it.”  

He stepped closer, close enough to see the firelight flickering in her eyes.  

“And you’ll have me,” he promised, voice rough. “Every sword. Every secret. Every shadow.”  

She reached up and touched his face — lightly, as if afraid the years would crumble away under her hand.  

“You’re late,” she whispered.  

“I know.”  

“But you’re here.”  

He covered her hand with his own.  

“For good.”  

The fire crackled quietly in the common room Rhaenyra had chosen to have set aside for the royal children's playroom, its light dancing across soft rugs and worn wooden toys. Pillows had been arranged in uneven circles, and a tray of leftover pastries sat mostly untouched on a low table.  

It looked like a place meant for joy.  

But Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron stood just inside the doorway — watching .  

They didn’t sit. They didn’t speak.  

Aegon’s arms were crossed, his jaw set. Aemond’s eye flicked between the other children, tracking every movement like a soldier counting threats. Daeron clung close to the wall, fingers tight around the little carved wolf that had become his constant companion in recent days. The tail of his new one, the one Joffrey had given him earlier that day, was sticking out of his pocket.  

Across the room, the sound of laughter broke through.  

Baela, barefoot and bold, was trying to braid Sara’s hair while Joffrey ran in excited circles around them both, pretending to be a dragon.  

“Dracarys!” he cried, tossing a pillow. It missed and bounced harmlessly off a bench. Sara shrieked and clapped with delight.  

“You’ll never fly with feet that clumsy!” Baela shouted after him.  

Rhaena, seated beside Sara, carefully clipped a silver flower into the half-finished braid. “Hold still or she’ll braid your ear.”  

“I like braids,” Joffrey declared. “Make me a warrior crown!”  

"Only if you settle down, you little warrior-in-training," Baela grinned, finishing Sara's braids.  

Joffrey considered that briefly then grinned and shook his head. "No thanks then!" He chirruped, before continuing to run around the room wildly under the amused but watchful gaze of their chief nurse, Alys Snow.  

Meanwhile, Sara looked up at Helaena, who was seated nearby with a beetle cupped gently in her hand.  

“Do you want one too?” she asked.  

Helaena blinked slowly, then nodded. “Yes. But only if it’s quiet.”  

“I can do quiet,” Sara promised, her fingers to her lips.  

The girls giggled together. For a moment, it felt like no one was watching. No one was afraid.  

But Aemond was watching.  

And so was Aegon.  

They weren’t frowning, exactly. But they were braced.  

Unable to stop themselves from waiting for the catch.  

On the other side of the room, Luke and Cregan were setting up a stones-and-boards game at one of the small tables. Jace crouched beside them, explaining rules too quickly for anyone to follow. “The dragon piece can jump two spaces forward or one sideways — unless you’re on fire terrain, in which case—”  

“I give up,” Cregan said, grinning. “This is nonsense.”  

Luke snorted. “That’s because you’re losing.”  

From the shadows, Aegon stepped a little closer.  

Not to join. Just to see.  

Jacaerys noticed.  

He didn’t say anything. Just stood and nodded once, half-invitation, half-truce.  

Aegon hesitated — then crossed the room in slow, uncertain steps.  

He stopped near the table.  

“I don’t know the rules,” he muttered.  

Lucerys looked up with a grin. “Neither do we.”  

That earned a single breath of a laugh. Barely.  

Jacaerys slid a stone across the board toward Aegon. “You want to try?”  

Aegon’s hand hovered above it. Then pulled back.  

“I’ll watch.”  

Aemond didn’t follow.  

He stood near the far wall, near the shelves of toys and carved animals. Joffrey, mid-flight in his imaginary dragon game, swooped too close and bumped into him.  

Aemond stiffened. Instinct made him brace himself for a punch, a kick, something .  

But Joffrey just grinned up at him. “Sorry! You’re tall like a dragon. I didn’t see you.”  

Then he darted away again.  

Aemond stared after him. Slowly, his hand lowered from the blade at his hip that wasn’t there.  

Rhaena , sitting nearby with Helaena, said softly, “He’s harmless. Just loud.”  

Aemond didn’t respond. But he didn’t leave either.  

Near the hearth, Daeron still clutched his wolf figurine, shoulders drawn in. When Joffrey passed him again, he didn’t make a sound — but his eyes followed the younger boy with the faintest curiosity.  

“Want to build a pillow fort?” Joffrey asked him.  

Daeron blinked. “I—”  

He didn’t answer.  

Joffrey nodded like it didn’t matter. “You can help me build the walls. You look like someone who’s good at keeping things in.”  

He dropped a pillow beside Daeron and ran off again to retrieve more building materials.  

Daeron stared at it for a long time.  

Then, cautiously, reached down and turned it right-side up.  

--  

Alicent watched it all from the doorway.  

She had come to retrieve Daeron. Or to tell Aegon to stop standing like a statue. Or to sit beside Helaena.  

But she did none of those things.  

She simply stood.  

Not intruding.  

Not interfering.  

Just… watching.  

As her children, once kept in silence and shadows, began — tentatively, clumsily — to learn what it was like to exist without fear .  

Not one family.  

Not yet.  

But no longer strangers.  

Chapter Text

Chapter Six  

The Crown and the Cracks  

The dawn light slid through the high windows of the Queen’s chambers like pale gold silk. Outside, the bells had not yet begun to ring. The city still held its breath.  

Inside, everything was quiet motion.  

Rhaenyra sat before the mirror as a servant wove the final strands of her braid into a circlet around her crown. Her gown was deep crimson and black, the silk catching light like dragon-scale. A fur-lined cloak waited nearby — Winterfell’s gift to their dragon queen.  

Sara perched on the edge of the low bench, swinging her legs, holding a box in her lap.  

“You can choose one,” Rhaenyra said softly, meeting her daughter’s wide eyes in the mirror.  

Sara opened the box reverently, revealing a small collection of jewelled pins and brooches. She held one a ruby pin shaped like a flame, one that Rickon had given her when Sara was born. “This one looks like fire.”  

“That’s the one you wore at my fifth nameday,” Lucerys commented from behind them, coming up to join his mother and sister.  

“It didn’t match her dress,” Sara replied primly, making Rhaenyra smile softly.  

Lucerys rolled his eyes. “What do you know? You weren't born for another two moons after that nameday."  

Sara stuck her tongue out at him.  

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, then turned to glance at her middle son. “Are you ready?”  

He nodded. “I'm ready, Muña," he promised. "I practiced all day yesterday to make sure I wouldn't drop the torch. And I even taught Joffrey to say ābra jēda, for when you're crowned.”  

From across the room, Joffrey piped up with a confident, “Queen mother!” before biting into a honeyed fig. His mouth was already sticky.  

Rickon gently pulled a napkin from the table and wiped Joffrey’s face. “He might be the only one who shouts during the ceremony.”  

“He’ll be the loudest, certainly,” Cregan added, adjusting his formal cloak in front of the standing glass. “Not the worst thing to echo in the Dragonpit, though.”  

“I’d prefer silence,” Jacaerys muttered. He stood stiffly near the window, his ceremonial sword already belted at his side. “The whole realm’s going to be watching. Listening. Judging.”  

Jace was no coward, but this ceremony would not only name Rhaenyra as Queen, but it would also, by default, confirm his place as Crown Prince. The weight of the realm was a heavy burden to bear for a boy of ten namedays.  

Rhaenyra stood then, brushing down her skirts.  

“Let them judge,” she said. “But let them see we do not rule alone. We are stronger together. Always.”  

She turned as Rhaenys entered , dressed in black with a single strand of red sapphires at her throat. In her hands, she held a small black velvet box.  

Rickon moved aside as she approached.  

“I had this kept for you,” Rhaenys said. “From Driftmark. It was my mother’s, Princess Jocelyn's, and her mother Queen Regent Alyssa's before that. Queen Alyssa endured many trials, yet still fought for her son's rights. She never let her grief break her. It is fitting that her descendant, the first Queen Regnant, inherits this.”  

She opened the box.  

Inside sat a slender coronet of dark Valyrian steel, inlaid with obsidian and starlight pearls — simple, fierce, and unmistakably Valyrian.  

“For your brow?” Rhaenys asked.  

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement. “Yes.”  

She reached out and took it, settling it on her head, before reaching out to take Rhaenys's hands in her own.  

“You gave me the strength to survive my mother's death,” she said softly. “To leave this court. To return. You stood by me when no one else dared.”  

Rhaenys only nodded once. “Then stand tall. You carry more than a crown.”  

Outside, the bells began to toll.  

Twelve long chimes.  

The city was waking.  

Sara took Rhaenyra’s hand and whispered, “Time to be queen now?”  

Rhaenyra smiled.  

“I already am,” she said. “But now… it’s time the world knew it.”  

The bells rang like war hammers, dull and echoing, even through the closed and heavy shutters of Alicent’s chambers.  

Each chime was a countdown, and each one made Alicent’s hands shake a little more.  

She stood near the wardrobe, staring blankly at the ceremonial cloak folded across her bed. Black and green. Gold trim at the collar. She had worn one like it before, once, long ago.  

The first time Viserys made her stand beside him on a feast day, a few moons after Rhaenyra's marriage and abandonment of the Red Keep. A few moons after Alicent's life turned to hell, when she was six-and-ten and swollen with child. When he’d demanded she smile through the pain of standing too long, even as blood from the lash marks on her back soaked her shift beneath the dress.  

The bells rang again. Her heart lurched.  

Viserys had always taken special joy in having his family be forced to sit through his numerous feasts and tourneys while suffering some severe injury, and having the children act as servants. If their smiles faltered, or even if their hands trembled...  

Another flashback hit her, this time more detailed, as if she were in her body, three years past.  

The corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were quiet now, save for the echo of distant music and the fading footsteps of lords stumbling back to their chambers. The feast had ended hours ago, but the taste of it still lingered like smoke in the children’s mouths — roasted meats, sweet wine, laughter that wasn’t theirs. That was never theirs.  

Alicent sat in her chambers, eyes closed, head resting against the back of her chair. She had not changed out of her yellow feast gown. A dark stain of wine marred the pale silk near her sleeve — an accident, a mistake, but one that had turned the night to ruin.  

Aegon stood near the hearth, arms crossed, his expression rigid. Helaena sat on a cushion, wringing her hands, whispering half-finished words to herself. Aemond hadn’t spoken since returning to the room. He paced near the doors like a caged thing. Daeron had cried himself to sleep, curled under one of Alicent’s shawls.  

It had been a simple thing.  

Aemond had knocked a goblet over while pouring for Ser Gyles. The wine had spilled across Viserys’ lap.  

And the king had stared at the stain like it was blood.  

The memory of the moment clung to them all, as heavy as smoke. Viserys’ face, already flushed with drink, had turned redder. Not with embarrassment — but with rage.  

"Clumsy little wretch," he’d snarled in front of the entire court. "Are you a prince, or a dog?"  

Aemond had frozen, mouth half open in apology. Alicent had tried to intervene with quiet, placating words, trying to calm the storm before it gathered, or at least draw the rage onto herself to shield her son.  

But Viserys had already stood, shoving the chair back so hard it toppled.  

"You teach them nothing," he spat at Alicent. "Nothing. You coddle them. You spoil them. Everyday these mutts prove they are not true dragons!"  

He’d left then — stormed out to whispers and poorly hidden laughter, dragging the stain of his anger behind him like a shadow. Ser Gyles, face cold and eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction, had ordered Alicent and her children from the hall to await the King in the Queen's small chambers. The rest of the feast had carried on without them.  

And now, in the chambers, the silence was worse than the shouting.  

The door opened suddenly.  

Viserys.  

He had changed, but not sobered. His eyes were glassy, and his crown hung crooked on his brow. The wine had only sharpened his anger, turned his resentment into something more poisonous.  

He pointed at Aemond.  

"You."  

Aemond stood stiff as a board.  

"Come here."  

Alicent rose quickly. "Please—"  

"Silence!" His voice cracked like a whip. “You embarrass me in front of my lords. You humiliate your king—”  

“He’s a child,” Aegon interrupted, his voice low and dangerous.  

Viserys turned on him. "What did you say?"  

Aegon took a step forward. "He didn’t mean to. It was a mistake."  

Viserys moved then — fast, violent. His hand struck Aegon across the face, the sound loud in the stillness. Aegon staggered back, one hand going to his cheek. He didn’t cry out. He was too used to such actions, and he knew giving a verbal reaction would only worsen the situation. He'd only spoken up to draw Viserys' wrath away from Aemond and to himself.  

Helaena gasped. Aemond stepped forward, fists clenched, unsure whether to protect or hide.  

“You dare speak back to me? You?” Viserys’ voice dropped to a bitter growl. “Ungrateful little bastards, the lot of you.”  

Alicent stood between them now, shielding her sons and daughter with her body.  

“You've had enough,” she said, her voice shaking. “Please. They are not to blame for your anger.”  

His hand rose again, cracking across her face and making her stumble back.  

"No, they're not," he snarled. "You are! You made me weak, with your pretty face and your pretty words. And then you revealed your uselessness when you bore such weak Andal brats. I should’ve married Laena. She is a Valyrian with fire in her. She would have given me children of proper Valyrian heritage, instead of weaklings with the Valyrian colouring and ugly Andal features.”  

"I'm sorry," Alicent whimpered. "Please, Your Grace, I'm sorry. You are correct, it is my fault. Not theirs. Please."   

Something flickered in his eyes at her pleas. Regret, perhaps. Or simply exhaustion. Without another word, Viserys lowered his arm and turned away. He didn’t apologize. He never did.  

He walked out, slamming the door behind him.  

Silence fell like a shroud.  

Alicent sat down slowly, as if her legs could no longer hold her. She reached for Daeron, still sleeping, and held him close.  

Aemond knelt beside her, resting his head on her knee. Helaena curled beside them, whispering nonsense to the shawl.  

Aegon remained standing, one hand still on his cheek, his eyes locked on the fire.  

-  

Alicent exhaled sharply as the memory faded. Her hands trembled violently, and she was forced to take a drink of watered wine to calm her heart's wild beating after such a vivid memory. Behind her, the children were unravelling.  

Aegon paced the floor like a caged animal, back and forth, arms crossed so tightly they looked pinned in place. “We don’t have to go,” he muttered. “She wouldn’t punish us. She said she wouldn’t.” He didn't sound like he believed it.  

Aemond stood at the window, his eye fixed on the rooftops beyond the garden. He hadn’t blinked in a long time.  

“She probably won’t hit us,” he whispered. “But what if someone else does ?”  

“She won’t let them,” Alicent said quickly. Too quickly.  

Daeron was curled in the corner beside the hearth, knees pulled to his chest, his formal tunic crumpled under him like a dropped rag. “I don’t want to wear it,” he whimpered. “It’s like the red room.”  

Helaena froze.  

Aegon’s breath caught.  

The red room.  

A tiny windowless study beneath the library, where Ser Gyles used to take them for “discipline.” Aemond had come out of it once with a bloodied lip and missing hair. Aegon had learned not to cry after the third time, because that only meant you were brought back sooner.  

Alicent dropped to her knees beside Daeron. “No one will take you back there,” she promised. “There is no red room anymore. I swear it to you.”  

Daeron’s voice was thick. “He’s dead, but it still feels like he’s here.”  

Alicent pulled him into her arms and held him, rocking slightly.  

Aegon stopped pacing.  

“You want us to go out there,” he said, his voice hollow. “In front of all those people. With all their eyes. You want us to be proud of this court?”  

He laughed bitterly. “They’ll see us and think we’re broken. And they’ll be right.”  

“They’ll see how strong you are,” Alicent whispered, voice shaking with strain. “How far you’ve come.”  

Aegon stared at her.  

“I’ve come nowhere, ” he said. “I just flinch quieter than I used to.”  

Aemond turned at last, his voice low and tight. “What if she changes? What if it’s all just… pretending?”  

No one answered.  

The bells rang again.  

Helaena’s hands twitched. “Too many eyes. Too many hands. Too many masks. Petals on the ground, hiding the thorns.”  

Alicent pressed her face into Daeron’s hair and whispered, “We will go. We will watch. We will not smile. But we will endure.”  

She pulled them all close. She couldn’t protect them from the memory.  

But she could show them they weren’t alone in it.  

The bells rang again — long and clear. They withdrew from the embrace, bracing themselves for the long, tortuous day that they would have to endure.  

And together, dressed in formal silence, they stepped into the corridor.  

Not one word more.  

But already, something had cracked.  

The bells rang louder here — in area surrounding the Dragonpit — their echoes bouncing off the great domed walls and up toward the sky like a chorus of iron.  

Thousands lined the streets around the structure: lords and ladies, merchants, smiths, sailors, smallfolk. From the lowest gutter-child to the richest wine-merchant, all had come to witness what the city hadn’t seen in all its' century of life.  

A woman crowned in fire and blood.  

Rhaenyra stood at the entrance to the pit, beneath a towering arch of carved stone. Her cloak of black with a red three-headed dragon flowed behind her like smoke on the wind. Rickon stood at her side, straight-backed, solemn, wearing the grey wolf of House Stark.  

Her six children flanked them in ceremonial formation:  

Jace and Cregan stood to her right, swords belted, faces serious. Luke and Joffrey were on her left, both wearing small cloaks stitched with tiny dragons. Sara, her silver curls freshly braided, held a velvet pillow on which the crown of Jaehaerys rested. Her bottom lip trembled with focus, her eyes narrowed in determination. 

The dragons circled above.  

Syrax and Caraxes, wings wide and slow, rode the air in lazy loops, their shadows moving like giants across the open dome. Vermax, Moondancer, Arrax, Tyraxes and Morning, the latter still hatchlings, also danced through the skies. Vhagar was perched atop the pit, gazing down like a goddess studying the landscape. Occasionally, a long, low growl echoed from above — a reminder that this was a coronation different from any other.  

When Daemon entered, the crowd hushed.  

He came in through the eastern gate, his presence unmistakable — tall, lean, in black riding leathers with Dark Sister gleaming at his side. The sun behind him made him look like a spectre.  

He walked slowly to the platform where Rhaenys stood waiting with Blackfyre, dressed in Velaryon colours, the Hand's chain and some pearl-tipped hairpins decorating her hair her only accessories. Laena and the girls followed behind him, Baela in ceremonial sparring leathers, Rhaena in a gown of seafoam silk.  

The crowd parted for them.  

In the royal box, Alicent sat with her children. They had come, just as they were told. But they did not look at ease.  

Aemond’s eye tracked Syrax’s flight like a hawk watching for death. His body was taut, his hand twitching for a weapon he wasn’t allowed to carry.  

Aegon stared downward, jaw clenched. The roar of the crowd made his shoulders twitch each time it crested.  

Daeron had curled close to Alicent’s side, hands bunched into his cloak.  

Only Helaena looked upward, whispering to herself with a strange sort of wonder. “Wings above thrones. Bones beneath.”  

Rhaenyra signalled the drummers to fall silent, causing the crowd to fall still, and Maester Gerardys, now officially the Grandmaester of the Realm, stepped forward, and the crowd's eyes fell on him.  

“We gather in sight of stone and sky,” he intoned, “to witness the crowning of Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, First of her Name, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”  

Rhaenyra stepped forward and knelt before Rhaenys.  

A hush fell that swallowed even the wind.  

" Rhaenyra hen Āeksio Targārien," Rhaenys began. Viserys had been crowned in the Red Keep, out of sight of the smallfolk and using Common Tongue vows, by the High Septon. Rhaenyra had chosen to have a Valyrian ceremony at the Dragonpit primarily for the sake of distancing her image from her despicable father's. "Drējī skorion ābrar hāros bartagon se Westeros rūsībagon īlva brōzys? Drējī skorion dāria hēn lenton, nykēla ābrar? Drējī skorion lenton ēdruta se se hāedus ūndegon?"  

Rhaenyra's voice was clear and confident when she responded. "Avy jorrāelan perzys se iādrā," she said simply, accepting the knife handed to her and slicing her palm sharply, allowing the blood to drip fourteen drops into the torch Lucerys held out to her, and they watched in amazement as it turned blood red, flaring violently as the cut on Rhaenyra's palm scarred over.  

The Fourteen Flames themselves had blessed Rhaenyra's reign. As if to emphasize that the Old Gods and the New all approved of the new queen's reign, a White Hart, an animal sacred to all the pantheons in Westeros and a symbol of rulership, came trotting out of the Dragonpit and, as the gathering all stared in shock, bowed to the Queen, clearly seen by everyone in eyeshot, before rising and trotting back into the Pit, disappearing from view.  

There was a stunned silence as everyone stared at the dais in shock.  

Eventually, Rhaenys cleared her throat and continued with the ceremony, lifting the crown of Aegon the Conqueror - Valyrian steel wreathed in rubies — from the cushion held by Sara, and, after Jacaerys removed the diadem Rhaenys had given her that morning, lowered it gently onto Rhaenyra’s head.  

The Queen rose.  

“ Dracarys se perzys. ” Rhaenys spoke clearly. Fire and crown.  

The crowd erupted in cheers.  

A cheer thundered through the pit, swelling like a storm. Nobles stood, swords were lifted, names were shouted. Nearly everyone who had doubts had just abandoned them at such a visible sign of the Gods' approval.  

Though not all.  

Above them, the dragons all roared — a long, echoing bellow that shook the stones, and Syrax unleashed a blast of fire.  

Aegon flinched, violently.  

Aemond’s hand gripped the wooden railing so tightly it splintered.  

Daeron whimpered. “I want to go home.”  

Alicent gripped his hand and said nothing.  

On the floor of the pit, Rhaenyra lifted her chin — not smiling, not weeping. Just standing tall and confident.  

Daemon stepped beside her and raised his voice.  

“All hail Rhaenyra of House Targaryen — First of her Name. Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm. Blood of the Dragon.”  

The dragons above roared in chorus as Daemon handed over Blackfyre, the final symbol that confirmed Rhaenyra's rule.  

In the box above, Alicent’s children did not join the cheer.  

They endured it.  

But even enduring is an act of survival.  

The Great Hall was filled with the sounds of celebration. The best musicians in the realm were playing, wine of a dozen vintages were flowing from a faux-fountain set up for the occasion and all around the hall, people were eating and drinking and laughing unsteadily with too-flushed cheeks as ladies were spun around by stumbling lords, the scent of alcohol strong in the air, overcoming the perfume of the red rose bouquets decorating the hall.  

It should have been a joyful atmosphere for everyone.  

But Alicent and her children sat like statues at the high table’s end, surrounded by warmth they could not feel.  

Aegon picked at his food in silence. The roast before him had gone cold. He had not touched the watered wine in his cup. His jaw worked as if chewing a thought he couldn’t swallow.  

Across from him, Aemond stared into the candlelight, his goblet untouched. His hand tapped rhythmically against the table, the beat too sharp, too fast.  

Daeron sat between them, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on his lap. His legs swung beneath the bench. His cloak was bunched in his lap like a blanket.  

“Too loud,” he murmured.  

No one heard him over the laughter and music.  

At the other side of the room, Rhaenyra’s family was laughing.  

Joffrey had stolen two sugared cakes and was trying to hide one under his tunic. Lucerys whispered something to Baela that made her bark a laugh, and Sara insisted on showing Rhaena how to “properly” hold her fork like a lady.  

Jacaerys and Cregan stood with young Lord Lyonel Tyrell near the wine table, speaking casually about the differences between the Reach and the North. Nearby, Rickon was talking to Jeyne Arryn about a possible trade deal between the North and the Vale.  

Some knights were near to Daemon, boasting about their skills at arms, Daemon was half-listening, but his gaze kept drifting back toward the children seated at the table, clearly disinterested in the conversation.  

He noticed their silence and pale faces.  

And so did Rhaenyra.  

She crossed the room and gently placed a hand on Aegon’s shoulder.  

“Are you alright?” she asked softly.  

He didn’t look at her. His voice was flat. “Fine.”  

“You haven’t eaten.”  

“I’m not hungry.”  

She hesitated. “You did well today.”  

He stiffened.  

A beat passed.  

Then he said, without looking up, “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”  

"I meant it," she said gently, but he didn't respond, jaw tight. Her hand lingered for a moment longer. Then she withdrew it and stepped away, her heart pinching. She knew better than to press.  

Across the table, Lucerys walked up and offered Aegon a small slice of fruit tart, carefully cut and dusted with cinnamon.  

“You might like this better,” he suggested.  

Aegon’s eyes flicked to it — then to Lucerys.  

And then, suddenly, he shoved the plate away, hard.  

It clattered to the floor.  

Lucerys flinched, drawing back.  

The room stilled, lords and ladies turning to stare, wide-eyed, at the scene.  

Aemond’s voice cut through the silence. “Don’t treat us like we’re broken pets.”  

“Aemond—” Alicent began, eyes darting anxiously at the crowd and Rhaenyra, who was frowning slightly, but made no move to intervene.  

He stood abruptly. “We were made to smile for monsters. Don’t ask us to do it again just because the banners changed.”  

Then he walked out.  

The door closed quietly behind him — but the noise it left behind was deafening.  

Lucerys stood frozen, eyes wide.  

Aegon sat motionless, his hands shaking slightly beneath the table.  

Daeron began to cry. Softly. Silently. He curled farther into his seat and tried to disappear into his own skin.  

Alicent reached for him, but her hands trembled too much to be steady.  

Rhaenyra stepped back into the silence.  

She did not apologize.  

She simply said, “Let them leave if they need to. Days such as this can be overwhelming, especially for children.”  

No one protested.  

Quietly, Alicent and her children left the table.  

Some carried the weight in silence.  

Some left pieces of it behind — fractured.  

But none of it was gone.  

The fire in Rhaenyra’s solar had burned low, more embers than flame now. A cold wind whispered through the half-cracked windows, but she hadn’t ordered them closed. She stood near them, crown removed, hands braced on the stone sill.  

Behind her, Rhaenys poured wine for them both.  

“You should be proud,” she said. “The city bowed.”  

“I know,” Rhaenyra murmured.  

She didn’t turn.  

“They chanted your name, Rhaenyra. Even the smallfolk. You've been accepted by the entire realm as the first ever Queen Regnant. That's a trailblazing achievement. Your reign is blatantly blessed by the Gods themselves, Old and New.”  

“I know,” she said again, more quietly this time.  

“But?”  

Rhaenyra exhaled, slow and tight.  

“Aegon looked like he was waiting for a blade. Aemond didn’t blink through half the ceremony. Helaena has been quieter than a breeze for the entire day. And Daeron — he wouldn’t even look up from his feet. They made it through the coronation, and still they looked like they were bracing for punishment. And what happened at the feast...”  

“They were afraid,” Rhaenys replied gently. “Not of you. Of the ghosts they carry with them.”  

Rhaenyra turned finally, her face unreadable.  

“They were doing so well before today,” she said. “Not healed — but... softer. Beginning to open up. And now—”  

Rhaenys stepped forward, handing her a goblet. “You think healing is a staircase. It’s not. It’s the tide.”  

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow.  

“You’ll gain ground. Then it’ll rush out from under you again. Pull you back.” Rhaenys sipped. “But the tide always returns.”  

Rhaenyra stared down into her wine.  

“I want to protect them,” she whispered. “From the weight. From expectation. From spectacle.”  

Rhaenys nodded. “Then do that. Ease their duties. Let them be quiet. Let them be children. You’ve already given them what Viserys never gave you. ”  

Rhaenyra gave a bitter smile. “A choice?”  

“A mother,” Rhaenys said.  

That silenced her. Her eyes flickered to the portrait that hung above the fireplace, a portrait of a healthy Queen Aemma with a six namedays old Rhaenyra. Her things had arrived from Dragonstone the day prior, that treasured portrait among them, along with a portrait of her family painted shortly after Sara's birth, now hanging across from the Queen's desk.  

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the pop of the fire and the wind through the window.  

Then Rickon stepped into the doorway. He didn’t speak at first — just looked at Rhaenyra, his expression calm but lined with thought.  

“You could take them to Dragonstone two days from now,” he said. “After you've received the oaths of fealty. It would give them a rest from court and allow them a chance to heal in a way only a Targaryen can.”  

Rhaenyra looked at him. “And what would we tell the Lords?”  

“That the Queen is tending to her realm’s most wounded lands.”  

She smiled. Just a little.  

Rhaenys raised her goblet. “You married well.”  

“I know,” Rhaenyra said, never more certain that her betrothal to Rickon had been the best choice Viserys ever made than right then.  

The coals in the brazier had burned low, their glow barely warming the corners of Aegon’s chamber. The fire hadn’t been tended in hours.   

He sat cross-legged on the floor beside his writing desk, a single candle flickering beside him. In his lap lay a scrap of parchment, smudged at the edges and folded too many times.  

On it were only a few words, scrawled in shaky High Valyrian:  

Sȳz. Rōvēgī. Ziry. 
Good. Freedom. He. 

He had written them the week before, after the first lesson. When it had felt — briefly — like maybe things could change.  

Now he couldn’t bear to look at them.   

None of it felt real anymore.  

Not after the coronation.  

Not after the feast.  

His hands were still trembling.  

He’d pushed the plate. He’d snapped at the Queen's beloved son and caused a scene in front of the whole realm at her coronation feast. She must be furious. Surely he had pushed her beyond the limits of her patience and kindness now. He was a fool to ever think things would change. The Queen - or perhaps her husband or a guard - would come to punish him soon. It was inevitable after his outburst that evening.  

He held the parchment to the candle flame and watched the edges blacken. It curled in on itself, trembling as it disappeared.  

Ash crumbled into his palm.  

From outside the chamber, footsteps echoed against the stone floors of the Keep. They were headed towards his room.  

Aegon tensed, his heart pounding in his ears.  

He stood quickly, breath catching, wiping his palms on his tunic. A sense memory — not of today, but of years ago — coursed through his body: standing too long after speaking out of turn, waiting for the door to open and the cane to land.  

A voice came.  

Not sharp.  

Not cruel.  

Just familiar.  

“Can we come in?”  

Aegon blinked. Jacaerys. Had the Queen sent her Heir to punish him? That seemed strange.  

He didn’t answer.  

The door creaked open anyway.  

Jace entered, followed by Cregan, both dressed down from ceremony, their expressions neutral — open, but not indulgent.  

Aegon stood up, slowly. “Let me guess,” he said, voice as tense as his spine. “Here to report how I ruined everything.”  

“No,” Jace replied simply. “We’re here because you looked like someone expecting to be punished.”  

“I wasn’t,” Aegon muttered, avoiding their eyes to hide the lie.  

Cregan stepped forward, voice calm. “We believe you.”  

Aegon hesitated, unsure of what to do with that. He suspected Cregan was lying, but if he was, Aegon couldn't help but be grateful for it. Something about his fear around his nephews and niece, so confident and calm, was embarrassing.  

Jacaerys didn’t move closer. “I don’t know what it was like,” he said carefully. “What was done to you. But I know what it is to carry more than you’re ready for.”  

Cregan added, “I was four when they told me I’d be Lord of Winterfell one day. Before I’d ever held a sword. Before I’d buried a sister.”   

Aegon blinked, and an old memory came back. Viserys had learned that Rhaenyra had suffered a stillbirth, and beaten Alicent severely, accusing her of poisoning his Heir to supplant her with Aegon. Looking back, Aegon assumed that Rhaenyra's survival and recovery were the only reasons Alicent hadn't been executed, and quite possibly him and his siblings too.  

He was broken from his thoughts by Jacaerys's voice. “And I’ve spent half my life preparing to be a man the realm would accept as the future King. Not because I wasn’t enough, but because someone once told me I might not be.”  

They didn’t speak like they pitied him.  

They spoke like they recognized the shape of pressure — even if the weight wasn’t the same.  

Aegon’s voice came low. “But no one ever hurt you for it.”  

“No,” Jacaerys agreed. “But I’ve hurt myself over it.”  

Cregan nodded. “We’ve both wanted to disappear at times.”  

Jacaerys shrugged. “We still do.”  

Silence settled for a long moment, before Aegon whispered, barely more than a whisper.  

"How do you overcome it?"  

"We rely on each other," Jacaerys shrugged simply.  

Then Cregan sat cross-legged near the fire and gestured to the floor. “You don’t have to talk. But you also don’t have to be alone.”  

Jacaerys tossed a sugared chestnut to the rug between them. “We stole these. That’s how serious this is.”  

Aegon blinked.  

And then, slowly — like a door unlatching — he crossed the room and sat down.  

Not close.  

But not far.  

When he picked up the chestnut, his fingers were still shaking.  

But they weren’t shaking alone.  

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven  

Fire Given Form  

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was draped in the banners of House Targaryen — red dragons on black backgrounds streaming down stone columns like rivers of flame. Above the Iron Throne, the three-headed dragon glared down with molten eyes, and beneath it, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen sat in silence, her crown glinting against the firelight.  

To either side stood her family: her husband Rickon, calm and grounded in his northern leathers, and her sons and their direwolves, Tundra, Nomad, Onyx and Honour, all lined up beside Ser Harrold .  

The court was full. Nobles, emissaries, and bannermen had arrived from every corner of Westeros to kneel, speak, and be seen.  

And be remembered.  

Rickon, as expected, went first, and took a knee before his wife, planting Ice in the ground, Shadow dipping his head at his side. While his younger brother, Bennard, acted as the Stark in Winterfell while Rickon was down south, Rickon remained Warden of the North and Lord Paramount, and so it was him who gave the oath of loyalty to the new monarch, wife or not.  

" To the Iron Throne and to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and House Targaryen I pledge the faith of Winterfell and the North," he began in a soft, but strong voice that echoed throughout the quiet hall, not a shred of hesitation or doubt in his voice, using the traditional Northern vow. "Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my Queen. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire."  

"On behalf of House Targaryen, I accept your oaths of loyalty, Prince Consort Rickon," Rhaenyra said evenly. One who didn't know her well wouldn't be able to see the look of love and warmth in her eyes as she met her husband's gaze, his own storm-cloud grey gaze full of confidence in her ability to do this.  

His oaths given, Rickon rose to his feet and returned to his place by her side.  

The next to step forward was Lady Jeyne Arryn, Rhaenyra's cousin through her mother's half-brother Mychel Arryn and perhaps her firmest supporter outside of Houses Targaryen and Stark.  

She wore Arryn-blue trimmed with silver, her cloak pinned with the falcon of the Eyrie. Her steps were purposeful, her back unbending. When she reached the steps of the throne, she sank into a deep, graceful kneel.  

“Queen Rhaenyra,” she said clearly, “On behalf of House Arryn and the Vale I swear to you our swords, our skies, and our hearths. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New, I swear it by kin lost and kin remaining.”  

Rhaenyra smiled, and there was true warmth in it.  

“I accept your oaths, cousin,” she said. “Rise as a pillar of my realm.”  

Jeyne stood, kissed her ring, and stepped back with her head held high.  

Next came Lord Jason Lannister.  

He moved with the confidence of a man too used to applause. But today, there was a tightness in his shoulders, and his golden doublet gleamed like it had been sharpened. His expression was blank, but his eyes glinted with unspoken rage.  

He was identical to his twin, Tyland, currently languishing in the Black Cells as he awaited his trial, set for a moon's turn from the coronation. Half-hidden in the shadows and mostly ignored by an audience more focused on the main event, the sight of him made Alicent and her children flinch. Aegon shifted, allowing himself to shield Helaena. Daeron had buried himself in his mother's skirts. Alicent began picking at her cuticles with trembling hands. Aemond was rigid as watched, his single eye fixed on Lord Lannister's every move.  

 When he reached the foot of the throne, his bow was shallow, and he made no move to kneel.  

“I, Jason of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, do hereby swear loyalty on behalf of the Westerlands to the Crown in the name of the Old Gods and the New,” he said.  

The words were spoken correctly — but there was a bitter edge to them, like a goblet of fine wine turned to vinegar.  

He did not look Rhaenyra in the eyes.  

And he did not say her name.  

Beside the throne, Daemon’s gaze narrowed. He folded his arms, and the tilt of his head was subtle — but sharp.  

Rhaenyra’s smile did not falter.  

“Your oath is accepted,” she said smoothly. “May the Rock stand tall, and its Lord stand true.”  

Jason stepped back without another word.  

Then came the storm.  

Lord Borros Baratheon strode forward in heavy black and storm-grey robes; a man carved from thunderclouds. His brow was furrowed deep, and his scowl made no effort to hide itself. When he knelt, it was with the air of a man lowering himself out of duty — not reverence.  

“I, Borros of House Baratheon,” he growled, “swear on the Old Gods and the New to maintain the loyalty of the Stormlands and my House to the Crown.”  

He hesitated.  

Then added, stiffly, “To the Queen.”  

The pause was a blade.  

Rhaenyra inclined her head, not even blinking. She knew Borros Baratheon despised the thought of women ruling. It was why he kept putting his poor wife through pregnancy after pregnancy, ignoring the strain he was under and not even pretending to consider his eldest daughter as a placeholder heir, let alone a plausible successor.  

“House Baratheon’s strength is known to all," the Queen informed him smoothly. "May it serve the realm with wisdom.”  

Borros stood but said nothing more. As he turned to walk away, Daemon’s eyes followed him with quiet intensity, the fingers of his left hand tapping against the hilt of his blade — not a threat, but a record.  

Others followed. Lesser lords, sworn knights, cautious cousins.  

Some came with joy. Some came because they had no choice.  

The last sworn lord had stepped back into the crowd, and the murmurs that followed echoed across the stone floor like the retreating rustle of storm-tossed leaves.  

But Rhaenyra did not rise.  

She remained seated on the Iron Throne, posture regal, expression composed, her fingers drumming lightly on the carved steel. Beside her, Rickon stood tall and silent and behind her, Daemon shifted his weight slightly, like a blade being drawn by thought alone.  

“Lords and Ladies of Westeros,” Rhaenyra began, her voice clear and steady, “the realm is not ruled by blood alone. It is ruled by judgment. And a wise ruler surrounds themself with those who see the shadows they cannot.”  

The murmurs quieted.  

“I will now name the members of my Small Council,” she continued, her tone sharp enough to still the fidgeting in the nobles' ranks.  

People straightened, eager to learn who would be chosen as the Queen's advisors. Who would have her ear, and therefore have the power in the court.  

She turned slightly toward her right.  

“First, Ser Harrold Westerling, who has served honourably, loyally, and without ambition, will once again take up his post as Lord Commander of the Queensguard.”  

Harrold stepped forward. The room observed in respectful silence as he knelt and bowed his head. The gold of his armour gleamed against the pale cloak draped over his shoulders.  

"My sword is yours, my Queen," he vowed. "May it never fail you or your family."  

“I have no doubt it never will," Rhaenyra replied. "Rise, Lord Commander.”  

He did — and took his place beside the throne once more.  

“Second,” she said, “I name as my Hand of the Queen the woman who stood by me when others stayed silent. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”  

There was little surprise, as everyone had seen the chain on her chest or heard the rumours, though there was unease. Borros Baratheon scowled deeply at the knowledge that his disliked cousin was now not only a treasured member of the royal family, but also the monarch's chief advisor.  

Rhaenys stepped forward in a gown of dark sea-stone blue, her presence calm and commanding. She did not bow. She stood.  

Rhaenyra smiled.  

“I trust your voice as I trust my own.”  

“Then may it never falter,” Rhaenys replied.  

A nod. Rhaenys took her place at the foot of the throne, opposite Rickon.  

“Third,” Rhaenyra said, “for his unparalleled ability to discover the secrets that rot beneath stone and silk, I name Prince Daemon Targaryen as Master of Whisperers.”  

That caused true discomfort in the hall. A few lords shifted. Jason Lannister’s jaw tightened.  

Daemon stepped forward with deliberate grace.  

“I already hear what I must,” he stated, “but it pleases me to listen with the crown’s permission.”  

Rhaenyra inclined her head. “You are commanded to listen — and to remember.”  

He smirked and took his place.  

“Fourth,” she continued, “for his incomparable ability to increase the amount in a treasury, the lifeblood of any kingdom, I name Lord Isembard Arryn, Lord of Gulltown, as Master of Coin.”  

Isembard, third cousin to Jeyne Arryn and Rhaenyra, and the only branch Arryn who wasn't lurking in wait, hoping to claim the Lord Paramountcy from Jeyne and Luke, her named heir, stepped forward with the crisp movements of a man who lived by ink and careful speech.  

“I will guard your coffers as I have guarded my kin,” he said, bowing deeply.  

“And my trust,” Rhaenyra replied.  

“Fifth,” she said, turning her gaze across the lords, “I name Lady Meredyth Tyrell, Lady Regent of Highgarden, as Mistress of Laws.”  

The widowed Lady of the Reach smiled slightly as she stepped forward, graceful and self-possessed, dressed in a gown of green silk and gold rose embroidery. Her expression betrayed neither surprise nor smugness — only a quiet satisfaction. That satisfaction wasn't shared by everyone in the hall, however. This was the second lady to be elevated to the Small Council by the first Queen Regnant. It was an unsettling change for the southron lords, though the Northmen, well-used to women having equal power to men (winter did not care what gender you were. It cared only that you were strong when it came), didn't so much as bat an eyelash. They simply watched solemnly as Lady Tyrell kneeled before the Queen.  

“The laws of men bend often,” she said, bowing her head, “but they do not always break.”  

“They will not,” Rhaenyra answered. “Not while you hold the pen.”  

And then the final elevation:  

“Finally, I name Lord Desmond Manderley of White Harbor as Master of Ships — for loyalty, intelligence, and the courage to carry the weight of oceans.”  

Desmond, white-haired and round-bellied but alert, bowed with a slight chuckle. “Ships and storms, Your Grace. I’ve weathered both.”  

“Then weather them again — for me.”  

He nodded, and took his place with the other councillors. Rhaenyra could see them being looked at with calculation by the crowd, but she had faith that none of them would be corrupted. She had taken great care when selecting her choices, not just to avoid favouring one region, but also, and most importantly, to make certain that they were all people of strong integrity, with actual skill in relation to their assigned positions, while also gaining the support of powerful, key areas in their regions.  

Her appointments made, Rhaenyra stood.  

“My council is chosen. Let the realm know it will be governed with strength, vigilance, and truth. We do not rebuild a realm by pleasing lords. We rebuild it by protecting its people.”  

She let the silence stretch.  

Then, quietly, she added:  

“May those who remember Viserys's reign forget their fear. And may those who served it poorly begin to fear again.”  

She sat back down on the Iron Throne.  

And Daemon’s eyes flicked once more to Jason Lannister and Borros Baratheon.  

Neither man smiled or joined in on the cheers of the crowd.  

The next day, Rhaenyra left her realm in the hands of her trusted advisors and husband, and made ready to fulfil a plan she'd had for almost the full moon and a half since her return to King's Landing. The party met at dawn at Red Keep’s eastern courtyard, where the wind was strong enough to lift cloaks and send grooms chasing after fallen banners. But the dragons overhead paid it no mind.  

Syrax circled wide and slow above the city, her golden wings slicing through the sky. In the distance, Caraxes crouched atop the hill behind the Keep, tail lashing slowly, red scales catching sunlight like fire in motion. Laena’s mount, Vhagar, perched at the edge of the ramparts with ancient stillness, as if she were part of the stone itself.  

Below, the group assembled for departure.  

Aegon stood beside his mother, silent and rigid in his black traveling cloak. Aemond shifted beside him, eye on the dragons, jaw clenched. Helaena clutched a small wooden box to her chest - inside was some insect she refused to part with. Daeron kept one hand locked around Alicent’s, even as his feet pointed toward the waiting carriage that would take them to the Dragonpit. There, two of each of them would be helped to mount each of the dragons, and their group would fly to Dragonstone, where their future companions awaited them.  

Baela was practically vibrating with excitement. Her sword was strapped to her back. Rhaena, quieter but determined, stood beside her mother, watching Syrax circle again and again, her gaze distant.  

Rhaenyra approached Alicent gently.  

“They’ll be safe,” she promised. “And back within a sen'night. We will simply need to wait a few days to allow the bonds to settle before we return, but they can write.”  

Alicent nodded, but her eyes were red-rimmed. “If any of them change their mind—”  

“They won’t,” Daemon interrupted smoothly, stepping up beside them. “They want it, even if they don’t know how to say it.”  

Alicent flinched but said nothing.  

“Come,” Laena urged, reaching for Rhaena’s hand. “The dragons don’t wait for nerves.”  

The children boarded the carriage in silence, save for Baela, who ran ahead and scrambled up into the seat without aid. “I call first bonding!” she shouted.  

“No,” Aegon muttered under his breath. “Let the little ones go first.”  

Daemon caught it. He gave a faint smirk but said nothing.  

As the gates opened to allow the carriage to roll toward the Dragonpit, Rhaenyra turned one last time to look at Alicent before climbing inside herself. The other woman’s hand lingered in the air, as if trying to call her children back without words.  

“They’ll come back stronger,” Rhaenyra promised.  

Alicent didn’t answer.  

But she didn’t look away.  

The sky over Dragonstone was grey, but not dull — alive , threaded with low clouds that moved like smoke over the jagged hills. The sea raged below the cliffs in a white-frothed churn, its spray lashing the black rocks. Great basalt towers rose from the earth like claws. The air smelled of salt and sulphur.  

And above it all, the dragons circled.  

Syrax, golden and stately, carrying Rhaenyra, Helaena and Daeron. Caraxes, long and crooked, ridden by Daemon, Aemond and Baela. And finally Vhagar, a living relic of a bygone age, with Laena, Rhaena and Aegon perched on her back.  

Slowly, still flying in circles, the dragons descended until at last they landed outside the gates. The adults unchained themselves and their passengers, climbed down and then finally helped the children to dismount.  

Helaena was the first to speak.  

“This place remembers,” she whispered.  

Baela leapt down without waiting for Daemon's help, her cloak already flapping loose around her shoulders. “It smells like fire,” she commented, grinning. “I like it.”  

Aemond moved slowly. Cautiously. He scanned the cliffs and the sky, his eye fixed on the dragons above. He did not speak, but something in his posture loosened slightly, as if the wind had whispered to him in a voice only he could hear.  

Rhaena followed her sister, arms folded tightly, her eyes wide. She looked at the spires of volcanic rock and the dark windows of the keep as though the island itself might wake up and speak.  

Daeron clutched at the carved wolf that had become his constant companion, looking around warily while standing close to his eldest brother. Aegon himself was unmoving, his jaw tight as he eyed the castle suspiciously.  

Rhaenyra came beside him. “It’s not meant to feel safe,” she told him. “That’s why it’s honest.”  

He nodded once, but didn’t speak.  

Daemon, already ahead of them, turned back from the ridge path and gestured upward.  

“The dragons are waiting.”  

The walk from the gates to the field known as the Dragonmont Flats was steep and silent. Even Baela went quiet as they climbed the narrow path carved through the cliffside. Black sand and ancient ash crunched underfoot. Occasionally, a distant roar echoed over the peaks.  

At the top, the world opened.  

A broad clearing stretched across the mountainside, bordered by jagged rocks and dragon-perch ridges. Steam vented from a fissure at the far edge, filling the air with a warm, heavy breath.  

The dragons were waiting.  

Six of them.  

Some had been drawn here by instinct. Others, perhaps, by hope.  

Each sat in its own space — still, observing.  

Sunfyre, young and gold, his scales radiant like sunlight through glass, blinked slowly at the newcomers.  

Dreamfyre, blue and silver, coiled in perfect spirals, her head tilted curiously.  

Vermithor, massive and battle-scarred, sat like a monument in stone, his bronze eyes unblinking.  

Tessarion, delicate and graceful, hummed as she folded and unfolded her wings.  

Sheepstealer, mottled and rough, crouched in a far corner, tail twitching like a cat.  

And high above, perched on a ledge, was Grey Ghost — pale and translucent, nearly blending into the mist.  

The children stared.  

So did the dragons.  

Then Daemon stepped forward.  

“Now,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Walk. Speak. Let them see you.”  

None of them moved at first.  

Then Baela stepped forward, already smiling.  

Behind her, the others watched.  

Aegon’s hands clenched at his sides.  

Aemond’s eye flicked from Vermithor to Daemon, and back again.  

Helaena murmured, “They’re listening.”  

And far above them all, the sky opened with one long, rumbling growl.  

The wind was still on the Dragonmont Flats.  

No more words were spoken.  

The dragons waited.  

And the children began to move.  

--  

Baela, brave and confident, went first.  

She strode forward with a sword strapped to her back, curls loose, her boots sinking slightly into the black ash. Her gaze was locked on the dragon crouched furthest from the others — Sheepstealer, old and ragged, his hide marked with scars and soot.  

He hissed, long and low.  

Baela stopped, not ten paces from him. She didn't flinch.  

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “I don’t need you to be pretty.”  

She pulled her sword and drove the tip into the ground. Then she knelt before it.  

Sheepstealer crept closer, head low. His nose flared. Steam curled from his nostrils.  

Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed his snout to her shoulder.  

Baela exhaled — and smiled.  

“I’ll call you Aegarax,” she whispered. “You’re mine now.”  

--  

Helaena stood still as glass, her small wooden box clutched in both hands. She had wandered — without noticing — toward Dreamfyre, once the mount of Queen Rhaena Targaryen, wife and queen to Aegon the Crownless and Maegor the Cruel. The dragon was coiled like a spiral seashell, her silver-blue wings tucked close. 

Dreamfyre lifted her head, scenting the air.  

Helaena opened the box and set it on the ground.  

A pale beetle crawled out.  

Dreamfyre blinked, tilting her head curiously.  

“I dreamed of you,” Helaena murmured. “You were music. You sang when no one else listened.”  

She took a single step forward and extended her hand.  

Dreamfyre moved like water — slow, smooth — and lowered her snout into Helaena’s palm.  

A breath passed between them.  

Then Dreamfyre closed her eyes.  

Helaena smiled — softly, gently — and whispered, “We match.”  

--  

Aemond walked alone toward the far end of the ridge, to the place where the air shimmered with heat.  

Where Vermithor, the famed Bronze Fury, dragon of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, sat, motionless.  

The dragon was enormous — twice the size of any of his kin save Vhagar, bronze-scaled, his teeth chipped and blackened from decades of forgotten rage.  

Aemond stood before him, small as a candle before a storm.  

“I know what it’s like,” he said, quietly. “To be passed over. To be waiting.”  

The dragon shifted. The earth trembled.  

Aemond took another step. Then another. Until he was close enough to feel Vermithor’s heat against his skin.  

“I’m not the strongest,” he said. “But I’ll never look away.”  

Vermithor growled.  

Then he bowed his head.  

And Aemond stepped forward, placed a trembling hand on the beast’s scaled brow— and wept.  

--  

Daeron stood frozen for a long time. He wasn't sure what to do, where to go, and Rhaenyra gave no instructions, simply smiling softly at him.  

Then Tessarion, the youngest of the dragons, barely more than a hatchling in truth — blue and sleek, with delicate wings like stained glass — glided down from a ledge and landed a short distance away.  

She said nothing.  

Daeron looked up at her, wide-eyed with wonder at the dragon's beauty and the instinctive connection he felt with her.  

“Are you here for me?” he asked.  

Tessarion stepped closer. Her wings folded gently behind her.  

He held out his hand, barely breathing.  

She touched it with her nose, and he felt a piece of him that had been missing all his life slide into place.  

Then he laughed — a soft, incredulous sound, like something that had been buried far too long.  

--  

Aegon remained near the edge of the flats.  

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. He already knew, with a certainty deep in his bones, that no dragon would choose him. He didn't deserve to have a dragon, a companion so devoted they would burn the world for him. Viserys, his councillors, they had always said it to him over and over again. Aegon was useless, stupid, a waste of space. If even his own sire felt that way, then why would a creature so magnificent as a dragon want to bond with him?  

Then a shadow passed over him.  

He looked up.  

Sunfyre, golden and young, the most beautiful of the dragons present, was descending in front of him — slowly, cautiously. His wings beat once, then stilled as he landed before Aegon, who stared like a man seeing a dream too fragile to touch.  

“You’re… not for me,” Aegon whispered, voice shaking. "You're too beautiful, too wonderful for someone like me."  

But Sunfyre stepped closer.  

And nudged him in the chest.  

Aegon gasped, feeling something broken and ugly in his chest scar over as the bond clicked into place.  

Then slowly, his disbelief obvious to anyone watching, the young prince reached up and touched the dragon’s jaw.  

Sunfyre closed his eyes and leaned in.  

And Aegon dropped to his knees, beginning to weep as he clutched at his other half.  

--  

Rhaena had wandered away from her mother, quietly and without ceremony.  

No one saw her climb the ridge toward a cave shaped like a yawning mouth, following the last of the dragons, who had looked at her then flown back to his hidden nest.  

She entered without fear. Something in her soul assured her that the dragon wouldn't hurt her.  

Inside, the air was thick with mist.  

And there, curled in the shadow, was Grey Ghost — pale, translucent, barely breathing.  

He watched her.  

She sat down on the stone floor and sang — softly, a Valyrian lullaby her mother sang her and Baela to sleep when they were restless.  

Grey Ghost tilted his head.  

And then, slowly, crept toward her.  

She reached out.  

And he curled around her like mist around a candle.  

“I’ll call you Gaelithox,” she whispered. “We’re both quiet things.”  

--  

Syrax, Caraxes and Vhagar had seen what happened, and filled the skies above Dragonmont with their roars of satisfaction and pleasure at the six new bonds that had been forged.  

Each flame unique.  

Each soul seen.  

Each dragon claimed.  

The fire crackled in the great hall of Dragonstone, but no one sat close to it. The warmth tonight came from elsewhere.  

From the thunder of wings still echoing through the cliffs.  

From the memory of scaled heads bowed low.  

From six children, seated in silence, each of them changed.  

Baela leaned back in her chair with her boots slung over the edge, still streaked with ash, hair half-fallen from its braid. A small grin played on her face as she whispered plans to the ceiling.  

“Do you think I can fly him over the Narrow Sea?” she asked no one in particular. “I think he likes the wind.”  

Across from her, Rhaena sat cross-legged on the rug-covered stone floor, her head resting on her mother’s lap. Laena carded gentle fingers through her daughter’s hair. The girl had barely spoken since Grey Ghost — Gaelithox — had curled his long, pale neck around her and hummed in her arms like a song. There was a sense of peace and confidence wrapped around her now, one that had been missing before then.  

“She hasn’t stopped smiling,” Laena murmured softly to Rhaenyra, who sat at her side, smiling at the children with gentle pride.  

“She doesn’t need to,” Rhaenyra replied.  

Helaena sat alone at the long table, her hands folded around a teacup, though the tea had long gone cold. She didn’t speak, but she was humming — something light, lilting. Her lips moved with words no one else could hear. On the table before her was a single silver-blue scale. Dreamfyre had left it beside her before vanishing into the clouds.  

“She called her,” Rhaenyra whispered to Daemon, watching the girl from across the room. “Like she was a friend.”  

“She didn’t call,” Daemon replied. “She belonged. ”  

Daeron had already fallen asleep, the young boy worn out from the day's excitement and playing with his new companion. He was curled up on one of the broad cushions near the hearth, his fist wrapped tightly around a piece of Tessarion’s shed talon. His breathing was deep. Steady. Rhaenyra looked at him and smiled.  

“He laughed when she touched him,” she remarked proudly. It was the first time she had heard her youngest brother laugh, and it was a sound that filled her with joy.  

Laena’s voice was quiet. “She was waiting for him.”  

Aemond sat stiffly on the stone bench at the edge of the chamber, still wearing the boots scorched from standing too near Vermithor’s nostrils. His hands were clasped between his knees, tight, but not trembling. His shoulders were straight.  

He had not spoken since the dragon bowed.  

But Daemon had seen the tears.  

Now, Aemond looked up.  

Daemon met his eye — and nodded once.  

Aemond nodded back.  

Nothing more was needed.  

Aegon stood with his back to the fire, arms crossed, gaze on the black windows.  

He hadn’t sat since they returned.  

He hadn’t spoken since Sunfyre pressed his gleaming snout to his chest and exhaled like an oath.  

But he hadn’t left, either.  

Rhaenyra approached him, slowly, as one might approach a half-wild thing.  

“You didn’t run,” she said.  

Aegon didn’t look at her.  

“No,” he said.  

“Did he frighten you?”  

A pause.  

Then: “Yes.”  

“Will you come back tomorrow?”  

A beat longer.  

Then, softly: “Yes.”  

She nodded. “Good.”  

Then turned and left him be.  

--  

The fire burned lower.  

The dragons were far above, out of sight, but no one in the room doubted they were listening.  

Six children had left the Red Keep.  

Six dragonriders would return. 

And the realm would never be the same.  

The sky outside the castle had darkened into a velvet blue, threaded with the faint glow of a waxing moon. The halls were hushed now — dragons settled in their lairs, children tucked into scattered rooms, the hearths dimmed to embers.  

In the Queen’s chamber, three figures sat at a long table, pens scratching parchment, wax cooling in silver dishes.  

Rhaenyra was the first to finish.  

She sealed her letter with black wax and pressed the Targaryen sigil into it.  

It read:  

Dear Rickon, my beloved husband and consort,  

All six children have bonded. I will tell you who bonded which dragons when I return, but for now, know this: they are safe. They were brave.  

Baela flies before she walks. Rhaena sings to the air. Daeron smiled in his sleep and laughed when he bonded. Helaena’s head is still in the clouds, but she is speaking more clearly than ever before. Aemond… Aemond stood alone before a monster and did not run. And Aegon—  

Aegon was chosen. And chose not to flee.  

I will keep them whole, as best I can.  

Tell the others to be proud of their brothers and sisters.  

—R.  

She handed the scroll to a servant t hen turned to Laena, who was still writing, slower and more fluidly.   Her letter bore the seal of House Velaryon, rimmed in storm-silver.  

To my mother, Princess Rhaenys,  

We are well. More than that — we are alive in a way that only fire can make us.  

Baela claimed a beast no one dared approach. She named him Aegarax. He listened.  

Rhaena climbed into a cave and came out humming. She has not stopped smiling.  

The other children… I don’t yet know what to say. But I believe now what you said before I married Daemon: A dragon’s heart is born with wounds that only fire can seal.  

I think theirs are beginning to seal.  

—Laena  

She sealed it and set it aside, then reached for her teacup with a long sigh.  

“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” she said.  

“Like what?” Rhaenyra asked.  

“Like something good might last.”  

--  

Daemon was last to finish writing.  

He didn’t write with the neatness of the others. His lines were short. Brutal. Effective.  

He didn’t even sign his name.  

To the Eyes in King’s Landing,  

Watch Jason Lannister. He postures like a Pentoshi peacock but pricks like a rat.  

Watch Borros Baratheon. His oath was forced. He will test it soon.  

Larys Strong is still at large. Find him.  

If he returns, do not engage. Inform me.  

If he reaches the children first—  

Kill him.  

He folded the message, sealed it with obsidian-black wax, and said nothing as it was carried away.  

--  

Later, when the fire had nearly gone out, Rhaenyra lit a final candle and sat down beside it with a blank sheet.  

She stared at it for a long time.  

Then she wrote, slowly:  

Dear Alicent,  

Your children are safe.  

And they are magnificent.  

They are not what he made them.  

They are what they choose to become.  

She folded it carefully. No signature. No seal.  

But she sent it anyway.  

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight  

Shadows and Wings  

They returned to the capital just after midday, when the sun burned high over the rooftops of King’s Landing and the smoke from a hundred chimneys curled skyward like offering. 

But it was not fire from hearths that made the people pause in the streets. 

It was the roar of dragons. 

Six of them. 

The first to appear was Syrax, golden and gleaming in the sun, her wings beating in slow, regal rhythm above the city. Caraxes followed, his long, serpentine body weaving through the clouds with unnerving grace. Then came Vhagar, ancient and thunderous, her wings stirring the very air into whorls of dust. 

But it was the new dragons that made the people scream — and cheer. 

Sunfyre, brilliant gold, soaring with surprising elegance beside his bonded rider. Dreamfyre, gliding in great arcs, trailing wind like music. Vermithor, a bronze monolith, slow and terrible in his grace. Tessarion, blue and jewel-like, descending with delicate stillness. Aegarax, mottled and unpredictable, circling lower than the rest. And finally Gaelithox, pale as mist, drifting like a ghost on silent wings. 

Below, the city halted — fishmongers, scribes, children in alleyways — staring skyward as the shadows of dragons passed over them like living omens. 

Combined with the five dragons of the Queen's children, the royal family had fourteen dragons at their disposal, more than even Jaehaerys the Conciliator had been able to command at the height of his reign. Some might be too young for war yet, but the number itself was a warning. 

Only a fool, blinded by desperation and arrogance, would dare to defy the Queen and her family now. 

At the Red Keep, the courtyard was already filled with knights, maids, and courtiers, all awaiting the Queen’s return. When the dragons began to land — carefully, one after another, in the outer fields behind the Keep — the awe turned to stunned silence. 

Then Rhaenyra dismounted Syrax with steady grace, her braid tousled by wind but her eyes sharp and steady. She reached up to help Daeron, who had flown with her, as Tessarion was too young to carry him, down before stepping forward to join the others, while Daeron dashed over to Tessarion to pet her snout while she made an almost catlike purr in enjoyment. 

Daemon dismounted Caraxes without a word. Laena followed from Vhagar’s back, her smile wide with pride as she watched her daughters descend on their new dragons. 

Baela was the first to hit the ground — she leapt down from Aegarax’s shoulder with a triumphant laugh, her boots skidding in the dust. “He didn’t even try to bite me this time!” she announced triumphantly. 

Rhaena slid down from Gaelithox’s neck with quiet care, her fingers trailing against his scale. The dragon huffed once, then turned back toward the sky. 

Sunfyre landed gracefully and crouched, allowing Aegon to climb down silently before hesitating, reluctant to leave his dragon's side. 

Helaena was helped down from Dreamfyre’s flank by a groom, still humming softly, her fingers trailing the soft blue wing-membrane as she went. 

And Aemond, last, descended slowly from Vermithor, whose landing had cracked a stone slab in the courtyard. 

Aemond’s face was unreadable but his step was steady. 

And his head was high with a pride he had never before been allowed to feel. 

Alicent was already rushing forward. 

She reached Daeron first, pulling him into her arms and holding him so tightly he let out a surprised breath. 

Then Helaena — her hands grasped her daughter’s shoulders, checking for bruises, for tears. Finding none, she simply kissed her temple and whispered, “You did it.” 

When she reached Aemond, she stopped short — uncertain. 

He looked taller than he had. 

Or maybe it was something in his eyes. 

He gave a slight nod. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. 

Alicent nodded back. “You’re more than that.” 

And she wept when she saw Aegon, walking toward her with ash on his cheeks and Sunfyre’s light still in his wake. 

He didn’t flinch when she embraced him. 

-- 

From the steps above, Rickon, Jace Cregan, Luke, Joffrey, and Sara waited with wide eyes as the dragons were led toward the Dragonpit by the keepers. The younger children surged forward when Baela waved. 

“Did he breathe fire?” Joffrey demanded. 

“Twice,” Baela said smugly. “And only at Kepa.” 

Daemon, brushing ash from his shoulder, smirked. “He missed.” 

-- 

As the courtyard settled and dragons vanished into the sky, Rhaenyra watched from the highest stair. Her eyes moved from child to child — new riders all. 

No longer just survivors. 

Now, chosen. 

The garden behind the royal solar was quiet by nightfall, lit only by a dozen lanterns hanging from low branches. Their soft golden light flickered across stone benches, vines, and the gentle surface of the pool. 

It was the first time the children had gathered without instructions from parents, guards, or stares. 

No one had made them come. 

They had simply drifted here after supper, one by one, like cinders drawn to the same flame. 

Baela stretched out across the stone bench, one boot up on the armrest, a fig in her mouth and a grin on her face. 

“He dive-bombed a gull,” she said, chewing. “Did you see it? Feathers everywhere .” 

Aemond, sitting across from her with his hands folded between his knees, gave a small nod. “You nearly fell off.” 

“I wasn’t scared.” 

“I didn’t say you were.” 

Baela looked at him for a moment, then said, “You didn’t not smile.” 

Aemond looked away, lips twitching faintly. 

Nearby, Rhaena and Helaena sat together near the pond, legs tucked beneath them, parchment and charcoal in their laps. Helaena sketched slowly — two dragons curled around each other, one misty pale, one silver-blue. 

“Gaelithox likes Dreamfyre,” Rhaena commented. 

Helaena smiled. “Gaelithoz is soft. And quiet. Dreamfyre likes that.” Helaena's sentences had begun becoming more comprehensible, if still short and occasionally fragmented, in the week they'd spent on Dragonstone, ever since she had bonded with Dreamfyre. 

“Rhaena's quiet too,” Baela called. 

“Not too quiet to stab you,” Rhaena answered, deadpan. 

Baela snorted. 

Beside the fountain, Daeron sat beside a sleeping Joffrey, who’d insisted on sitting next to him and then promptly curled up and passed out. The youngest Targaryen had one arm wrapped protectively around a carved dragon toy. Daeron, still unsure, kept one hand resting near his own pocket — where a single scale from Tessarion was tucked in a velvet pouch. 

He looked across at Sara, who sat cross-legged beside Lucerys, whispering. 

“Auntie Laena says you’re the best flier,” Lucerys called to him teasingly. 

“She’s lying,” Daeron replied shyly, his voice soft but audible. 

“But you smiled when she said it,” Sara added. 

“I did not.” 

“You did,” Helaena said, without looking up from her drawing. 

Aegon had sat the furthest back at first, on the low stone ledge beneath the myrtle tree. He hadn’t said a word in the first hour. 

But when Cregan handed him a cup of cider, and Jace dropped down beside him with a grunt, he didn’t move away. 

“Sunfyre’s wingspan is almost as long as Syrax’s,” Cregan remarked. 

“Not yet,” Aegon replied, almost automatically. 

“You’re measuring?” 

“…yes.” 

Jace nudged his brother's shoulder. “Told you he cared.” 

Aegon huffed. 

But didn’t argue. 

The lanterns burned lower. 

The conversations softened to murmurs. 

Dragons wheeled above the Red Keep like sparks in the sky. 

And for the first time in living memory, the children of the fragmented House sat together — not as symbols, not as pawns — but as something simpler: 

Survivors. 

Siblings. 

Dragonriders. 

The Dragonpit at night was a cathedral of silence — dark, vast, and filled with the quiet sounds of sleeping giants. Wind sighed through the stone tunnels. A chain clinked somewhere deeper in the dark. 

Aegon stood alone beside Sunfyre, running a brush down the curve of the dragon’s flank. No one was aware he had come here. But he needed to see Sunfyre. To see and not just feel him. To touch him and be assured that this beautiful, amazing dragon was really his. 

That he'd been chosen, despite his father's accusations of him being worthless and stupid and a "half-Andal mongrel". Sunfyre didn't care about Viserys' opinions. Aegon could feel the love he felt for him. The respect. 

He didn't think anyone had ever cared about him so unconditionally, so purely, before Sunfyre. Sunfyre who chosen Aegon as his rider. 

Aegon was still struggling to believe that. 

The gold of Sunfyre’s scales shimmered faintly even in the gloom, as if they remembered the brightness of daylight. His wing was half-folded, one eye watching Aegon in lazy contentment. 

“You’re vain,” Aegon murmured. “I can tell. You like the way they look at you.” Sunfyre deserved the praise he received from those who saw him. He was the most beautiful dragon in existence. Even Rhaenyra, who doted on her beloved Syrax, had complimented Sunfyre's beauty. 

Aegon dipped the brush again in the bucket of water and reached up to scrub at a patch of dried soot behind the wing joint. 

It slipped from his hand and clattered loudly to the stone. 

The sound echoed too sharply. Too suddenly. 

Aegon froze. 

The air changed. 

The scent of smoke turned to incense. 

The brush handle looked too much like the grip of the rod. 

The sound — it was the same sound that came before the door slammed open. 

His breath hitched. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Viserys’s voice thundered, sudden and booming in his memory. “You sulk like a girl. You're no true Valyrian, but at least pretend to be more than the weak, useless half-breed you are. Straighten up.”  

He had been ten.  

His elbows were raw from falling in the practice yard while bringing some documents to the White Tower for Lord Wylde. Maester Mellos said the bones weren’t broken, but Aegon had cried out at the impact of the stone on his healing bruises. In front of others.  

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Viserys snapped contemptuously. “Only softness.”  

The cane struck his back once.  

Twice.  

Three times.  

By the fourth, Aegon couldn’t stand anymore.  

But he hadn’t been allowed to fall.  

Ser Marston had held him up.  

“No tears,” Viserys had hissed in his ear after the fifth, of twenty, strike. “Or I’ll break the boy out of you if I have to.”  

The words had burned deeper than the blows. 

Aegon’s knees hit the floor of the stables before he realized he’d dropped. 

He pressed both palms to his forehead, gasping for breath, heart beating like a drum against his ribs. 

“I’m not there,” he whispered. “It’s over. He’s dead. It’s over.” 

It wasn’t. 

Not in his mind. 

His back burned where the cane had struck it. His hands trembled. 

He curled forward, chest pressed to stone, unable to breathe. 

Then something shifted. 

Warmth. 

Not heat — warmth. 

The soft sound of claws on stone. 

A shadow fell over him. 

Sunfyre lowered his head slowly, one massive eye trained on his rider. 

Then, with the careful grace of a creature too large for gentleness but choosing it anyway, the golden dragon nuzzled Aegon’s side. 

Aegon flinched — but didn’t move away. 

Sunfyre rumbled, low and deep — not a growl. A song. A pulse of breath and warmth that vibrated through Aegon’s bones. 

Aegon reached out blindly and found scale beneath his fingers. 

“I didn’t deserve it,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I didn't. I wasn’t weak. I was just… me. A child.” 

Sunfyre exhaled — hot, steady, steadying. 

And Aegon, shaking, curled into his side. 

Above them, the night passed on. 

But below, in shadow and gold, boy and beast lay side by side. 

Two creatures who had been chained once. 

Now free. 

The fire in Daemon’s chamber had burned low, casting jagged shadows across the stone walls. The hour was late — too late for visitors. But the courier came anyway, slipping silently through a service passage leading to Daemon's solar, too silent to disturb Laena, asleep in the attached bedchamber, and left the letter on the table without a word. 

Daemon didn’t rise immediately. He sat in a carved wooden chair by the hearth, Dark Sister across his knees, fingers tapping the pommel in thought. The blade never left his side now. 

Only when the door to the passage clicked shut did he unfold the parchment. 

The seal was pressed with a black dragon skull — his personal sigil, used only by spies who answered to him and no one else. 

He broke it and read, unencrypting the letter instinctively, seeing words where others would see nonsensical sentences. 

He took the words in slowly. 

Silently. 

Until his mouth curled — not in a smile, but in something colder. Sharper. 

--- 

Zwwaalk dlza vm Kbzrrluksl.   

Aybcrspun buyla mhyzl uhtl. Ovvklu. Shtl pu vul mvv a.  

Hstvza zjyla pu pa pz Shyfz Zyyvun.  

Olhaapu dlza — wvzzaispf av Vsauldo, vy avdhyk aol Dozalkyshukz.  

Bzlk jvpu aypjlk av Qhzvu Shuzpzalk’z zaltbya.  

Hsla olhya: ylvwvyaz myvt isvaol pu Mslh Ivvavt. Svya Ivyyvz Ihyhalavu huk Svya Qhzvu Shuzpzalk tl a aolyl aoysll upnoaz whza. Kybua. Zwlhafpun myllsf.  

"H dvsm pu aol Xtllu’z ilk, huk mpyl ha aoly ilazh — uv nvva jhu jvtl vm pa."  

"H zwvyk ilsvunz pu h thu’z ohuk. Ava pu h dvthu’z shw."  

"Aol jyvdu zpaz olhally dopu aol olhk pz zvma."  

"A Shuupzalya pu johpuz pz uva av il hjjlsalk"  

--- 

Translated to Common Valyrian (another layer of encryption Daemon had paid handsomely to teach his spies) it read: 

--- 

Spotted west of Duskendale.  

Traveling under false name. Hooded. Lame in one foot.  

Almost certain it is Larys Strong.  

Heading west — possibly to Oldtown, or toward the Westerlands.  

Used coin traced to Jason Lannister’s steward.  

Also heard: reports from brothel in Flea Bottom. Lord Borros Baratheon and Lord Jason Lannister met there three nights past. Drunk. Speaking freely.  

“A wolf in the Queen’s bed, and fire at her breast — no good can come of it.”  

“A sword belongs in a man’s hand. Not in a woman’s lap.”  

“The crown sits heavy when the head is soft.”  

"A Lannister in chains is not to be accepted."  

--- 

Daemon exhaled slowly. 

He read the lines again. 

Then burned the letter in the hearth. 

The parchment curled quickly, catching fire like dry leaves. Flames flickered up, consuming the words — treachery turned to smoke. 

He did not move until the last blackened scrap had crumbled to ash. 

Then he picked up his quill. 

He wrote eight names on a fresh sheet of parchment. 

Larys Strong  

Jason Lannister  

Borros Baratheon  

Marston Waters (imprisoned)  

Gyles Belgrave (imprisoned)  

Tyland Lannister (imprisoned)  

Unwin Peake (imprisoned)  

Jasper Wylde (imprisoned)  

Then he circled the first three. 

“Snakes,” he muttered. “Coiled but not yet striking.” 

He underlined Larys Strong once. 

Then twice. 

He dipped his pen again and took out a fresh sheet of parchment and writing out instructions to his spy network. 

---  

Kvbsil dhapj vu aol dozlaly yvhaz.   

Aypwsl pu Vsauldo.   

Zluk yhal av aol Shuupzalya’z jlsshyz huk Ihyhalavu’z zahispz.   

P dhua lcily kybuhua dvya yltltislk.  

---  

Double watch on the western roads. 
Triple in Oldtown. 
Send rats to the Lannisters’ cellars and Baratheons’ stables. 
I want every drunken word remembered. 

--- 

He sealed the instructions with black wax. 

And beside the fire, alone with sword and shadow, Daemon Targaryen smiled — 

Not in joy. 

But in readiness. 

The rats were in sight. And soon his family would have their vengeance. They would come for their enemies with Fire and Blood.  

The Small Council chamber was unusually still. 

No scribes. 

No attendants. 

Only Rhaenyra, seated at the head of the table beneath the carved Targaryen crest, and those she had trusted with the fate of the realm. 

Rhaenys, cold-eyed and composed. Daemon, leaning back with one boot on the table, sharpening a dagger with unnecessary slowness. Ser Harrold Westerling, in white and steel. Lady Meredyth Tyrell, hands folded neatly on her lap. Lord Isembard Arryn, with ink stains on his fingers and dark circles beneath his eyes. 
Lord Desmond Manderley, absently stirring his tea. 
And, standing in the corner, Rickon Stark, silent but watching. 

Rhaenyra broke the quiet. 

“The trials must begin,” she said. “The people know something festers. If we delay longer, rumours will become weapons.” 

Rhaenys nodded. “They already have. I heard a fishmonger whisper that Viserys was poisoned by his daughters.” 

“That would be impressive,” Daemon muttered, “given that he had no daughters but one in reach, and that child is lost in clouds.” Rhaenyra shot him a disapproving look at what could be interpreted as a mild insult towards Helaena. He shrugged at her in response and she sighed, turning back to the rest of the Council. 

Isembard sighed. “They’re twisting shadows into stories. A vacuum will do that.” 

“And what would truth do?” Meredyth asked calmly. “Tear the rest of the illusion apart?” 

“Good,” Rhaenyra said. “Let it.” 

A pause. 

Then Ser Harrold cleared his throat. 

“We’ve gathered extensive written records and verbal testimonies from the tower stewards. Rotated assignments. Unusual guard and servant replacements, with strange and vague explanations. Door schedules changed to isolate the Queen and her children.” 

He opened a scroll, spreading it across the table. 

“The testimonies of Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Arryk Cargyll corroborate abuse — physical and emotional — committed by Ser Marston Waters, Ser Gyles Belgrave, Tyland Lannister, Unwin Peake and Jasper Wylde.” 

“We have direct confession from one maid who was ordered to clean blood from Daeron’s chamber,” Rhaenys added. “She is very eager to speak. It has been weighing on her soul for years.” 

“Letters from dismissed septas as well,” Isembard said. “Dismissed for showing ‘excessive kindness’ or ‘interference.'” 

“But the heart of it,” Rhaenyra stated, eyes hardening, “is Alicent. And her children.” 

Silence. 

“Their testimony will be the clearest truth,” Rhaenys agreed, “and the most dangerous.” 

“They are children,” Rickon pointed out quietly. “They should not be made a spectacle.” 

“And yet,” Meredyth replied, gently but firmly, “a silent trial will be seen as fabrication. A coverup. The nobles already grumble. The smallfolk are wary.” 

Daemon put down his dagger. 

“If we hide the pain,” he said, “they will say there was nothing to hide. If we show it, they’ll learn to fear the crown’s silence more than its scream.” 

Desmond finally spoke. 

“I’ve sat through trials before. Closed doors keep power among liars. Open trials spill blood — but they also clean the blade.” 

Rhaenyra looked at each of them. 

Then she said, “Public.” 

“Your Grace—” Ser Harrold began. 

“They are brave,” she insisted. “Alicent and her children. And they deserve to be believed. Not just by us — but by the realm.” 

She stood. 

“Prepare the first hearings.” 

The small terrace overlooking the library garden was dappled in soft morning light. Pale roses climbed the trellises, their scent clinging to the air like memory. 

Helaena sat at the marble bench beside the fountain, her embroidery hoop balanced in her lap, the needle still. 

Across from her, Jace leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, watching her hands rather than her face. He liked Helaena. She was so soft and quiet, it brought him a feeling of peace he had rarely felt after moving to King's Landing and taking up the position of Heir to the Iron Throne. 

“You haven’t moved that needle in twenty minutes,” he commented softly. 

Helaena blinked at the cloth. “I lost the thread.” 

“You’re holding it,” Jace pointed out. 

She didn’t smile. Not quite. But her eyes flicked to his. 

“I meant… the shape of the thing,” she explained. “It unravelled. I had to let it.” 

He nodded slowly, not pretending to understand, but not dismissing her either. Helaena spoke in riddles a lot, but since returning from Dragonstone she made more sense. And when he didn't understand her immediately, he accepted it and did his best to figure out what she meant. 

“What is it going to be?” he asked. 

She looked down at the embroidered outline — a dragon, curled tightly around a flower. She truly was an amazing embroider. The best he knew. 

“Dreamfyre,” she said clearly. “And the bloom is me.” 

“That’s… poetic,” he remarked. 

“It’s true. ” Her tone sharpened slightly, more certain than he was used to hearing from her. “She sees me even when the world doesn’t. She knows I’m not broken.” 

He was silent for a moment, then asked carefully, “Do you still hear the — thorns? The ones you used to speak of?”  

Helaena tilted her head. “Not thorns. Not anymore. Just roots. Winding around me, but… they don’t choke. They hold.” 

Jace studied her. 

“You’re easier to understand now,” he stated. “Did the dragon change that?” 

She paused. 

“I changed,” she answered at last. “But Dreamfyre helped me want to.” 

She picked up the needle again and began stitching. Slow, steady. 

Then, after a moment, she asked, “Do you dream of your dragon?” 

“Vermax?” he said. “Not often. Why?” 

She didn’t look up. 

“He dreams of you.” 

The fire in Rhaenyra’s solar had burned low, but neither she nor Rickon made any move to add fuel to it. They sat close on the cushioned bench near the tall windows, their cloaks wrapped around their shoulders. The city beyond the glass was quiet beneath the moon.  

Rhaenyra hadn’t spoken in some time. 

Rickon, seated beside her, waited patiently, knowing his wife occasionally needed time to gather herself before she could speak her feelings, even to him. She'd spent most of her childhood hiding her emotions from the court, from her mother who had so many burdens to bear already, and from Viserys, who considered her a disappointment on account of her gender, and now, especially with her need to remain composed and strong for her family and the realm, it always took her a while to lower her walls and reveal her emotions. 

“They will hate me for it,” she said finally, breaking the silence that had permeated the chamber. 

Rickon’s voice was quiet. “Who?” 

“The realm. The Lords. Even the children. When they stand in front of that crowd and speak those truths… they will be stared at, judged. Not for what was done to them, but for daring to speak it.” 

She looked down at her hands — strong, but still trembling. 

“They already carry enough shame.” 

“They don’t carry their own shame, Rhaenyra,” Rickon replied. “They carry his. ” 

She swallowed hard. 

“I just—” she faltered, and he reached for her hand. “I remember what it felt like, when Father looked at me and saw a disappointment. A burden. I was a child. But I still feel it in my chest sometimes.” 

Rickon nodded. “And yet now you are strong enough to manage standing in a room full of Lords who doubt you — and you dare to name the rot in your father’s court out loud.” 

Her eyes glinted with grim determination. “Because if I don't, who will?” 

“That’s what terrifies them.” 

She gave a bitter smile. “Do you think the trials will change anything?” 

Rickon considered. 

“For some, no," he decided at last. "They’ll sneer, spin their lies, and drink their resentment like wine. But for the ones still watching — still listening — it will mean everything. For some child in some cold keep who thinks their pain is invisible… it will matter.” 

She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. 

He shifted to pull her in fully, his hand settling at her back. 

“We will protect them,” she whispered. 

“We are protecting them already,” he promised. “Even when it hurts.” 

A silence stretched between them, soft but certain. 

Then Rhaenyra murmured, “Do you think our children will hate us for making them live in fire?” 

Rickon pressed a kiss to her hair. 

“They were born for it,” he told her. “But we’ll teach them not to burn each other.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine  

The First Flames  

The morning air inside Maegor’s Holdfast was cool, but Alicent’s skin burned as though under a summer sun.  

Her fingers fumbled at the fastenings of her bodice. She had already undone it twice and redone it poorly. The neckline sat wrong. Too high. Too tight. Like a noose made of velvet.  

Her reflection in the mirror stared back with pale, tight-lipped stillness.  

“You’re trembling again,” Helaena murmured behind her.  

Alicent turned. Her daughter sat on the cushioned bench by the window, small fingers plucking idly at the hem of her gown. She’d braided her own hair. The strands were crooked, but she had done it herself.  

“I’m fine,” Alicent said. Her voice cracked on the second word.  

“You’re not,” Helaena replied softly. “But you’re trying.”  

--  

In the outer chamber, Aemond stood before the long mirror, arms folded behind his back. He wore black and red — clothes that emphasised his position as a prince of the realm — but his eye held none of it. Only that coiled, bracing tension. The kind that lived in his spine when waiting for pain.  

He didn’t flinch when Alicent entered, but he did ask, “How long will we be watched?”  

“As long as we live,” she answered tiredly.  

Aemond nodded slowly. “Then I won’t blink.”  

--  

Daeron sat by the hearth, legs curled under him, a carved talisman clutched in both hands. It had been a gift from Lucerys — shaped like a dragon’s eye. He stared into it as though it might blink back.  

“What if I forget what they did?” he murmured. His voice was so soft, Alicent almost didn’t hear him.  

“You won’t,” she sighed, kneeling beside him. “Even if your voice breaks, your body remembers.”  

Daeron leaned into her shoulder. “I don’t want to go.”  

“I know.”  

--  

Aegon entered last. He had refused the cloak the page brought him — thrown it over the chair and kicked it aside. His tunic was half-fastened, and his hair, uncombed, hung like shadow around his face.  

“Why do we have to be seen?” he muttered.  

Alicent looked up at him.  

“Isn’t it enough to survive?”  

There was no answer she could give him.  

So she stood, crossed the room, and placed her hands on either side of his face.  

“You don’t have to speak today,” she promised. “You don’t have to say a word.”  

She made no mention of the next day, when their own testimony would begin.  

“Then why do we have to go?”  

She looked at each of them — Aemond, Helaena, Daeron — and finally back at Aegon.  

“Because the world thinks he was a good man,” she whispered. “And I don’t want you to grow up thinking silence means they were right.”  

Aegon didn’t respond.  

But when she reached for the discarded cloak, he took it from her hand and draped it over his shoulders himself.  

--  

Their steps through the Red Keep’s lower halls echoed — quiet, slow, and unbearably loud.  

Not one of them spoke again until they reached the great doors of the hall.  

They did not hold hands.  

But they walked close enough that they could have.  

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had never felt colder, though the summer sun blazed outside.  

Its high stained-glass windows had been shuttered, casting the chamber in dim, red-gold gloom. The Iron Throne loomed above all, but today, Queen Rhaenyra sat at the long stone table placed before it — flanked by her council, her husband, and the weight of truth.  

The air hummed with breath held too long.  

Nobles lined the seats to the left and right of the hall: Lords Velaryon, Tully, Royce, Westerling, and more. Knights. Septas. Highborn ladies who once fawned over Alicent, then abandoned her when she lost her husband's favour, and now whispering behind lace fans. Smallfolk filled the galleries, men, women and children, all come to witness the Queen's justice.  

Above them all, in a high balcony of carved stone, sat Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower and her children.  

Aegon, cloaked but tense, his jaw clenched. Helaena, hands folded, eyes distant but alert. Aemond, expression unreadable. Daeron, the smallest, pressed to Alicent’s side.  

The Queen's and Prince Daemon's children sat with them, even little Prince Joffrey and Princess Sara. They sat on their elder brother's laps, watching with wide, solemn eyes filled with an understanding they were too young to have.  

Down on the floor below them, six men were led forward in chains.  

Ser Gyles Belgrave, once Hand of the King, looked unchanged by imprisonment. His silver-streaked hair had been combed, his back was straight, and his expression was carved from ice.  

Beside him, Ser Marston Waters, former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, walked stiffly, his right eye swollen, lips pressed tight in habitual contempt.  

Ser Tyland Lannister and Lord Jasper Wylde followed — their noble blood marred only by rumpled cuffs and poorly hidden sneers. Their expressions spoke of inconvenience, not fear.  

Former Grand Maester Mellos was thinner than when Rhaenyra had last seen him, skin loose and liver-spotted, but he still wore the chain of his old office.  

And last — Lord Unwin Peake, the former Master of Coin, whose mouth curved upward in a polite mockery of a smile.  

He bowed when he saw Rhaenyra.  

No one bowed back.  

The hall fell silent.  

Rhaenyra rose.  

“Let the record show that on this day,” she began, voice steady but sharp, “the realm bears witness to the opening of the trials of those accused of abusing royals and their authority — of using fear, pain, and humiliation to torment and silence the Queen Dowager and her children.”  

She glanced at Alicent — just for a breath.  

Then turned to face the six men before her.  

“You will each be heard,” she continued. “You will each be confronted with evidence, and with testimony. You will not interrupt. You will not posture.”  

She paused.  

“You will answer.”  

Behind her, Rhaenys leaned forward. Daemon lounged, expression unreadable but eyes sharp. Rickon stood at her side, arms folded, silent and immovable. Lady Meredyth Tyrell and Lord Desmond Manderley both had scrolls spread before them.  

Rhaenyra sat.  

“We will begin with Ser Marston Waters and Ser Tyland Lannister,” she ordered.  

A guard stepped forward.  

The chains rattled.  

And the hall waited for pain to speak its name.  

“Call the first witness,” Rhaenyra instructed the attendants.  

A steward escorted an older man forward — thin, balding, with the posture of someone used to going unseen. He kept his eyes down as he stepped onto the dais.  

“Name and station?” asked Rhaenys.  

“I’m Edmure Waters,” the man replied, voice low. “Was steward to the King’s Tower. Served Maester Mellos, Ser Tyland, and Ser Gyles.”  

“And your testimony?”  

He swallowed. “I saw Prince Aegon punished. Many times. But once in particular… I remember because it wasn’t done in private. It was meant to shame him.”  

--  

Aegon, seated above in the gallery, went still.  

The memory rose before he could stop it.  

--  

He was six. Still small enough to think someone would protect him.  

Tyland had asked him a series of coin-counting questions at the council table. Aegon had fumbled them. He couldn’t keep the numbers straight — he’d been hungry, his hands shaking from missing breakfast. They always skipped breakfast on days when Tyland summoned them.  

“You’ll never be fit to govern a purse string, let alone a kingdom,” Tyland had snapped.  

Then Ser Gyles — calm, always so calm — had made Aegon kneel on a metal tray filled with copper groats.  

They bit into his knees. The metal edges tore through his hose.  

Tyland stood before him with a thin switch, tapping it lightly against his palm.  

“Again,” he’d demanded. “Count ten dragons for every mistake you’ve made.”  

Aegon had tried. The numbers blurred. His voice shook.  

Tyland struck — lightly, at first, across the back of his hands.  

Then harder.  

The steward had been in the room.  

But no one had stopped them.  

The only sound was the soft rhythm of switch against flesh and Aegon’s counted breaths, barely louder than whispers.  

--  

In the present, Aegon gripped the railing in front of him, hard enough to whiten his knuckles.  

His knees ached as if they were still pressed against the coins.  

He didn’t blink.  

--  

“Did you ever hear either man express remorse?” Rhaenyra asked the steward.  

“No, Your Grace,” Edmure denied. “They believed it necessary. They said the Prince needed to be toughened .”  

Daemon leaned forward. “And did you see this same tactic used on Princess Helaena or Prince Aemond?”  

The steward nodded.  

“Yes. They were made to stand in silence while Prince Aegon was punished. Or… sometimes, they were made to join.”  

--  

In the gallery, Aemond’s fists curled in his lap.  

Helaena closed her eyes.  

Alicent reached for Daeron’s hand and found it cold.  

--  

Below, Ser Gyles said nothing. His face did not change. Ser Tyland’s lip curled in faint disdain.  

“They were disobedient,” he muttered. “That is not abuse. That is discipline.”  

The words echoed in the chamber like an old wound torn open.  

Rhaenyra’s voice was calm — but her eyes burned with silent rage. “You will not speak unless called to.”  

Tyland said nothing more.  

But his smile, faint and cruel, remained.  

The air in the royal gallery was thin and hot, despite the stone that surrounded them. Every torch below seemed to throw its heat upward, toward where Alicent sat with her children like a court of ghosts — present, silent, and strained under the weight of memory.  

No one spoke.  

But the silence was deafening.  

--  

Aegon sat motionless, his cloak gathered in one hand, his jaw tight. His knees still ached from the memory — an ache too sharp to be imagined. He blinked rapidly, then stopped, as if afraid the movement would be read as weakness.  

Across from him, Cregan Stark watched quietly, not speaking. He didn’t reach out.  

But he didn’t look away.  

--  

Helaena sat beside her mother, posture perfect, hands folded as always.  

But her fingers moved.  

Not fidgeting. Not idle.  

Counting.  

She whispered under her breath, not to herself, but to some invisible pattern she could feel more than see. Her lips formed words:  

“Copper blood. Bent knees. Coins under skin. Two-three-four. Hurt to remember.”  

She turned slightly to Lucerys, who sat beside her, wide-eyed.  

“I counted for him once,” she explained, simply. “When he forgot.”  

Lucerys nodded. Slowly.  

He didn’t understand all of it.  

But he knew what it meant to carry a brother’s pain.  

--  

Aemond sat rigid, arms crossed, eye fixed straight ahead. He refused to glance down at Ser Gyles or the others. He refused to blink.  

“He’ll see if I do,” he muttered, just loud enough for Jacaerys beside him to hear.  

Jace leaned closer, voice low.  

“He sees nothing from a cage. But you see everything now.”  

Aemond didn’t answer.  

But his arms loosened. Just a little.  

--  

Daeron sat closest to Alicent, so small still, dwarfed by the weight of what was being said. His hand was clinging tightly to hers.  

“Will they tell about the others?” he asked. “The Septa? The Maester? The—”  

“Yes,” she confirmed softly, her voice barely a breath. “They will.”  

His eyes welled with tears — but he didn’t let them fall.  

He leaned his head into her shoulder, and she pulled him close.  

“I don’t remember the questions,” he whispered. “Just the... the standing.”  

“That’s enough,” she assured him softly. “Remembering is not a duty.”  

But it felt like one.  

For all of them.  

--  

Rhaenyra looked up from the floor of the hall — just once — and met Alicent’s eyes.  

There was no command in her gaze.  

No demand.  

Only an invitation.  

And in that moment, for the first time since the door to the past had been pried open, Alicent did not look away.  

“We will now be given testimony regarding the actions of Ser Marston Waters,” Rhaenyra said, her voice akin to a tempered blade.  

At her signal, Ser Steffon Darklyn stepped forward, white cloak trailing behind him, his jaw taut. He looked strained and aged from what he had witnessed - what he had allowed to occur — with lines around his mouth and silver threading his beard, but his posture remained proud.  

“Your Grace,” he began, bowing to Rhaenyra. “I served in the Kingsguard under Ser Marston. I served the late King — and his household.”  

He turned, not to the court, but toward the gallery above, where Alicent and her children sat.  

“I saw what was done,” he stated, voice shaking with suppressed rage and shame. “And I say now what I was too afraid to say then.”  

A hush fell.  

Even the nobles — those who had come to gawk — leaned in.  

“When Prince Aemond was six,” Steffon began, “he trained under the guidance of the Kingsguard. On one occasion, I was posted on the wall above the yard. I saw the boy fall — face down in the mud. It had rained all night. He slipped.”  

Steffon’s voice grew quieter. Firmer.  

“He was slow to rise. His sword had fallen. Instead of aid or instruction, Ser Marston struck him. With the flat of a blade. Across the chest.”  

--  

In the gallery, Aemond’s breath caught.  

The training yard had been muddy that morning — wet from early rain, the earth clinging to boots and slipping underfoot.  

Aemond had struggled with the weight of the practice sword. His wrist ached. His feet were too slow.  

When he fell — face-first, splattering mud across his tunic — he thought that would be the end of it.  

But Ser Marston had only barked, “Up.”  

Aemond had tried.  

But his hand slipped on the hilt.  

The sword dropped.  

“Again.”  

He picked it up.  

It slipped again.  

“Again.”  

When he fell a second time, Ser Marston grabbed him by the collar, dragged him to his feet, and threw the sword at his chest.  

It hit hard enough to bruise.  

“Stand until the King calls for you,” Marston had growled. “And don’t you dare cry.”  

He had stood for hours.  

In the rain.  

With blood trickling down his wrists where the blade had scraped him.  

--  

In the present, Aemond sat perfectly still.  

But his eye was wet.  

--  

Ser Steffon continued, voice clipped. “No other knight intervened. Because they knew they would make it worse for the boy if they did so. Because Marston said the boy was soft. That pain would make him a man.”  

A low murmur spread through the gallery. One noblewoman gasped.  

Rhaenyra raised her hand. Silence returned.  

“Ser Marston,” she said, the calm tone she used belaying the rage and disgust she felt. “Do you deny this?”  

Marston raised his chin, his voice proud. “I served the King. His sons were his to raise.”  

“They were beaten.”  

“They were given strength,” he snapped.  

Daemon stood.  

“Say that again,” he ordered softly, voice dangerous.  

Marston hesitated.   

“Say it again," Daemon repeated in a dark tone. "I want the court to hear exactly what you believe your purpose was.”  

Marston faltered, then looked away.  

Daemon smiled.  

Not kindly.  

There were too many teeth for that.  

--  

Up in the gallery, Jacaerys leaned toward Aemond, voice low.  

“You don’t have to hide it,” he said.  

“I’m not.”  

Jace looked at him. “You’re shaking.”  

Aemond glanced down at his hands.  

They were.  

He didn’t deny it.  

--  

Below, Rhaenyra leaned into her council. “He will be sentenced. But not yet. I want the people to hear it from the children themselves.”  

Rhaenys nodded. “Then we let the truth finish the killing.”  

The second day focused on Lord Peake and Mellos.  

The trial resumed with barely enough time to breathe between charges. The accused stood again in chains, though Unwin Peake, ever composed, looked as if he were dressed for a court pageant and not justice. He bowed mockingly toward the dais.  

“I served the realm with loyalty and order,” he declared smoothly. “That the Queen Dowager mistook discipline for cruelty is… regrettable.”  

Rhaenyra did not respond.  

She merely nodded to the next witness.  

A pale maid, no older than twenty, stepped forward, voice trembling.  

“I was posted to the Dowager Queen’s solar for six moons,” she stated. “I saw Lord Peake order her children — Princess Helaena, Prince Aegon — to deliver messages, refill inkpots, clean ledger tables...”  

“She had servants,” Meredyth commented. “Why them?”  

The maid faltered. “He said… ‘If they’re to be monarchs, let them learn to bow.’”  

In the gallery, Helaena flinched.  

She remembered the feel of cold quills and spilled ink, how Unwin would scowl when she spilled wine trying to pour with shaking hands.  

Alicent’s knuckles whitened in her lap as the maid continued, wringing her hands.  

She whispered, “He made them recite the family trees of Lords he favoured, and punished them with isolation if they misremembered.”  

“Did he ever strike them?” Rhaenyra asked.  

“No,” the maid denied. “Not that I saw. But once… when Prince Daeron tripped while carrying a tray… he made him stand in the hallway, arms raised, for an hour. Said, ‘Even servants learn posture.’”  

In the gallery, Daeron’s breath hitched.  

He hadn’t meant to drop the tray.  

He just wanted to be good.  

--  

Lord Peake smiled through it all.  

“I taught them humility,” he stated.  

“No,” Daemon corrected him flatly. “You taught them fear.”  

When it came time for Mellos, the room was quiet — not with fear, but with unease. The old man shuffled to his feet with effort, still draped in the Maester’s chain he no longer had the right to wear.  

He did not speak.  

He only watched Alicent.  

And for once, she did not look away.  

--  

Rhaenyra addressed the court. “Grand Maester Mellos served the crown for decades. During that time, he was the chief authority over the physical and mental health of the royal family — including the Queen Dowager and her children. We will now learn what he did with such authority.”  

She nodded.  

A scribe came forward to read from old ledger pages — carefully copied journal entries from a dismissed midwife and a Septa, both dismissed and gone to live in the Riverlands and Vale respectively, but who had sent written testimony regarding what they had witnessed.  

“The Queen’s children were regularly dosed with calming draughts, regardless of ailment. Prince Aegon cried of stomach pain. Princess Helaena suffered migraines. The maester insisted it was ‘nerves.’”  

“The Queen was given valerian, milk of the poppy, and nightshade-infused tonics without explanation. When I questioned it, I was dismissed.”  

--  

Alicent’s mouth tasted dry.  

She remembered the bitter cup.  

The one that dulled her thoughts just enough to stop her from speaking out.  

It confused her enough to stay quiet.  

Next to her in the gallery, Aegon looked down.  

“I hated the syrup,” he muttered. “Made my head float.”  

Aemond didn’t speak.  

But he remembered.  

One night, he’d woken up to find Daeron sleepwalking barefoot into a fireplace.  

Mellos had said it was a dream.  

--  

Daemon stood, fists clenched.  

“That wasn’t medicine,” he growled. “It was silence, bottled and forced down their throats.”  

Mellos finally spoke, voice brittle. “I followed the King’s orders.”  

“And never questioned them?” Rhaenys asked coldly.  

“There are things a child should not carry.”  

Rhaenyra looked at him long and hard.  

“No child should carry what you gave them.”  

The torches guttered in the Small Council chamber, their light glinting off silver ink pots and cooling tea. Outside, bells rang faintly in the city — marking the hour. Inside, no one moved.  

Rhaenyra stood at the end of the long table, both hands braced on the wood.  

“Alicent and the children give their testimony tomorrow,” she announced.  

It was not a triumph.  

It was a burden.  

The others listened.  

Rhaenys, chin lifted, her eyes unreadable. Daemon, sharp-edged even in stillness. Meredyth Tyrell, quill in hand but unmoving. Desmond Manderley, nodding slowly. Isembard Arryn, exhaling a breath as if he’d been holding it for days.  

Rickon stood just behind his wife, silent.  

“They’ll speak,” she repeated, softer this time. “Each of them. In their own words.”  

“And what do we offer in return?” Meredyth asked.  

“They didn’t ask for anything,” Rhaenyra replied.  

“That’s not what I meant.” Meredyth set her quill down. “The realm will not kneel out of pity. It must be shown what was hidden. Carefully. Powerfully. We need to decide how to frame their testimony.”  

Daemon leaned forward. “No framing. No spin. Let them speak, and let the guilty burn.”  

Desmond raised a hand. “Not all the guilty wear chains. If the nobility feel exposed, they’ll close ranks. Against us. Against the children.”  

“Then let them try,” Rhaenys said quietly. “If they do, they’ll be naming themselves.”  

Rhaenyra sank into her chair.  

“They’re brave,” she sighed. “And terrified. But they chose this. Alicent asked only one thing of me.”  

“What?” Rickon asked.  

“That when the time comes… I do not step in to soften it.”  

She looked up. Her eyes gleamed in the firelight.  

“She said, ‘Let the realm hear us break. So they’ll stop pretending they didn’t see us bleeding.’”  

A hush settled.  

Then Meredyth murmured, “We’ll need to prepare the court. Alert the Lords. Control the pacing. I’ll draft the structure of questions tonight and ensure nobody accesses them prior to the testimonials.”  

Desmond added, “And I’ll triple the guards in the gallery. Not one whisper out of turn. No sneers. No interruptions.”  

Daemon stood.  

“I’ll make sure the witnesses still in the cells don’t forget what they’ve done.”  

Rhaenyra nodded, then looked at Rickon.  

“They’re your children too.”  

He met her gaze, voice firm.  

“And I’ll be there, every step. They will not face this alone.”  

"No," she agreed. "They won't."  

The hour was late.  

The torches outside Alicent’s chamber had long since burned low. Even the guards posted at her door stood in still silence, respectful of what lay within.  

Inside, the Queen Dowager sat on the floor beside her bed, still dressed in the gown she’d worn to the trial.  

She had not removed her shoes.  

She had not undone her hair, and dismissed her maid when the girl offered to help her prepare for bed. She had no strength to deal with other people that evening.  

Her hands rested in her lap, her nails bloody from her picking violently at the nailbeds without noticing. Her eyes were dry.  

But only because the tears had already fallen.  

And dried.  

And returned.  

She had not spoken since returning from the council.  

Rhaenyra had been gentle when breaking the news.  

Her children would speak tomorrow. She would too, but it was her babes she was concerned about.  

They had chosen it, each of them — some with courage, some with quiet resolve, some with only a trembling nod.  

She had watched the fire light in their eyes.  

And now she sat in the dark.  

On the table near her untouched supper tray lay a folded scrap of ink-blotch-stained parchment.  

Aegon’s handwriting.  

Not neat, not careful. A single line scrawled in messy black ink:  

We’ll say it. Even if we choke.  

She hadn’t replied.  

She couldn’t.  

Her head dropped forward, forehead resting lightly against her knees. Her breath came shallow and slow.  

For a moment, she let herself remember: The sound of Viserys’s footsteps in the hall. The creak of Marston’s gloves as he adjusted his belt. The cold weight of Gyles’s stare, measuring her sons like livestock. The sting of Mellos’s tea, bitter and binding, and the words: “Your peace is more important than your pride.”  

She pressed her knuckles to her lips.  

“I tried,” she whispered.  

No one answered.  

“I tried to keep them quiet. I tried to keep them safe. I tried to be good.”  

Her voice broke.  

“I tried to make us survive it all.”  

The silence that followed was thick. Full. Crushing.  

She didn’t cry again.  

But she did something worse.  

She let the silence be real.  

And in that silence, she let the shame settle like ash on her tongue.  

Not because she deserved it.  

But because it had been hers for so long she didn't know not to be.  

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten  

The Voices They Tried to Silence  

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had never been so silent.  

Not even during Rhaenyra’s coronation had the nobles sat this still, their proud necks craned just enough to see the platform built beneath the Iron Throne. A long wooden bench had been placed before it — simple, stripped of ornament, as if to remind them that what was about to unfold was not ceremony, but confession.  

The stained-glass windows bled morning light through the cracks of the shutters onto the stone floor, casting long rays of red and gold.  

The air was warm with breath; too many bodies packed into one chamber. But no one shifted. No one whispered. Even the smallfolk packed into the upper gallery remained eerily quiet.  

They weren’t here for a trial.  

They were here for a reckoning.  

--  

Lord Jason Lannister stood near the edge of the noble seats, arms crossed, jaw locked. His brother’s crimes were a stain he refused to acknowledge, but his presence at the trial meant he could no longer look away.  

Borros Baratheon leaned back in his chair, restless and scowling. Every so often, he muttered to one of his knights — but the words fell flat in the hush.  

At the front, in between Lady Meredyth Tyrell, Lord Desmond Manderley, and Lord Isembard Arryn, Queen Rhaenyra sat with her head held high, her eyes fixed on the entrance to the chamber.  

Behind her stood Daemon, pale and sharp as moonlight on steel, and Rhaenys, arms folded, unmoving, her expression carved from stone.  

A hush swept the room when the side doors opened.  

From a shadowed corridor, Alicent Hightower entered first, draped in black and silver. Her shoulders were straight, but her hands were trembling faintly at her sides.  

Her children followed her in a line. Aegon, face pale, chin high, his cloak draped around him like armour. Helaena, silent, her eyes cast down but aware. Aemond, deliberate in his steps, the tap of his boots rhythmic on stone. Daeron, smallest but no longer timid, walking with quiet determination.  

They took their seats at a long bench on the left side of the hall, guarded by Rickon Stark and two of Rhaenyra’s Queensguard, the Cargyll twins.  

No one spoke to them.  

But all eyes followed.  

--  

Rhaenyra stood.  

“My Lords and Ladies,” she said, her voice ringing through the vaulted chamber, “the realm has heard the crimes. Now it shall hear the pain.”  

She gestured to the bench.  

“Today, those who suffered will speak. Not because they must. But because they choose to.”  

She looked at Alicent.  

And there, in front of the realm, Alicent nodded.  

The silence in the Great Hall was thick as smoke.  

Alicent rose from her seat slowly, her gown of black and silver dragging softly over the stone as she walked with slow, deliberate steps to the centre of the Great Hall, pausing before the raised dais. She did not tremble this time. Not visibly.  

Rhaenyra gave her a small nod. Then turned to the court.  

“Queen Dowager Alicent of House Hightower has come to testify. She has sworn her words before the Seven. She will now answer the Council’s questions.”  

Lady Meredyth Tyrell spoke first, calm and measured.  

“Your Grace, when did the mistreatment of your children first begin?”  

Alicent looked forward, not at the accused.  

“It began not long after Queen - then Princess - Rhaenyra wed and left to govern Dragonstone and the North. Aegon was two, turning three, and Helaena was one. The King no longer permitted me to oversee their household, instead giving authority over them to Ser Gyles. I was told it was a matter of preparing heirs properly. That given my birth status and female nature, I was unfit to oversee their education.”  

Lord Manderley leaned in.  

“Were you ever consulted before punishments were carried out?”  

“No. I was informed after. Or not at all.”  

“And who carried out these punishments?”  

“Ser Gyles Belgrave approved them," Alicent answered dully. "Ser Marston Waters enforced them. Ser Tyland Lannister directed it. Lord Jasper Wylde and Lord Unwin Peake often observed. Grand Maester Mellos soothed the aftermath.”  

Meredyth continued.  

“Did you ever protest?”  

Alicent nodded slowly. Her hands began to shake.  

“Yes. Once. When Aegon was being punished for spilling ink. He was only seven namedays. A babe in truth.”  

She swallowed hard. Her voice wavered, but she didn’t falter. She forced herself to continue.  

For her children to have the justice they deserve.  

“I begged them to stop.”  

--  

Aegon, age seven, stood barefoot on cold stone. His knees were dark with bruises, his fingers red and raw.  

He was crying silently.  

He had spilled ink on a lesson scroll.  

Ser Tyland stood behind him, instructing him to recite the lineage of the Great Houses, starting with the Targaryens, from their founders. Aegon hesitated.  

Crack.  

The birch rod slammed harshly across his knuckles.  

He flinched but stayed silent, knowing he would only earn more ire if he cried out.  

“Again,” Tyland ordered.  

Crack.  

A second blow across the back of his legs.  

Blood started to bead beneath his hose.  

Gyles Belgrave watched silently, eyes cold, from the corner.  

When Alicent rushed in, her slippers slipping on the cold stone floors, she grabbed Aegon’s shoulders and shielded him with her body.  

“Stop this!” she yelled. Pleaded. “He’s a child!”  

Gyles' voice stayed cold. Indifferent.  

“He is a prince,” he replied. “You dishonour him by shielding him from pain.”  

When she failed to move, he stepped forward and pulled her away by the wrist. 

Her son fell to the ground behind her.  

“You are too close to them," Gyles sneered. "That weakness will ruin them.”  

--  

The hall was frozen.  

Meredyth’s voice returned, carefully controlled.  

“Did anyone defend you, Your Grace?”  

“No.”  

Isembard questioned her next:  

“Did Grand Maester Mellos treat your children afterward?”  

“No. He treated me. ” Her voice was bitter. “He called it compassion. He gave me tea to make me sleep. Said I needed calm.”  

“Did you request this?”  

“Never. I only remember being given the cup. The days after are… blurred.”  

“Were you ever told you lacked authority over your children?” Desmond inquired.  

“Yes. Ser Gyles said their lives were a matter of the Crown and male legacy. He said I had no place in it.”  

“Why did you stay silent?” Rhaenyra asked, the last to speak.  

Alicent turned to her at last. Her voice was quiet, but unshaking.  

“Because I thought if I bore the bruises, they wouldn’t have to. Because I was afraid.”  

“And why speak now?”  

“Because they will not control us anymore.”  

She looked toward her children — Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron — each still watching, each still with her.  

“Because I remember everything. And silence never protected us.”  

She bowed her head. Not in submission — but in solemnity.  

And walked back to her seat.  

Rhaenyra called for Aegon and the eldest prince rose quietly from the bench beside his siblings.  

He didn’t glance at his mother, or at Rhaenyra, or the accused. He walked forward with the air of someone who had done this before — stood where everyone could see him, and waited for pain.  

But this time, it was his voice they wanted.  

Not his silence.  

Lady Tyrell began the questioning.  

“Prince Aegon. Do you recall ever being subjected to physical punishment by members of the former Small Council?”  

“Yes.”  

“Do you remember who ordered it?”  

“Ser Gyles Belgrave and Ser Tyland Lannister most often. Ser Marston enforced it. The others — Peake, Wylde, Mellos — stood by.”  

Desmond Manderley leaned forward.  

“Why do you believe you were treated this way?”  

Aegon looked at him directly. “Because I might have been a problem.”  

He gave a short, bitter smile.  

“They said I was dangerous if left ‘undirected.’ That a son of the King, even one without a crown, might grow proud. Or popular. Or disobedient.”  

He paused. “So they broke me before I had the chance.”  

Isembard asked gently, “Can you describe one of these punishments for the record?”  

Aegon grit his teeth, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise at the prospect of deliberately reliving the pain he had suffered.  

“Yes.”  

--  

When he was five, Aegon had been kept back from breakfast for spilling ink on one of Tyland Lannister’s financial ledgers. He hadn’t meant to — the quill had split, and he hadn’t known how to mend it.  

Tyland told him to kneel on a pile of copper coins. Aegon vividly remembered the way the metal clinked when poured.  

The stars dug into his knees like teeth.  

Tyland asked him to recite exchange rates between a varying amount of dragons and silver stags.  

He got the third one wrong.  

Ser Gyles hit him with a birch rod across the back of the legs. Not hard enough to draw blood — but hard enough to bruise.  

“Start over,” he ordered.  

He tried.  

He lost count. Another strike.  

By the time he reached the seventieth question, his knees were bleeding through his hose.  

At one hundred, his voice cracked and he vomited.  

They made him clean it with his bare hands.  

They said he’d be kneeling longer next time if he failed again.  

--  

Meredyth Tyrell spoke gently. “How often did this happen?”  

“Often enough I knew which coin edges hurt the most.”  

Rhaenyra stood now. Her voice was firm.  

“Did you believe what they told you — that pain would make you disciplined?”  

Aegon hesitated.  

Then answered: “I believed that if I didn’t endure it, they’d find a worse way to teach me.”  

He glanced toward his siblings — Helaena, Aemond, Daeron — then back at the court.  

“I wasn’t punished because I did anything dangerous.”  

“I was punished in case I ever did.”  

The hall was silent.  

Aegon stepped back from the witness circle.  

His posture was loose again, almost casual — except for the tension that still coiled beneath his skin.  

He returned to his seat without ceremony.  

And though he said nothing, Lucerys reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder.  

Aegon didn’t shrug it off.  

The hall had barely begun to breathe again when Helaena rose.  

She walked slowly to the centre of the chamber, her gown brushing softly behind her. Her eyes didn’t focus on the accused. They flitted along the floor, the light, the lines between the stones — never quite settling.  

But her voice, though soft, did not falter when she answered the questions.  

Lady Meredyth addressed her gently. “Princess Helaena, were you subjected to physical harm or restraint during your childhood under the direction of any of the accused?” 

Helaena nodded once.  

“Yes.”  

Meredyth continued: “Which of the accused were involved?”  

“Mainly Lord Unwin Peake and Grand Maester Mellos.”  

“In what form did this discipline take?” Desmond Manderley asked.  

Helaena’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling, as if following a thought only she could see.  

“Peake gave me books to recite. And punished me when I remembered them wrong.”  

“How did he punish you?”  

“He used a wooden ruler. On my hands. Always my hands.”  

--  

She had been eight years old, her fingers ink-stained from copying House genealogies.  

Lord Peake had stood behind her at the desk. He spoke softly, always softly — like a teacher, not a tormentor.  

“Start again,” he said. “From Uthor of the High Tower.”  

She had begun: “Uthor, son of unknown, father to—”  

Crack.  

The ruler struck across her knuckles.  

“Too slow,” he said, not raising his voice.  

She blinked away tears. Continued.  

“—father to Urrigon and Peremore—”  

Crack.  

He struck again. This time, her fingers split. Blood welled beneath the nail of her middle finger.  

“Do not weep,” he murmured. “You are too noble to cry over ink.”  

She had held her breath until her vision blurred.  

That night, Mellos gave her a draught. He told her it would help her “stay peaceful.” She slept for twelve hours and woke unable to speak for three.  

--  

“Were these punishments frequent?” Isembard Arryn inquired. 

“When I hesitated. Or spoke strangely. Or laughed at the wrong time.”  

“What did Mellos tell you about the medicine he gave?”  

“That my dreams were too loud. And the tea would make them quieter.”  

A murmur passed through the gallery.  

Rhaenyra spoke from the throne.  

“What effect did this treatment have on you?”  

Helaena looked directly at her.  

“I stopped speaking. For a while.”  

She folded her hands.  

“I talked to the walls. They didn’t correct me.”  

“And now, Princess?” Lord Manderley pressed gently.  

Helaena looked toward the nobles, her voice soft but clear.  

“Now I speak. Because they tried to trim me like a hedge. And I am not meant to grow in straight lines.”  

A silence followed.  

Not cold.  

Not shocked.  

Reverent.  

She turned and returned to her seat, and this time, Jace gave her a small, respectful bow as she passed.  

She nodded back — once.  

And said no more.  

Aemond stood as though summoned by no one but himself.  

His eye swept across the court once — not nervously, not defiantly, but like a war hardened soldier taking the measure of a battlefield.  

He walked to the centre of the floor without hesitation. His boots echoed on the stone. When he stopped, he placed his hands behind his back, as if he were standing for inspection.  

Desmond Manderley began.  

“Prince Aemond, who among the accused were directly involved in your training and 'discipline'?” the word 'discipline sounded like it tasted sour in the typically jolly lord's mouth.  

Aemond answered evenly.  

“Ser Marston Waters oversaw my weapons training. Ser Gyles Belgrave and Lord Jasper Wylde frequently observed.”  

“Were you ever harmed during these sessions?”  

“Yes.”  

“Can you describe an instance of such harm?” Lady Meredyth Tyrell asked.  

Aemond gave a slight nod.  

“I was seven. I was ordered to spar with three older squires. I had no proper armour. I was not allowed to yield.”  

--  

The training yard was wet with morning mist, and the stone slick beneath his boots from the rain the night before. Seven namedays old Aemond was dressed in a thin tunic and breeches, with no cloak, and he shivered violently in the frigid air.  

Three older squires stood across from him — boys three, four namedays older. Ser Marston stood behind them, arms crossed, white cloak pristine despite the mud on the ground.  

“Begin,” he ordered coldly.  

Aemond raised the sword. It shook in his cold, small hands, too heavy for him to wield properly.  

He didn’t even have a chance to block the first blow. It landed hard against his shoulder.  

The second came from the side — he stumbled.  

He caught a third to the ribs, making them ache and costing him his breath.  

He heard laughter, then Marston’s voice:  

“On your feet. Broken blades are useless for anything other than being melted down.”  

Aemond’s lip was split, his hip wound and ribs aching, his shoulder feeling strange and agonisingly painful. His palms torn from gripping the blade too tightly.  

He tried again.  

And again.  

By the time he collapsed, his tunic was soaked with blood and sweat.  

He had not landed a single strike.  

Marston walked over, gave a casual kick in his already painful ribs, and said —  

“A true weapon is forged with fire. Be grateful for the heat.”  

--  

“Were you ever told why you were made to endure this?”  

Aemond looked directly at the nobles seated near the front.  

“They said I had to learn strength. That the Crown had no use for a broken blade. That if I couldn’t keep up, I would disgrace my house.”  

Rhaenyra spoke now. Her voice was quiet.  

“Do you believe they taught you strength?”  

Aemond didn’t hesitate.  

“No.”  

He turned to meet Marston's eyes, expression cold and unyielding.  

“They taught me to be silent while I bled.”  

“And they taught me that pain was a test. One I had to pass to be worthy of my name.”  

His hands remained behind his back. But the tension in his jaw said everything.  

“Did anyone in court ever intervene?” Desmond queried.  

“No.”  

Aemond’s voice was colder now.  

“They watched. Some even applauded.”  

He looked at the accused — at Gyles, Jasper, Marston.  

And then at his siblings and mother, watching from the gallery.  

“I do not want their apology.”  

“I want it known that I remember everything they did.”  

He stepped back, turning his back on his tormentors and returning to.  

And for the first time since the trial began, Cregan stood briefly — just enough to nod in silent acknowledgment as Aemond passed him. 

Aemond didn’t nod back.  

But he didn’t flinch.  

When it came time for the final testimony, the room seemed to hold its breath.  

Daeron sat small and still beside his mother, his hands clasped in his lap. His feet didn’t quite touch the floor. 

He didn’t rise.  

He couldn’t.  

Alicent leaned in to murmur to him, her voice barely audible. “You don’t have to speak if you can’t.”  

Daeron looked up at her, wide-eyed, and whispered: “I want to.”  

She nodded.  

And without hesitation, she offered him her hand.  

They walked together to the centre of the court — one tall, regal and composed, the other small, quiet, but determined.  

When they stopped, Alicent let go — but stayed close.  

Lady Tyrell spoke softly.  

“Prince Daeron. You are safe. You are not here to be judged, only to be heard.”  

Daeron nodded, but did not speak yet.  

Desmond Manderley tried next, gentle but firm.  

“Do you remember a time when you were punished unfairly?”  

Daeron glanced at his mother — she gave a slight nod.  

“Yes,” he whispered. “The pantry.”  

“Can you describe what happened?” Lady Tyrell pressed gently.  

--  

Daeron had been four.  

He’d had a nightmare — shadows in the firelight, strange whispers in the corridor. He’d gotten out of bed and was wandering the dark maze of hallways, searching for his mother’s chambers.  

Lord Peake had found him first.  

He had crouched down, not unkindly, and asked what he was doing.  

“I had a bad dream,” Daeron had said. “I want Mama.”  

Peake’s smile had not reached his eyes.  

“Princes do not run to mothers,” he had stated. “Princes learn discipline.”  

He had taken Daeron by the hand — firmly but without force — and led him to a dark pantry beneath the kitchens.  

Before Daeron could speak again, the door was shut.  

And locked.  

It was pitch black inside.  

There was the scent of grain and mould and dust.  

He had cried.  

He had screamed until his throat hurt.  

No one came.  

By the time a servant found him in the morning, he could barely speak. His fingernails were broken and the skin around them raw and red from scratching the door.  

--  

The hall was silent.  

Even the nobles who had sneered earlier now looked down, unmoving.  

“Did Lord Peake ever explain why he locked you away?” Lord Manderley questioned the child.  

Daeron shook his head. “I think he forgot.”  

“What did Grand Maester Mellos say?” Isembard asked next.  

Daeron’s voice was faint but steady. “That I was too emotional. That I needed rest. He gave me something to drink. I slept all day.”  

“How did this make you feel?” Meredyth inquired.  

“Scared.”  

He looked down at his feet.  

“Not because of the dark. Because I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.”  

Rhaenyra stood. “Do you understand now that none of this was your fault?”  

Daeron looked up at her. His lips parted, his expression unsure.  

Then he nodded, eyes full of doubt.  

“Yes.”  

Alicent stepped forward. Without a word, she crouched and opened her arms.  

Daeron climbed into them and held on tightly as his mother rose and began carrying him back to their seats.  

Not like a child clinging for safety—  

But like someone who had waited too long to be held without fear.  

The court did not speak.  

The silence was not tense.  

It was sacred .  

When Alicent and Daeron returned to their seats, the hall did not stir.  

Not a word.  

Not a breath.  

The air in the Great Hall felt thick with ash and memory, as if all who sat within it had walked through fire and now waited to see who would be burned by it.  

The five who had testified sat in a line, still and pale, like ghosts finally speaking their names.  

--  

From the galleries, smallfolk murmured softly — some weeping, some swearing under their breath. Mothers clutched children tighter. Old men crossed their arms, stone-faced but stricken.  

A tanner’s apprentice near the back whispered, “They were just children…”  

Someone near her replied, “They still are.”  

“No child should have to beg to be safe,” a cobbler’s wife said darkly.  

“No mother should be silenced for wanting to help them,” a stableboy answered.  

--  

The nobility, however, were less still. Many of them, particularly those who had young children, were blatantly appalled.  

Lord Redwyne sat with his head bowed, face pale. Lady Crakehall had a hand to her mouth, as though sickened. Lord Staunton muttered, “Seven hells,” and said no more, though he clutched his daughter protectively.  

But not all were sympathetic.  

--  

Jason Lannister stood slowly, the lion of Casterly Rock embroidered in gold across his chest.  

His voice carried, too calm to be respectful.  

“So this is the Queen's justice?” he asked, loud enough for the hall to hear. “Pain without proof? Tears without balance?”  

His words struck the crowd like cold water.  

Princess Rhaenys turned her head sharply.  

“Lord Lannister,” she said, warning in her tone.  

But he continued, too proud of his lineage to consider a woman above him. Even the Hand of the Queen. Even a princess.  

“Do we hold court by the rhythm of childhood memory? Are we to weigh the word of babes against the name of lords who served the Crown longer than these children have drawn breath? What evidence have we seen, other than the tears of a woman and her coddled brats, who consider discipline abuse.”  

A wave of discomfort rippled through the noble seats.  

Then, from the back, came a deeper voice — louder, more pointed:  

“Lord Lannister is correct. Enough of this ridiculous theatre.”  

Lord Borros Baratheon stood, arms crossed, cloak swaying like thunderclouds. He scowled at the dais.  

“Children cry. That is their nature. You do not rule the realm with crying and cloaks. You rule with steel. With spine.”  

He spat toward the floor.  

“I see no steel in weeping heirs.”  

The air thickened.  

Daemon’s chair scraped the floor as he rose, expression hard as forged iron.  

But it was Rhaenyra who moved first.  

She did not descend the steps with fury.  

She moved with purpose — slow, controlled, every step echoing like judgment itself.  

“You speak of spine,” she said to Borros, her voice cold as winter wind. “But you flinch before the truth like a man afraid of fire.”  

She turned to Jason.  

“And you speak of service. Yet you dare weigh your peers’ reputations above the pain of children who were beaten, humiliated, and drugged by the men you once toasted.”  

Jason’s lips curled in disdain. “I call it caution, and knowledge that my brother would only ever do what is right.”  

“And I call it cowardice,” she stated simply. "And a personality to similar to your brother's too see the disgrace he is."  

Lannister's cheeks darkened in fury, looking like he was going to strike the Queen. Ser Criston stepped between his liege and the lord, gripping his sword hilt. The other Queensguard also began to move, prepared to defend their monarch and restrain Jason. The Lord of the West began to respond, but it was not his voice that broke the silence.  

It was broken by the smallfolk.  

First a few.  

Then more.  

Then all of them.  

Clapping.  

Not wild, not frenzied.  

But sure. Certain. With hands that had known hard labour, and hearts that had known fear.  

The applause swelled like a tide rising behind Rhaenyra.  

Some of the Lords shifted uncomfortably. Others — like Lady Mallister and the Stauntons — joined it, standing with eyes wet but clear.  

Rhaenyra turned back to Alicent and her children.  

They looked as if they were carrying the weight of mountains, exhaustion radiating from their very cores.  

Rhaenyra ordered a break before she gave her closing address, allowing everyone to leave for two hours. In truth, it was primarily to give Alicent and her children a chance to regain their composure, and a maid led them out of the hall via the Queen's private passage. Most of the audience stayed behind, unwilling to risk losing their positions in the galleries, but several left, including the rest of the royal family.  

--  

Helaena stood still at the threshold of the solar, her arms folded tight across her stomach, her eyes distant.  

Her breathing came too fast.  

Jace approached quietly, a respectful distance away.  

“You did well,” he told her.  

She didn’t respond.  

Her fingers twitched.  

He stepped a little closer, voice gentle. “You don’t have to speak now. Just breathe with me.”  

She looked up, startled.  

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.  

He raised his hand — slowly — and took hers, placing her palm against his chest to allow her to feel him breathing in and out, calm and steady, until her breath had mostly steadied and followed his.  

After a long moment, she whispered, her voice shaking, “He made me forget the names.”  

Jace nodded. “But you remember now. And so does everyone else.”  

--  

On the terrace just beyond, Aemond leaned heavily against a carved pillar, one arm folded across his chest, the other gripping the stone.  

His eye was closed.  

He looked as worn out as an aged soldier — not just from the stress of the day, but of the weight of it all.  

Cregan stood beside him, quiet and firm.  

“I would’ve killed him,” Cregan told him at last.  

Aemond opened his eye.  

“Which one?”  

“All of them.”  

A beat passed.  

Aemond let out a breath — not a laugh, but close.  

“Too late now,” he muttered. There was regret at that fact in his eye. 

Cregan shrugged. “Not necessarily.”  

--  

Inside, Aegon had slumped into a chair, arms over his face.  

Lucerys crouched beside him, fingers laced together, looking for the words to comfort his uncle.  

“I thought you’d run,” Luke said finally.  

“I wanted to.”  

“But you didn’t.”  

Aegon didn’t speak, but he dropped one arm and turned his head toward his cousin.  

Lucerys added, “You didn’t cry either.”  

Aegon snorted faintly. “Didn’t want to. Doesn’t mean I didn’t almost piss myself.”  

Lucerys smiled — then, gently, rested a hand on Aegon’s shoulder.  

“You were brave.”  

“…I was honest.”  

“Same thing.”  

Aegon rested his head in his hands, his shoulders trembling.  

Luke kept his hand in place and stayed quiet, pretending not to notice the hitching breaths and silent sobs.   

--  

By the hearth, Daeron sat curled on a cushion, a blanket around his shoulders like a shield.  

Sara sat cross-legged beside him, holding his hand with both of hers. Joffrey, nestled on his other side, leaned into his arm and whispered, “You were louder than I thought you’d be.”  

Daeron didn’t answer, staring at the flames.  

Sara reached to pat his cheek with her dainty hand.  

“No one’s locking you anywhere ever again,” she promised.  

“I know,” Daeron whispered. There was no confidence in his shaking voice.  

“But I’ll get Princess to bite them if they try anyway,” she added. "Or I'll do it myself."  

"And Valour and I will help!" Joffrey added eagerly.  

That made Daeron's lips twitch, if only briefly.  

--  

And in the next room, Rhaenyra found Alicent alone, standing before a mirror she wasn’t looking into.  

Her hands were shaking.  

She didn’t try to hide it.  

Rhaenyra didn’t speak at first.  

She simply approached, slowly, and reached for Alicent’s hand.  

The other woman flinched — just slightly — but did not pull away.  

“I didn’t know I could still feel anything,” Alicent whispered.  

“You never stopped,” Rhaenyra replied. “You just weren’t allowed to show it.”  

Alicent’s voice trembled. “They were children. And I let them suffer.”  

Rhaenyra stepped beside her, not looking at the mirror either.  

“You had no choice. But you got them through the seven hells alive. And now they’ve stood. Because you did first.”  

Alicent’s throat worked around a breath she couldn’t release.  

And then Rhaenyra embraced her.  

No ceremony. No politics.  

Just two women, who had once been girls, holding the broken pieces between them.  

Two hours later, everyone who'd left returned to the Great Hall.  

Not to hear pain.  

But to hear what would be done about it.  

The accused remained chained, seated in rows before the Iron Throne: Gyles Belgrave, Marston Waters, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Unwin Peake, and Mellos. Their faces were still, but the air had shifted.  

There were no more dismissive smiles.  

Only the quiet weight of being seen.  

--  

Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, stood on the steps below the Iron Throne. She did not sit for this.  

Her voice was low, but it carried, every syllable deliberate.  

--  

“This court has heard the words of those long silenced,” she began, looking around at the watching audience. “Their pain was not imagined. Their memories were not madness. Their wounds were real — and they were inflicted by men who wore titles and cloaks and chains of office.”  

She glanced down at the accused.  

“Some of you raised hands. Others ordered silence. Some dosed pain in tea leaves and called it kindness. And others simply watched.”  

She looked out over the noble houses.  

“So did many of you.”  

--  

A ripple moved through the court.  

A flush of shame. A shiver of fear.  

But no protest.  

--  

“The Crown was once complicit in this cruelty,” she continued. “My father participated. He saw what his councillors were doing and allowed it to continue. That is a truth I will not deny.”  

She lifted her chin.  

“But this Crown — my Crown — will not protect men who strike children and call it strength.”  

From the gallery above, someone began to clap. Then more, until almost the entire audience besides a handful of sullen lords were applauding. A slow, deliberate chorus of hands, rising like thunder against stone.  

Daemon and his Eyes marked the faces of those who stayed silent and stone-faced.  

After a few moments, Rhaenyra raised a hand.  

The hall fell still again.  

“There will be sentencing,” she announced. “Tomorrow.”  

She looked at each man in chains.  

“Public. Complete. With no name spared.”  

She turned back to the court.  

“This is not vengeance. This is reckoning.”  

She paused. Then added, her voice softer but still unwavering:  

“And may the next child who is struck know that the realm heard them scream.”  

She stepped back.  

The Iron Throne loomed behind her.  

But Rhaenyra did not sit.  

Because today, the weight of the Crown was not metal.  

It was memory.  

And it was hers to carry.  

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven  

The Weight of Judgement  

The bells of the Red Keep tolled low and slow — not for death, but for judgment.  

The outer courtyard of the Red Keep had been transformed. Where once feasts had spilled into the marble paths and nobles had paraded beneath silk banners, now stood a wooden dais, freshly constructed and fortified, surrounded on all sides by goldcloaks. The Iron Throne had been brought out and it loomed over the courtyard, distant but present — visible above the heads of the crowd through the open archways of the Keep.  

In front of the dais stood six empty posts, iron collars chained in place. The scaffold was not made for show. It was made for memory.  

Queen Rhaenyra sat on the Throne, flanked by Rickon, Rhaenys and Daemon, her cloak long and heavy, crown set firmly atop her brow. She wore black — not mourning, but judgment — and her gaze never wavered.  

To her left, Rhaenys Velaryon, her white hair braided in coils, whispered final notes from the Council’s findings. She had read them three times. She did not need to again.  

Daemon stood to Rhaenyra’s right, arms folded, sword at his back, eyes locked on the crowd as if daring any man to object before the sentences were even spoken.  

Rickon stood between his wife and gooduncle, a grim expression, one cold as the landscape he ruled over, on his face as he surveyed the audience critically.  

The Small Council gathered behind them — Meredyth Tyrell, Isembard Arryn, Desmond Manderley, and Ser Harrold Westerling — each in their seats of judgment, their faces cold and stony. The Queensguard were surrounding the dais, hands on their hilts, eyes in constant movement, searching for dissidents who might go for the Queen or her family. They too had blank expressions that hid their contempt for the accused.  

This was not a debate. This was a reckoning.  

--  

The crowd had begun to gather before the sun had cleared the walls.  

Smallfolk pushed into the courtyard from the outer gate, clutching children or baskets of wares half-forgotten. Noble lords and ladies stood in silent clusters — most dressed in support of the Queen, others in neutral greys or family sigils, denying their support, but not protesting either.  

In the gallery above the courtyard, Alicent, her children and the rest of the royal family watched the proceedings from behind a silk curtain drawn halfway open. The view was clear. So was the tension in the air around them.