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Chapter Text

Driftmark, High Tide – 126 A.C 

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, and the only thing I could think was: I’m in Hell.
That’s the only explanation that made sense. Because the person staring back at me wasn’t me—at least not the me I remembered. It was a boy. A boy with messy hair and both of his eyes intact. A boy who looked like he was about to sneak through the stone halls of Driftmark like a common thief.

Dragons can’t be stolen. They’re not slaves. They don’t belong to anyone—not really. I know that now. But back then, I couldn’t stop myself from believing I had a right. That what I was about to do was just.

I mean, Laena hadn’t even been laid to rest. Her body was still warm in the minds of her daughters. And there I was, thinking I had the right to her dragon. To Vhagar.

Gods, poor Vhagar. She must’ve been grieving. She loved Laena. And I—what was I doing? Crawling out in the dead of night, thinking I could just… take her. Like she was some prize left behind after a battle.

I shook my head, hating that version of myself. How could I have been so blind? So greedy? So eaten alive by my own insecurity?

Then again, maybe I didn’t fall far from the family tree. It’s in my blood, after all.

My grandfather, Otto Hightower, was a master of ambition. A brilliant man, sure, but never satisfied. He clawed his way into power—born into the wealthiest house in the Reach, made Hand of the King, married his daughter into royalty. And still, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

I used to think I was better than him. That I’d make different choices. But I see it now. I was just like him.

A second son with everything. A prince. A warrior. The rider of the oldest, fiercest dragon in the world. And yet, all I ever saw was what I didn’t have.

I wasn’t heir. And that title went to a drunk and a woman they all called a whore behind her back. Rhaenyra. Aegon. I used to think I could do better than both of them. And maybe I could’ve. But that’s not the point, is it?

Because in the end, when Aegon burned and I stepped in to take the crown, I wasn’t better. I was worse. I ruled like Maegor—the cruel, mad king they warned us all about. I was drunk on power. I liked it.

And then there’s the eye. Gods. I lost it when I was eleven. Had to relearn everything—how to fight, how to balance, how to see. And people think physical pain is the worst of it. It’s not. It was the whispers. The looks. The nickname. “One-Eye.” It never left me.

And when I finally got my revenge… when I threw the world into fire and blood… it wasn’t enough.

I burned the Riverlands. I turned homes into ash. And still—still—the hole inside me stayed empty.

Nothing was ever enough.

Daemon is right to call us half-breeds. We are not fluent in High Valyrian, we think of dragons as pets, and we do not even follow the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria.

Not that mother would have ever allowed us to learn any religion other than the Seven.

Not that we ever had a chance. Mother wouldn’t have allowed it. She was always devoted to the Seven. Nothing outside the Faith ever entered our home—especially not something as “pagan” as Valyrian traditions.

Mother.

I don’t even know what to think of her anymore. There was a time when I loved her. Truly. I pitied her, too. I used to stand between her and Father, especially when he ignored her or made her feel small. I’d watch her shrink into herself at court, and I wanted to protect her from that. I wanted to make her proud. And for a while, I did. She’d smile when I succeeded. She’d tell Aegon he should be more like me. I lived off that—her quiet approval.

Then I killed Lucerys.

And she looked at me like I was a monster. Like I was something she didn’t recognize.

Which is rich, coming from the woman who once tried to gouge out the eye of an eight-year-old boy.

But that was always the thing with her. Mother was a hypocrite.

She was always the victim. The poor girl who was forced to marry a man twice her age. The one who had to lie with a corpse of a king, night after night, for the sake of duty. The one who sacrificed. The one who endured. The one who always did the right thing.

Did she, though? Really?

I pity her. I do. Otto Hightower was a nightmare as a grandfather—I can only imagine what he was like as a father. And she didn’t have the safety net of being a man or a prince. Just a girl with no power except what others gave her.

But she was Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting once. And say what you will about Rhaenyra—gods know I’ve said plenty—but she’s always protected the people she considered hers. Like a true dragon. Mother could have gone to her. She didn’t. Instead, she chose to go alone to the chambers of a grieving man. And then she acted surprised when Rhaenyra felt betrayed.

She hides behind faith. Always has. The Faith of the Seven gave her a script: the suffering wife, the pious queen, the martyr. She followed it perfectly. She gave Viserys three sons and bore it all with grace—because that’s what a good woman does, right?

And yet—if Helaena had been her only child, I don’t think Mother would’ve adored her the way she pretended to. Helaena was strange and gentle and soft, and in Mother’s world, softness was failure. If she had only given birth to Helaena, it would’ve been proof that she’d failed in every duty that mattered.

She loved her best because Helaena never challenged the narrative.

Mother played the good daughter. The obedient queen. And when obedience came at the expense of her children, she swallowed it down and called it virtue.

Even when it went against the Seven’s doctrines.

She always found a way to justify herself. “I’m just following orders.” “I’m doing it for the realm.” “It’s for your protection.”

But when Rhaenyra lied? She was a whore.
When Aegon strayed? He was an embarrassment.

When Rhaenyra gave birth to bastards, Mother demanded a public shaming. She summoned Rhaenyra straight to her chambers after giving birth. Made her walk the halls of the Red Keep still bleeding. It went beyond cruelty. 

Rhaenyra had spent her entire life watching Queen Aemma bleed out after childbirth. Watching her die. And still, Mother forced her to make that walk. Put her through immense psychological trauma and never looked back. Because, in her eyes, it was Rhaenyra’s fault. She brought it on herself.

But when I killed Lucerys? Suddenly I was the monster.

Mother could use her beauty for power, bat her lashes and whisper sweet things to men like Larys Strong. Let him leer and make demands. And she could tell herself it was for us. That it was a noble sacrifice.

I didn’t even know about it until I became head of the Green Council. And gods, I wish I hadn’t. I’ve seen a lot of ugly things, but nothing turned my stomach quite like that.

She said she was against killing Rhaenyra. Too far, too violent. But she was fine with whispering to the rat who burned her enemies alive. Lyonel and Harwin Strong—wiped out in one night. Convenient, wasn’t it?

In the end… my mother was pathetic.
She was scared of everything. Saw enemies in every shadow.

She became what she hated and never noticed. The victim turned perpetrator. The girl who survived abuse, who let it fester into something worse. She stayed silent when Aegon raped the serving girls. Told them to forget. Paid them off. Hid it.

She said it was to protect the realm. To protect us.

I could’ve forgiven the rest. The cold upbringing. The endless lessons in posture, duty, silence. I could’ve even let go of the way she taught us to value appearances more than honesty, and obedience more than love. That’s the kind of damage you learn to live with.

But what I couldn’t let go of—what still sits in my chest like a weight that won’t move—was the fact that she dragged me down with her.

Lucerys had been a child. Just a kid. Sweet. Innocent. A little spoiled, maybe, but no more than any of us were. He was also—gods help me—the only real friend I ever had.

He used to follow me everywhere like some lost little puppy, wide-eyed and persistent. He’d sneak into my room with a book twice his size and demand that I read to him. Over and over. At the time I found it annoying, but now? Now I realize he wasn’t interested in the books. He just wanted me to talk to him.

He was the only one who ever apologized for the Pink Dread. Everyone else laughed and brushed it away. 

And then Driftmark happened.

I threatened to kill Jacaerys, and Lucerys—bless him—stepped in without hesitation. Defended his brother like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t apologize for that. He never should have. But later, when the chaos settled, he did apologize for hurting me.

That was… new.

No one ever apologizes to me.

Baela and Rhaena never apologized for their cutting little comments.
Jacaerys never apologized for treating me like I was a joke.
Aegon never apologized for being a joke and dragging me down with him.
Father never apologized for ignoring me. Rhaenyra never did either—for looking straight through me like I wasn’t even there.

And Mother… gods. She never apologized for leaving me unattended that night.

Now I know why. Now I know that Ser Criston wasn’t even on guard that night- this night. He had left his post, because he was in her bed.

I can still hear her voice. Telling me Lucerys was a bastard. Telling me it was his fault. Feeding me poison when I needed guidance. She never taught me to take accountability, only to find someone else to blame. And that night—that horrible, bloody night—I let her voice drown out my own.

She turned me into a victim. And I never stopped to question it. Never once asked what I was doing to others. Not until it was too late.

And now… I’ve gone back. After my dear uncle finally killed me.

And really—who even does that? Who leaps off their dragon mid-air just to stab someone through the eye? Who thinks, “Yes, this is a good plan”?

But I don’t even blame him. Daemon did what I would’ve done. He avenged his son. And if nothing else, I can respect that.

It’s strange though. The idea that I will need to be near him isn’t unbearable. Not like I imagined it would be. Because something changed when I came back. Whatever brought me here—whatever magic or madness it was—it took my fire with it.

I should have been screaming. Should have panicked. Cried. Anything. But instead, I looked at my reflection like it was just another day. One and ten again. Whole again. And completely hollow.

There was no shock. No fear. I just stood there, staring. Thinking about everything I’d done. Everything I’d lost. Everyone I’d hurt. I thought of my mother like she was a character in a story. I thought of Lucerys like he wasn’t the boy I’d loved once. Everything felt distant. Like I was watching it through a glass wall I couldn’t break.

The idea of feeling nothing should scare me.

But I’m not even sure I remember what fear feels like.

I shook my head and changed out of the black clothes I’d borrow for the occasion. Folded them neatly, tucked them away, and went back to bed. I wasn’t going claiming tonight. 

If Rhaena ever managed to claim Vhagar before me, so be it. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. There were other dragons. Plenty of unclaimed ones in Dragonstone. It wasn’t worth starting another generational war over. Let our parents deal with all that legacy and bloodline nonsense. Let them burn each other alive over honor and pride and dead queens. I was tired. 

But just because I wasn’t claiming dragons didn’t mean I was going to sit around like a fool. No, if I couldn’t set the sky on fire, I’d settle for cleaning out the rot closer to the ground. Some spring cleaning, as it were.

So when we returned to the Red Keep, I got to work.

Ser Criston Cole died in a tragic accident in the training yard. Very sudden. Very public. Took Ser Arryk Cargyll down with him.

It was all very… regrettable. Apparently, Ser Criston had been pushing us hard, as always. A bit too hard. My arm snapped like a twig. Arryk stepped in to protect me, and things escalated. Badly. There was blood on the stones by the end of it.

Of course, I was “traumatized.” Naturally. Just a poor young prince, injured and shaken. Who would dare suspect me of anything? Especially after everything that had happened.

The Red Keep lit up with rumors by the end of the fortnight. I didn’t even have to say a word. The rumor mill got to work faster than the ravens. I listened from the shadows—behind pillars, tucked into alcoves, pausing at staircases like I’d simply forgotten something. I’d hear the whispers, sip from my cup, and smile to myself.

“Gods, did you hear? Ser Criston snapped the prince’s arm during training. Oh, the poor prince, forced to train with that madman.”

“And poor Ser Arryk tried to pull him back. They say he died shielding the boy.”

“Why was a kingsguard pushing a prince like that, anyway?”

And then came the rest. The older stories. The ones everyone remembered, even if they pretended not to.

“Wasn’t Ser Criston the same knight who bashed in Ser Joffrey’s face at the royal wedding?” the steward added. “And then Ser Harwin Strong, right in front of the boys.”

“He was from the Dornish Marches, wasn’t he?” someone added, like that explained everything. “Stormlander blood, but hot-headed like the worst of Dorne. Always looked ready to snap.”

“I still don’t understand how the queen let him keep his cloak,” a maid muttered, scrubbing the same corner of the floor for the third time. “If it were any other knight, they’d have lost their head.”

“It’s obvious now, isn’t it? The queen’s always had it out for Rhaenyra. First her sworn shield gets beaten. Then her sons. Alicent allowed Cole to do whatever he pleased just to humiliate the princess.”

“Queen Alicent protected him,” a noblewoman whispered behind her wine. “He served her, not the crown. That man answered to no one else.”

“He could’ve strangled a septon on the altar and she would’ve praised his loyalty,” someone whispered knowingly.

“And now two kingsguard payed for her neglect with their deaths.”

There was a small minority, of course. The bolder ones. The ones who liked drama too much to keep their mouths shut.

“I’ve never seen a queen weep like that for a knight,” Lady Fell whispered behind her fan at a luncheon. “She was sobbing. Kneeling beside the corpse like a common widow. You’d think he was her husband, not her Sworn Shield.”

“Husband?” someone scoffed. “Paramour, more like. No highborn lady mourns a knight like that unless something more was going on. If you ask me, she was weeping for her lover.”

Grandfather gave me a scolding, of course.

Not because he knew I had anything to do with Ser Criston’s death—he didn’t. Otto Hightower was clever, not omniscient. But he did know that something had happened because of me. That it was my training session. That I’d gotten hurt. That Ser Cole and Ser Arryk were now dead. And that the rumor mill was out of control.

So I stood there for an hour while he paced and ranted, waving scrolls in the air.

“You broke your arm in the middle of court training,” he snapped, as if that alone was some unforgivable political misstep. “Do you understand the message that sends? The queen’s son, bloodied in his own yard—by one of our own men?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” I said, which, to be fair, was a complete lie.

Otto didn’t care. He kept going. “You’ve stirred up a mess, Aemond. We’ve lost a valuable ally. Criston was a symbol, if nothing else. And now your mother is without a shield, and I have half the court whispering like fishwives at market.”

It wasn’t my fault the symbol bled too easily.

Still, I stood there with my arm in a sling, offering all the right expressions. Silent. Contrite. Apologetic.

Otto had his hands full trying to keep everything from falling apart. He was spinning stories faster than the maesters could track. Criston’s death was an “unfortunate incident.” Ser Arryk died “honorably” protecting the prince. The queen was “overwhelmed with sorrow,” but still dutiful. Always dutiful.

And Mother…

Mother had barely spoken to me since it happened. She wasn’t cold exactly, just… distant. She couldn’t meet my eyes without tearing up. I tried once. Walked into her solar, half-expecting her to offer the usual lecture. She looked up, smiled with effort, and then just… crumbled. Said she was tired. Said she needed rest.

She didn’t blame me, not openly. But I could see it in her posture, in the way she folded in on herself whenever I walked into the room.

It was fine. Her grief gave me room. No questions. No hovering. No moral speeches about duty or righteousness. While Otto scrambled to hold the court together and Mother drowned in guilt, I had the luxury of being invisible.

I decided to lay low for a few moons. No point attracting attention. I’d stirred enough with Criston and Arryk, and Mother was still pale and sniffling every time someone said “training yard.” Grandfather was busy plugging leaks in the court and pretending the Greens weren’t in freefall. So, I vanished. Not literally, of course. I just kept quiet. Observant. Polite. I let people forget I existed.

In the meantime, I watched with interest as they filled the Kingsguard slots. Ser Joffrey Arryn and Ser Medrick Manderly were knighted before the throne with great pomp. Nobles clapped, oaths were sworn, and Mother blinked through red-rimmed eyes as if she was proud.

They were curious picks.

Joffrey Arryn, especially. That’ll make things awkward later on for Lady Jeyne. The Vale’s succession is already messy. In the future Joffrey had been the strongest contender for the Eyrie, now who will take the position of Warden of the East when the time comes? As for Medrick Manderly… I did not understand that choice. Why would an heir give up his place as the future lord of the richest house in the North?

Grandfather hated it.

Not just because the man gave up his inheritance. Something that my grandfather could not understand, as he would kill to be more than a simple Ser. To be a Lord. It also gave Rhaenyra two loyal guards. House Arryn would always choose blood, and the North... well, they always remember their vows

So, the balance shifted. Two new white cloaks that would never bow to Aegon.

That’s when I decided it was time to act.

The next secret meeting of the Green Council was already being whispered about—midnight, guarded corridors, candles snuffed if anyone so much as knocked. Very cloak-and-dagger. Very serious.

The thing about Helaena, though, is that people don’t listen to her. They smile and nod and pat her hand like she’s a confused child. Even Aegon, who does love her in his own stupid way, tunes her out. I used to do the same. Her riddles give me headaches. Half the time I can’t tell if she’s predicting doom or just describing her dreams.

But I try. I tried.

Because Helaena might be strange, but she’s also sweet. And sometimes—rarely, but still—she shares something useful.

Like the afternoon she cornered me in the gardens and launched into a very detailed speech about poisonous insects from Naath. I remember half-listening, thinking I’d rather be anywhere else, and then she said, completely casually:

“They melt you from the inside out, you know. Like warm honey over fire.”

I blinked. “What?”

She pointed to a glass box. It had been tucked under her skirts, of all things. Inside were four insects—shimmering, slow-moving, and not remotely the kind of pets a princess should own.

“You shouldn’t have these,” I told her.
“I don’t,” she said, blinking at me like I was the idiot. “They have me.”

Right.

Still, I tucked that information away. In my previous life, I remembered how stunned I’d been that no one ever confiscated her collection. But in this life? I was just grateful.

Especially since it meant she couldn’t tattle.

She never shared this intel with me, at least, not in this timeline. So, she would never know it was me who broke into her cabinet and stole a few of her friends. She had plausible deniability. And I had options.

It was almost too easy to poison the cutlery and goblets used during the next council meeting. I timed it well. Watched which trays were assigned to which rooms, which servants had been rotated in, and where the decanters were being stored beforehand.

Every servant that touched the silverware, every lord and lady who drank from the goblets—they all fell ill. Quickly.

Of course, I didn’t want it to look like a hit on the Greens. That would’ve been too obvious. So, I got clever. I spread it around. A few neutral nobles, a few servants from other wings. I made sure to include just enough collateral damage to muddy the waters.

And for those not meant to die? I was kind. I gave them the antidote with the poison. Slipped it into the wine alongside the venom. Slowed the reaction. They collapsed, yes, but they recovered after a few days—headaches, nausea, but nothing fatal.

Mother, for example. I dosed her goblet before she ever arrived. Just a touch. Enough to make her pale and unsteady, enough to knock her unconscious at the table but not enough to kill her.

But the ones I meant to die?

Did.

Every single green loyalist. Every servant and spy. Larys Strong. Jasper Wylde. And Grandfather.

When the storm passed, I found Helaena in the gardens again. She didn’t say anything when I passed her. Just looked up from her beetles and murmured, “Some things rot faster than others.”

I nodded. “Yes, sister. They do.”

When Mother finally recovered and learned that an “epidemic” had taken her father and half the Green Council with him, she didn’t take it well. She locked herself in her chambers for a fortnight. Wouldn’t eat. Refused to see anyone but the septa.

And strangely enough… Aegon and Helaena looked relieved.

Aegon spent most of those days drunk and in better spirits than usual. No speeches about duty. No lectures about his behavior. Just wine, women, and the occasional glazed-over look when anyone mentioned Otto. Helaena, for her part, hummed more. Talked to her beetles. Smiled at nothing. I think part of her had been waiting for it all to end.

But that quiet fortnight? That was all I needed.

Because while Mother wept behind locked doors and the maesters flailed about with talk of airborne pathogens and contaminated wine stores, I was planning.

It had worked better than I expected.

No one suspected poison. Not seriously.

They called it the Red Keep Plague. Rumors spread faster than the sickness—something in the kitchens, maybe. A pestilence brought by Dornish visitors. A curse from the Seven for sins unknown.

The servants whispered that ghosts were angry. Nobles claimed it was the end times. One septon said the gods were punishing House Hightower for the indiscretions of the Queen with her Dornish Kingsguard.

Whatever helped them sleep at night.

The Keep was still shaking off the panic. Half the lords had fled to the countryside. Those who stayed wore cloth over their faces and burned incense in every hallway. Septons held prayer sessions in the throne room.

And Father was barely conscious most days.

He’d survived the so-called epidemic, not that I had ever thought of poisoning him, but his sickness had long since left him… broken. Grief piled on top of his illness. There was a vacantness in his eyes, like everything was happening half a world away.

Which made him very easy to guide.

It wasn’t even hard. Honestly, I was starting to wonder how it had taken Mother and Grandfather so long to get things done. All I did was sit with him one evening and have a chat with my so-called father.

“I’ve been reading about King Jaehaerys,” I said, softly, like it was just idle curiosity. “Did you know he used to name his heirs Hand of the King? Said it was the best way to prepare them for rule.”

Father blinked at me. Slow. But then he nodded.

“The Conciliator was truly wise,” I added. “Most rulers inherit their positions with theorical knowledge and without their parents to guide them through their duties. But King Jaehaerys made sure he would be there to guide his heirs and show them their future duties while he was alive.”

Father did not bother to reply, not that I care. I had achieved my objective, as later that night, he sent for Rhaenyra.

By the time Mother emerged from mourning, still dressed in dark green and smelling of rosewater and despair, it was already done.

Rhaenyra and her family had returned. She had been named Hand of the King. And more than that—Father had given her the regency. Said his strength was failing. That he trusted her judgment.

Under her rule, things moved quickly.

Bartimos Celtigar was named Master of Laws. A seasoned man, shrewd, and loyal to her side of the family.
Laenor Velaryon was named Master of Whispers. The shock of that alone nearly sent some old lords into seizures.
And Jacaerys, young and bright-eyed, became the royal cupbearer. A small role, but symbolically powerful.

The Red Keep had shifted overnight.

And no one seemed to notice that I’d been there for all of it.

Watching.

As always.

Ser Laenor being alive had definitely been a surprise.

I hadn’t even thought about saving him—didn’t factor him into anything, really. But apparently, the news that his ex-lover’s murderer had keeled over in the training yard had done wonders for his morale. Something about closure. Vengeance being cathartic. Whatever it was, it lit a fire under him, and he came back to court looking sharper, calmer, and somehow more grounded than I’d ever seen him.

He and Rhaenyra even asked after me, if you can believe it. Said they were sorry about what Ser Cole had done to me. That they “understood what it was like to be around someone like him.”

Which was…interesting.

I always knew Criston was arrogant. Self-righteous. But from the way Rhaenyra said it, and the way Laenor looked at the floor when she did, I had to wonder. What exactly did he do to them?

Not that I asked. Or cared much. I wasn’t planning to stick around the Red Keep long enough to start bonding over shared trauma.

Rhaenyra’s entire brood moved in—minus Lucerys, who was off fostering with Lord Corlys to learn how to one day rule Driftmark. And as they arrived, most of Mother's children… quietly exited.

Helaena, in particular, surprised me. More cunning than most give her credit for. She asked Father, in the gentlest tone possible, if she might move to Maidenpool and take her vows as a septa. Said she wanted a quiet life.

And he agreed. Just like that.

She packed her beetles, gave us one of her rare hugs, and left without fuss. I’d miss her. I’d miss my nephews and niece, who will never get the chance to be born in this timeline. But I also knew that this was better. For everyone. Even Aegon. Especially Aegon.

As for me?

I asked Father to let me join the war effort in the Stepstones.

Now, no one in their right mind would look at a boy of two-and-ten and say, “Yes, perfect squire material. Ship him off to a war zone.”

But Viserys Targaryen? These days, he was more milk of the poppy than man. And when I asked, he just nodded vaguely and mumbled something about “honor through hardship.”

So. That was that.

And, well, I had claimed my dragon.

After word got around that Rhaena had finally claimed Vhagar—good for her, honestly—I didn’t sulk. I didn’t even mourn. I now understood that Vhagar had been more of a whim than a true partner. The old hag did not even listen to my commands in battle.

However, I did go after the second-best option.

Cannibal.

Yes, that Cannibal. The wild, unbonded, dragon-eating terror. Second largest dragon alive. Fierce. Untamed. And somehow, she let me climb onto her back without tearing my head off. She’s everything I’d hoped for. As brutal as Vhagar, but without the sluggishness.

After a year of peace—well, peace by court standards, which mostly meant no open beheadings, just espionage, veiled threats, and the occasional night-time assassination—I was more than ready to leave the Red Keep behind.

And I was set to squire under Daemon Targaryen himself. Lucky me.

I might feel a little bad for Aegon, since he’d be the one stuck dealing with Mother when she finally emerged from her mourning chambers and discovered that every one of her precious seven-pointed stars had been taken down. Replaced by dragon banners and Rhaenyra’s seal of regency.

But honestly? The relief I felt knowing Helaena was safe in Maidenpool, far from the court and from Mother’s slow descent into whatever brand of self-righteous hysteria she was cooking up—that outweighed the guilt.

And me? I was finally free of that pit of vipers. I was rearmed, mounted, and ready to do what I do best.

Burn shit down.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone – 127 A.C

When Corlys Velaryon called the banners for war against the Triarchy again, I felt relief. Pure, unfiltered relief. Like something inside me finally unclenched.

And then—of course—came the guilt.

Because I had just lost a wife. A son. A child I barely had time to know, and a woman who’d once made me believe I could be something other than a sword.

But while I had been hollowed out by their deaths, my daughters—Baela and Rhaena—had lost a mother. And a baby brother.

They were so small and so quiet in the weeks after. I’d wake up and find them curled up in the corner of my chambers, asleep next to each other like they didn’t trust the bed unless the other one was there. Baela clenched her fists in her sleep. Rhaena barely spoke.

And yet, as bad as I felt, as much as I wanted to sit in that grief and wrap myself around them… I couldn’t.

I’ve never been the kind of man who mourns in company. I don’t cry in front of others. I don’t sit at candlelit vigils or read poetry over ashes. I am a creature of fire and violence. I cope by burning things. Sinking ships. Driving steel through flesh. That’s how I’ve always known how to grieve.

So, it was never a matter of if I would join the war. Just when.

Baela and Rhaena would be all right. They were strong. They had each other. And they’d be with Rhaenys, their grandmother. If anyone could raise two dragon princesses into the forces of nature they were meant to be, it was her.

But what caught me off guard was that they wouldn’t be the only young dragons on Driftmark. Lucerys was fostering there too.

That had not been the original plan.

After Laena’s funeral, Laenor had chosen to stay behind at Driftmark with Lucerys. Said he wanted to “show the island to his heir.” It was a neat excuse, just tidy enough to satisfy the court. But we all knew the truth. He wanted to mourn in peace, without needing to hold into his mask of Prince Consort. Just the sea, salt air, and silence.

Rhaenyra had taken Jacaerys and Joffrey back to Dragonstone with her. I joined them not long after—packed up my twins and returned to the ancestral home, unsure what came next but needing the stone walls and dragonfire to anchor me.

Laenor didn’t return. Not for weeks. Not until well after the rumors of Ser Crispin’s messy demise had reached every corner of the realm.

When he finally came back, he did so alone, without Lucerys.

But there was a fire in his eyes.

One I hadn’t seen since the first War for the Stepstones.

Laenor had always been beautiful in motion—on a dragon, on a battlefield, in bed. He and Ser Joffrey had been a perfect storm when they fought together. They were fun. Clever. Dangerous. And when they were alone, they were a joy to watch—until the wedding, and Joffrey’s skull caved in under Cole’s boot.

Laenor had wilted after that.

No other way to say it. He smiled less. He trained less. He stopped showing up to meetings, stopped showing up as himself. Became a shadow of what he’d been. Still wore the prince’s silks, still bore the name, but the man beneath it was fading.

Until now.

He returned from Driftmark like someone had re-lit the forge inside him. Shoulders squared. Gaze sharp. No wine on his breath, no slump in his spine.

Whatever happened out there—whatever peace he found, or decision he made—he wasn’t wilting anymore.

Rhaenyra and Laenor had quite the heated fight that night.

It started with raised voices and clipped sentences, the kind that dance on the edge of a real argument. But it didn’t take long before it tipped over. My niece all but accused him of stealing her son—said Lucerys was too young to be fostered away, that he belonged with his brothers, with her.

That struck a nerve.

Laenor’s jaw clenched. “Family?” he repeated, like the word offended him. “I’d like to remind you, wife, that Lucerys is the Velaryon heir. His family and home are in Driftmark. Not Dragonstone.”

I saw Rhaenyra’s expression crumble. My hand instinctively drifted to the pommel of Dark Sister. But I didn’t move. Laenor hadn’t spoken out of cruelty. He wasn’t trying to wound her. He was stating a fact. A truth that had gone unsaid for too long.

He went on, voice tight but steady. “Luke will especially need to work twice as hard because of the bastardy rumors. That’s the truth. And the sooner he starts building rapport with our vassals, the better. He can’t afford to wait until manhood to earn their respect.”

That only fired Rhaenyra up. “And whose fault is that?!”

Laenor’s nostrils flared. “Not mine!” Rhaenyra flinched like she’d been struck. Then, softer—defeated—he repeated it. “Not mine.”

There was a pause. One of those still, aching silences that say more than words ever could.

Laenor ran a hand down his face. His shoulders sank. “Neither of us had a choice in this marriage, Rhaenyra. You know that. And we both knew—from the start—about each other’s… preferences. Still, we tried. We did. Even after Jace was born, we kept trying. Every time we were successful, we hoped—prayed, even—that maybe this time my seed would take.”

I looked away then. Felt like I was eavesdropping on something too raw. Too private. But I couldn’t leave. It was already too late for that. Rhaenyra’s eyes shimmered, her lips trembling as she tried not to cry. Laenor just looked hollow.

He shook his head. “But you could’ve at least picked someone who looked like me,” he muttered. “Or someone with Velaryon blood. Gods know there are enough silver-haired bastards in Spicetown. But no. You chose Harwin Strong. Because you fancied him. Because you wanted him. And to hells with whoever got in the way of a Targaryen princess.”

Rhaenyra bit her lip so hard I thought she might draw blood. She didn’t speak. Just shook her head, slowly, miserably.

And I—

I wanted to cross the room and pull her into my arms. Wanted to kill Viserys for forcing her into a marriage with someone who could never love her the way she needed. Wanted to burn Otto’s schemes to the ground. Wanted to feed Alicent to Caraxes for what she’d turned his niece into.

My precious girl, cornered and blamed and still trying to stay standing.

Laenor’s voice dropped again. “I understand you loved Harwin. He was worthy of that love. He protected you while I… wilted. I know that. And I love Jace, Luke, and Joff as if they were mine. I always have.”

He looked at her then. And for a second, I saw Rhaenys in him—the strength, the calm, the unshakable spine.

“But I will not let you put the blame for those rumors on me.” His voice didn’t rise again. It didn’t need to. “You chose love over duty. That was your right. But that’s on you.”

Rhaenyra didn’t respond.

She didn’t need to.

The silence between them said enough.

Not much was said after that. Or afterwards.

The next few moons were quiet. Tense. Especially between the adults. Laenor and Rhaenyra kept a polite distance—close enough to be seen together, far enough not to have to speak unless absolutely necessary. Their words, when exchanged, were clipped and careful, like they were afraid too much honesty might unravel whatever fragile truce they were balancing on.

But the children? They were having the time of their lives.

Honestly, they didn’t seem to notice the tension. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care.

Laenor could be seen most mornings with Joffrey perched in his arms like a sleepy kitten, leading Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena down to the Driftmark port. He made a whole show of it—pointing out ships, explaining the weight of cargo, describing trade routes like it was the most thrilling thing in the world. He taught them how to tell a merchant’s honesty by how he tied his knots. How to haggle without insulting. How to read the wind.

And when Joff wasn’t with Laenor, he was strapped to Rhaenyra’s chest while she held court.

I watched her balance a crying infant and an agitated farmer with equal grace, murmuring soft words to both, rocking one while listening to the other’s complaints about grain prices. It was the closest I’d seen her to peace since before Harwin’s death. She still looked tired. Still worn thin at the edges. But with Joffrey gurgling in her lap, she looked… steady.

As for me? Somehow, I’d ended up in charge of the older three.

Not officially. No one ever said it out loud. But when Rhaenyra was in council, and Laenor was fulfilling his duties as Prince Consort, I was the one left with Jace, Baela, and Rhaena.

Jacaerys, to his credit, was eager. Bit too eager, really. Always asking for extra drills. Always trying to prove something. He reminded me of a younger version of myself—full of pride and impatience and absolutely no self-preservation. So, I taught him the art of the sword. Made him slow down. Correct his stance. Think before he lunged. It frustrated him, but he listened.

Baela, on the other hand, didn’t need guidance. I handed her a spear once, half-expecting her to lose interest or toss it aside like a toy. Instead, she took to it like it was an extension of her own arm. She was fast, focused, unrelenting. Watching her train was like watching Laena rise from the ashes. Same fire. Same drive.

And Rhaena—Gods, Rhaena surprised me.

She was always quieter. Softer. Stuck to her twin’s shadows. I didn’t expect much when I handed her a bow. Figured she’d shoot wide once or twice and go back to her dolls. But she stepped up, took her stance, and loosed the first arrow right into the center of the target.

And then she did it again. And again. And again.

Bull’s-eye. Every time.

I had never seen her stand that tall before. It filled me with pride. It also caught me off guard—how natural it all felt. I never imagined myself as the sort to… raise children.

Gods, I barely raised myself. And yet, there I was—brushing sand off Baela’s shoulder like a half-decent father, correcting Jacaerys’s footwork before he twisted his ankle again, and nodding like a proud fool every time Rhaena showed me her bow and hit the damn bull’s-eye with the precision of a trained assassin.

I think I spent more time with the children during those moons than I had in the entire seven years since my twins were born.

Which—yeah—was kind of sad. No denying that.

But in my defense, it wasn’t that I suddenly became father of the year. It was mostly because I was actively hiding from Laenor and Rhaenyra, who for reasons beyond my comprehension had both decided I was the “mediator” between them.

Mediator. Me.

I’ve done a lot of insane things in my life. Charged into battle with broken ribs. Slept with nobles I couldn’t stand. Stolen dragon eggs. But nothing has ever sounded more unhinged than calling me the reasonable one in a marriage dispute.

Fortunately, things cooled down not long after Rhaena claimed Vhagar.

We were all gathered to celebrate, and after the kids went to sleep, the three of us sat down with a shared bottle of wine. There was some light teasing about Rhaena having more guts than half the court. The mood was good. Easy.

And then we started talking.

And then talking turned into touching.

And then we somehow ended up a tangled mess of limbs and sighs and warmth on the bed.

That night… well, it turned into several nights. Then a habit. Then something resembling stability—our version of it, anyway.

We didn’t talk about what it meant. We didn’t have to.

We raised the children during the day, governed Dragonstone with quiet coordination, and collapsed into each other by night like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then the raven arrived.

Viserys had summoned Rhaenyra back to King’s Landing. He had named her Hand of the King because of the sudden epidemic that razed through the Red Keep.

Otto Hightower was dead.

Otto Fucking Hightower was dead.

I immediately threw a feast. Music, wine, half the kitchens emptied, and a speech that probably shouldn’t have been delivered in front of the twins, but frankly, I didn’t care.

Then I threw another feast the moment I confirmed that every godsdamned high-ranking Green loyalist left in King’s Landing had either died during that epidemic or had retreated back to their keeps.

Tyland Lannister was the last one standing. And let's be honest—he’s about as threatening as a damp scroll.

My elation didn’t stop there.

Viserys, still weak and barely lucid half the time, was now operating under Rhaenyra’s gentle, strategic hand. And with that came a series of delightful changes.

Bartimos Celtigar was named Master of Laws. A sharp man with a spine—imagine that.
Laenor was named Master of Whispers. The court didn’t even got a chance to complain about it. They were too busy scrambling to stay upright.

And then came the lemon cake. The godsdamned dream.

Rhaenyra—my Rhaenyra—was named Regent of the Realm.

Which meant she had full royal authority. Which meant she could finally, officially, lend the Crown’s support to the Second War for the Stepstones.

And just like that, I got everything I wanted.

After one more night tangled in warmth and limbs with Laenor and Rhaenyra, I left Dragonstone at dawn with Baela and Rhaena nestled against me on Caraxes’s back.

The plan was simple: I’d fly the girls to Driftmark, where they’d stay with Rhaenys until the war was over. Every three moons, they’d return to Dragonstone for a fortnight to spend time with Rhaenyra’s brood.

Lucerys, of course, was also part of the deal.

When we landed at Driftmark, he was there to greet us, standing between Corlys and Rhaenys like he belonged. And he did.

Same cherubic cheeks. Same wide, doe-like eyes. Still too soft for his own good. His smile was as bright as ever, full of genuine joy, and his voice cracked a little when he greeted the girls. I half expected him to trip over his own feet.

But then he squared his shoulders.

Stood tall.

Met my eyes without flinching.

And I realized something—he wasn’t the same boy who used to cling to Rhaenyra’s skirts and hide behind Jacaerys when spoken to.

Lucerys had grown.

Not by inches—though he was taller—but in presence. In the way people looked at him.

The servants smiled at him with warmth, not obligation. The knights gave him respectful nods, the kind usually reserved for their own commanders. The smallfolk, even the old ones with weathered hands and sharper memories, lit up when he passed.

He had become Driftmark’s Pearl.

That’s what they called him now. I heard a stable boy mutter it under his breath when Luke walked by with Baela.

And Corlys? The Sea Snake had always had a subtle hand when it came to affection—measured, calculated, reserved. But when he stood beside Lucerys with his hand resting firmly on the boy’s shoulder, there was no subtlety to it at all.

That was pride. Unapologetic. Fierce.

Everyone knew Luke was his favorite grandchild. He didn’t bother hiding it anymore.

What did surprise me, though, was Rhaenys.

Whenever Lucerys turned to her, she looked at him like he’d pulled the sun out of the sea just for her. Her expression was soft. Unguarded.

She loved him.

Most people assumed Rhaenys resented her grandchildren from Laenor. That she kept them at a distance because of the rumors. The hair, the noses, the Strong blood that was written plainly on their faces. And her silence hadn’t helped. Neither had her posture. Distant. Controlled. Dragon-proud.

But I knew better.

Rhaenys had buried too much to not see pieces of her son in those boys.

But I knew better. Rhaenys loved Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. How could she not when the only time she ever saw Laenor smile lately was in the presence of his sons?

But she was also Rhaenys Targaryen. The Queen Who Never Was. A woman slighted, overlooked, and pushed aside too many times by Baelon’s line and everything that came after.

She had pride like armor. Pride that wouldn’t let her kneel, not even to her own heart. So, she didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t kiss their brows or whisper endearments.

So. What had changed?

After settling Baela and Rhaena into their chambers—Baela already trying to convince the steward she didn’t need a chaperone, Rhaena quietly arranging her dresses by color—I pulled Rhaenys aside.

She gave me one of those looks—half tired, half sharp—and smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the kind you give yourself in the mirror when you realize the joke’s been on you the whole time. A look full of pride and self-deprecation all rolled into one.

“What happened,” she said, voice soft, “was that Laenor sat us down. Me and Corlys. And told us we needed to have a talk.”

Her tone was hard to pin down—pride laced with exasperation, like she couldn’t decide whether to hug the boy or shake him.

“He told us Corlys’s greed, and my pride had torn this family apart,” she went on, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “Said Laena was nearly sold off to a king who butchered his wife of twenty years, and when that did not work, he tried again a couple of years later. But this time with Sealord that would have made her miserable, when we didn’t stop even after she begged us, she ran. Eloped with you of all people.”

Rhaenys stopped. Swallowed hard.

Then, for a moment, she was just a mother. Not the Queen Who Never Was. Not the Velaryon matriarch or a Targaryen Princess. Just a grieving woman remembering her daughter.

Her voice cracked. “We never saw Laena again. Not until the day her casket came back to Driftmark.”

I felt that one. Deep.

Laena’s death still sat somewhere raw inside me.

“And Laenor… he told us he’d almost been next.”

That made me straighten, the back of my neck prickling. “What do you mean next?” I asked, voice low.

Because I’d already lost one Velaryon. I wasn’t losing another.

Rhaenys didn’t answer that directly. Just gave me a look like she already knew the thoughts racing through my head and had decided not to scold me for them. Then she said, calm and flat:

“Laenor was planning to fake his death. Run off to Essos. He thought if he disappeared, Rhaenyra could marry you—have someone who could protect her from court vipers. After Joffrey died, he didn’t have much left in him. He’d lost the will to live.”

I cursed under my breath. “Idiot,” I hissed. “Did he even think about the boys? About Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenys lifted an eyebrow. “If it helps,” she said dryly, “when we found out his precious Qarl was feeding information to Otto Hightower, he realized just how badly he’d messed up.”

She didn’t even try to hide the venom in her voice.

Can’t say I blamed her. I was one sentence away from saddling Caraxes and torching Oldtown myself.

“Anyway,” she continued, eyes narrowing, “Qarl paid for his betrayal. Painfully. As he deserved. And now that Otto and Cole are rotting six feet under, Laenor was ready to be the petty, sharp-mouthed Velaryon he was raised to be—ready to rain misery on that Highwhore Queen.”

I let out a bark of laughter. “Highwhore? Gods, that fits her. She did crawl her way into power through the royal bed.” Rhaenys smirked but said nothing. When I caught my breath, I tilted my head. “You still haven’t answered my question. What changed for you?”

She sighed. She rubbed her hands together like they were cold, though the hall was warm.

“Laenor’s confession,” she said at last, “made me realize how close I was to losing everything. I’ve already buried a child. And if I kept clinging to pride, I’d lose the rest of my family too.”

She paused, then gave a soft, almost surprised chuckle. “Corlys—stubborn old sea snake—was able to love those boys without hesitation. Laenor’s love for them had been enough for my husband. So why couldn’t I? What made me so different?”

I didn’t interrupt. I let her say her piece.

“I made a promise to do better,” she said simply. “And Lucerys… Gods, Luke made it easy. He’s kind. Gentle. Doesn’t carry the entitlement the rest of us do.”

She smiled, real this time. “The people of Spicetown adore him. The servants at High Tide would throw themselves off the balcony for him. He listens and when he speaks, he means every word. He’ll make a good Lord of Driftmark.”

I believed her.

Because I’d seen it too.

He was after all, Driftmark’s Pearl.

We didn’t say anything afterward. There was nothing else to discuss. Rhaenys had said her piece. I’d listened. And for once in our lives, there was nothing left to argue about. So, I kissed my daughters goodbye—Baela tried to pretend she wasn’t crying, and Rhaena gave me her favor for battle—then I mounted Caraxes and flew to war.

I was content.

The girls were safe with Rhaenys, Driftmark was stable, Rhaenyra had the regency, and Viserys—well, Viserys was floating somewhere between milk of the poppy and blissful ignorance. The realm was being steered by the right hands.

And me? I was doing what I was made for. Burning enemy ships. Slicing through Triarchy fleets like a dragon through parchment. I didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to scheme. Just flew, fought, and torched anything that didn’t fly a Targaryen banner. It was the most peace I’d felt in years.

So, of course, my brother had to screw it all up.

I got the raven in the middle of a campaign—nothing urgent, just a friendly little note saying Aemond had arrived at the war camp and was now under my command.

Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed.

I figured I’d be greeted by some sullen boy with too much pride and not enough scars. Maybe he’d whine about armor being too heavy or ask to braid Caraxes’s tail.

What I got instead was a two-and-ten namedays-old lunatic with a sword on his hip and murder in his eyes.

He marched right up to me, bowed—barely—and said, “Uncle, I want you to teach me the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria and help improve my fluency in High Valyrian.”

I blinked. “You what?”

“Also,” he added, entirely too casual, “when can I start burning shit down?”

Behind us, Cannibal—who’d been sleeping not five feet away—lifted her massive head and roared so loudly it rattled the cliffs.

I ignored how my soldiers flinched and ducked for their lives. I just stared at the boy, trying to figure out how much of this was Alicent’s fault, how much was Otto’s, and how much was just good old-fashioned inbreeding.

What the fuck, I thought.

Because I’d come here to wage war, not to raise another one.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 129 A.C

Being Master of Whispers meant I had to be everywhere at once—at least in spirit. Physically, I stayed where the wine was good and the company better. But my ears? Those had to be in every hall, every port, every godsdamned raven rookery from Dorne to the Wall.

Which was… a challenge, at first.

Unlike Larys Strong—may he rot—I didn’t have a ready-made spy network. Those take time to build up. Years. Decades, even.

What I did have, however, were contacts.

My father raised me to be the future of Driftmark. I was supposed to be a sea lord, a master of tides and trade, a man who could read wind patterns and profit margins in the same breath.

High Tide wasn’t just a castle. It was a port. A crossroads. At any given moment, you could find half a dozen tongues echoing through the halls—Lyseni spice merchants arguing over tariffs with Pentoshi silk dealers, while a Westerlander knight lost his coin to a Braavosi sailor in the corner.

I grew up knowing how to listen without looking like I was listening. How to smile while reading between the lines.

So, when I took up my new role, I went back to what I knew.

I started small. Invitations to tea. Supper. Wine in the solar. Sailors I hadn’t seen in years, merchants who remembered when I still wore my hair was still short and got lost below deck.

Most of them came happily. A few took some coaxing. But all of them brought information.

And the best part? These little meetings weren’t just about whisper-gathering—they doubled as a financial strategy.

Under Hightower reign, the crown had relied almost entirely on taxes. Of course they did. Alicent and Otto viewed it as the realm’s sacred duty to maintain the royal family’s lifestyle. Never mind that the royal family had ballooned into a web of dependents, hangers-on, and seven-course feasts for breakfast.

They bled the smallfolk dry with tariffs, tolls, and fines, and somehow expected to be loved for it. And then they had the gall to wonder why House Hightower—Oldtown of all places—didn’t possess the same wealth as Driftmark.

It’s simple. House Hightower leaned on the Faith and the Citadel like a crutch. They forced ships into their port through taxes and piety.

Driftmark? Driftmark invited people in. We didn’t demand. We enticed.

We built a port where people wanted to dock. Not out of obligation, but out of opportunity.

My father—say what you want about his pride, but he knew trade—had a waiting list of merchants trying to dock at High Tide. Not a list of ships being redirected out of fear or necessity. A waiting list.

People could have chosen Craw Isle. They could have gone to Hull or even tried their luck up the coast. But they came to us.

House Redwyne, with all their wine and their Reach ports, were more popular for trade than Oldtown. That should’ve told Otto everything. But no.

Entitlement has a way of blinding men who believe they’re already owed the world.

So, I got to work.

Being Prince Consort wasn’t just about looking pretty in court robes and sipping wine next to Rhaenyra. It meant doing the actual job—restoring the realm’s neglected ties with Essos, especially with the war against the Triarchy burning hotter by the day.

I started small. Quiet. Formal.

I invited Braavosi Sealords for supper—twice, in fact, because the first one got too drunk to remember where he left his boots. I opened correspondence with the Prince of Pentos, who responded with a polite letter and three crates of spice I’ll never use.

And most unexpectedly, I even reached out to Princess Saera Targaryen in Volantis. Figured she'd appreciate a letter from someone who also knew a thing or two about being cast aside, ignored, and underestimated. She did. Turns out she had quite a bit to say.

The few times King Viserys managed to stay conscious long enough to attend a council session—or any gathering, really—he praised my work.

Said I was doing a fine job. Visionary, even. Threw a banquet in my name and toasted to my health like we were long-lost friends instead of awkward in-laws barely two sentences away from snapping at each other.

I hated him.

The man was a coward. Pathetic. Let Otto crawl into his ear like a tick, then married that snake’s whore of a daughter.

But I accepted the toast anyway.

Not for the praise—gods no. But because it made her squirm.

Watching Alicent’s face twitch while her king toasted me—the husband of the woman she tried to destroy—was worth every shallow word. Her smiles were thin. Her fingers bloodied from where her nails dug into her own skin. If you looked closely enough, you could see the fury shaking in her shoulders.

But that wasn’t enough.

No.

This was the woman who stole the crown that should’ve gone to my sister. Who betrayed Rhaenyra, my best friend. She raised our sons. Stood beside me when I couldn’t stand. Let me be something more than a ghost in silk.

And Alicent? She spat on that.

She spread her legs for a mourning king, took advantage of his grief, and snatched a crown that never belonged to her. And to top it off, she let Criston fucking Cole—the beast who caved in my lover’s face—strut around court like he was a hero.

I didn’t care that he was dead now. That wasn’t justice. That was overdue housekeeping.

But I remembered. I remembered every bruise he left on my sons. Every slight. Every look. Every moment Alicent pretended not to see.

So, I did what any slighted Velaryon with wealth, time, and a grudge would do.

I sharpened my quill, dipped it in scandal, and handed it off to the right mouths.

Took a page straight out of Queen Rhaenys’s playbook and commissioned songs. Had bards write ballads with just enough truth to sting and just enough flair to stick in the heads of the drunk and idle. Plays followed. Satirical dramas, if we’re being generous—thinly veiled allegories, if we’re being honest. They played them in ports first, where no one cared about royal dignity. Then in taverns. Then in smaller noble courts, always just a few steps ahead of the letters begging for their censorship.

The content? Oh, it was brutal.

One particularly popular song—The Queen and Her Septa—opened with a haunting verse:

“Oh, sweet Queen Aemma, bent to the blade,
Her womb a battlefield, her crown never made.
While the King drank and prayed for a son to appear,
His daughter watched, drowning in fear.”

And then came the second verse.

“Enter Alicent, the maiden so meek,
With lashes downcast and words soft as silk.
She served him his wine, she knelt at his side,
Then slipped in his bed once the true queen had died.”

The chorus called her “The Seven’s favorite slut,” which, in hindsight, might’ve been a bit much—but I wasn’t aiming for subtle.

The bards were relentless. Another play, The Vow Unspoken, featured a thinly-veiled version of Ser Criston—called “Ser Crimson” because creativity has its limits—who beats a wedding guest to death onstage while the royal guards just stand around and sip wine.

Later, “Ser Crimson” shares a very steamy scene with a character named “Lady Green,” during which she moans that she’ll forgive his sins if he “keeps wearing the armor when he beds her.”

Not exactly subtle.

The court, of course, pretended to be scandalized. There were gasps. Fainting spells. A few septons declared the productions heretical.

But they kept going.

And the whispers spread like wildfire.

In the halls of the Red Keep:

“I heard the Queen once bribed a bard to stop playing that song about her knees being bruised from prayer—or was it something else?”

At the Sept:

“If Queen Alicent is the image of the Mother, then I fear for the Father’s taste.”

In the brothels of Flea Bottom—my personal favorite:

“The Highwhore is trending better than the Maiden tonight.”

That was the crown jewel. The nickname: The Highwhore.

They started painting it on alley walls. Carving it into the backs of tavern chairs. Even a few soldiers scrawled it on their shields as a joke before marching out to the Stepstones.

The smallfolk adored it. The noblewomen whispered it behind fans. The Reach nearly combusted. The Faith tried to push back—quiet sermons about modesty and virtue and the importance of royal dignity—but the damage was done.

Even Princess Saera wrote to me from Volantis:

“You’ve outdone yourself, dear cousin. That was the most delicious bit of character assassination I’ve ever seen executed outside of a brothel. I haven’t laughed this hard in years.”

Meanwhile, Alicent’s smiles grew thinner. Tighter. She started wearing green gloves again, likely to hide her bleeding nailbeds. She tried to hold her head high, but even the maids looked away when she passed, lips twitching.

Watching Alicent crumble under all the scrutiny of the court was… everything. I won’t lie about that.

For years, she had turned the Red Keep into a sanctified cage. Her whisper campaigns, her sermons disguised as supper conversation, the bloody seven-pointed stars carved into every hallway like sigils of guilt—every inch of the Keep was her stage, and my family were the caged beasts. But no more.

Now it was her time to squirm.

She walked the halls with a prayerbook clutched to her chest, but no one was fooled anymore. Her smiles were brittle, her silences bitter. She couldn’t walk into a room without feeling the shift in the air. People used to bow. Now they glanced, hesitated, and kept their heads turned just enough to avoid her gaze. Courtiers whispered. Servants giggled. Lords gossiped over wine cups, and ladies started leaving her out of luncheons.

Good.

But unlike her, I wasn’t out to punish children for their mother’s sins. My war was with her, not the people she dragged down with her.

So, I made sure the children were safe. Helaena had taken her vows in Maidenpool, and by the letters I received, she was well and happier than I’d ever seen her in the Keep. Aemond was squiring under Daemon in the Stepstones, burning pirate fleets and writing shockingly polite letters back to Driftmark—seriously, he signed them with “Respectfully, your nephew.”

Daeron was in Oldtown, a little too far for me to reach with influence or spies.

So that left Aegon.

Gods. Aegon.

Poor, sullen, half-drunk Aegon, raised in shadows and expectations. You could tell he hated every inch of that damn Keep, but he was too numb to even try leaving it. Alicent had been grooming him for the throne since he could walk—barking about duty, righteousness, survival, whatever excuse she needed to justify her obsession with crowning him.

But it was obvious he didn’t want it. Not the crown, not the responsibility. He just wanted someone to see him, not the title, not the burden. Just… him.

So, I invited him to dinner.

The first time, he didn’t show. The second time, he came drunk. The third time, he sat through it quietly, chewing his roast and barely looking up.

Progress.

Then came the meetings.

I started taking him along to the lesser ones—port negotiations, trade briefings, nothing too intense. He mostly sat in the corner, yawning or fiddling with the edge of his cloak. But he was listening. I could see it. And eventually, he asked a question.

“Why do we have so many debts to Braavos?”

Which turned into—

“Can we lower tariffs if we give them access to the Dornish coast?”

Which eventually turned into actual participation. He took notes. He leaned over to ask my opinion. Once, he even corrected a projection the Master of Coin had made about port yields—and he was right.

Then, I moved him into one of the spare rooms in our family wing.

Alicent had been horrified, but it’s not like she could say anything against it. Viserys was mostly bedridden. Her father was dead. Her allies had fallen like dominos. And the Blacks were back in power.

The court took notice, too. Whispers shifted.

“Aegon looked less drunk than usual today.”
“He knew the exact trade rate for Tyroshi saffron.”
“Did you see him speak up during the war council?”

I wasn’t trying to make him a king. That was never the goal.

But I was damned sure going to raise him into someone who could survive this court without being his mother’s weapon.

Aegon had even started laughing more. That was the first real sign of change.

One day during a trade meeting, we were discussing import fees and the absurd costs of pelts from the North when Aegon leaned over and muttered, “At least the badgers in Winterfell have better wigs than Otto did.”

I choked. Actually choked.

Nearly spat an entire gulp of Arbor gold all over the Master of Coin. Gods bless that boy. I hadn’t laughed like that since the first time Rhaenyra tried to pretend, she didn’t like lemon cakes.

After that, things just started falling into place. Aegon had an eye for numbers. He was surprisingly sharp when it came to balancing indulgence and business, which made him oddly perfect for merchant meetings.

He knew just enough about trade—thanks to years of quiet observation and probably some drunken eavesdropping—to make clever suggestions. He once helped me renegotiate a wine contract with a Lannister supplier just by casually asking whether the vintage had turned. The merchant panicked, dropped his price, and offered an extra barrel for "reputation maintenance.”

That boy was a menace. I loved it.

He also caught on—very quickly—that most meetings weren’t about business. Not really.

A merchant came to talk tariffs, but what he really brought was whispers from Volantis. A sailor arrived to update his shipping manifest but accidentally mentioned a Braavosi ship carrying a suspicious number of swords. A trader from Dorne drunkenly confessed over supper that Prince Qoren was amassing allies, something we hadn’t heard in council yet.

That was rapidly dealt with by having my mother “casually” flying over the shores of Dorne. After all, we could not have them joining the Triarchy’s side.

Aegon listened. He watched. He poured drinks and nodded at the right moments, and they forgot he was a prince. Just another spoiled noble wasting his family's gold on luxury goods.

Which made them talk. Gods, did they talk.

And Aegon remembered everything. Names. Prices. Secrets. Which merchant’s wife was cheating on him, which cousin hated the crown, which ports had been recently threatened by "anonymous" pirates.

After meetings, he’d trail behind me and murmur things like:

“Lord Velar was lying about that Tyroshi shipment. He hesitated too long when I mentioned saffron.”
“Master Tarlan's son is in debt to the Bank of Lys. I saw the seal on his satchel.”
“Did you notice the wine merchant kept avoiding your eye when Daemon’s name came up?”

Every time I looked at him, I saw a little more clarity in his expression. Less haze. Less bitterness.

We even started playing cyvasse in the evenings. I’d invite him to my solar under the pretense of reviewing reports, and an hour later we were arguing over, board pieces and listening to the newest bard composition Rhaenyra was trialing for the next court feast. One night, he actually beat me—smug little bastard. I claimed I let him win. He claimed I was bluffing.

I was so proud of him.

Aegon had just needed someone to see the good in him. Someone who didn’t want to use him or mold him into a copy of his father. Someone who wouldn’t punish him for failing to be perfect.

What was hard, truly hard, was getting Aegon to stop overindulging in alcohol and whoring. I could lecture him about his liver until I was blue in the face, but it was like asking a dragon to eat grass. Old habits die hard—especially ones learned young and normalized by a mother too busy praying and a grandfather too busy scheming.

But the real horror? The stomach-churning, blood-boiling horror? Finding out Aegon had been a regular spectator at the children’s fighting rings in Flea Bottom.

Children. Fighting. For sport.

I didn’t even know that was a thing. I’d walked those streets in my youth, sure, but nothing like that ever crossed my path. The moment he admitted it—quiet, eyes glassy—I felt something in me freeze over.

I stared at him. Not with anger. Not immediately. Just—pure, raw disappointment. The kind that hits like a gut punch. Aegon, my boy, looked at his feet, voice barely above a whisper.

“I… I’m sorry, kepa. Please… please don’t throw me away.”

And fuck me, that broke something in my chest. Because despite all his faults, I loved him. I raised him, in the way no one else had. I knew this wasn't fully his fault. Alicent and Otto had molded him like soft clay, twisting him into the shape they needed—an heir, a puppet, a symbol. But they’d never once taught him how to be a man.

I sighed. Deep, tired. Stepped forward. He flinched—flinched—and that hurt more than anything. He really thought I’d hit him. I didn’t say anything. I just wrapped him in my arms, pulled him in, and kissed the top of his head.

“I will never throw you away,” I told him, voice steady. “But I expect you to do better. Be better.”

He nodded, face pressed against my chest.

After a moment, I asked, “Why now? You’ve been keeping this from me for the last couple of years. What changed?”

He stepped back. Looked down again, a flicker of something new on his face—shame, yes, but also determination. “One of the whores I frequent,” he said softly. “She came to me. Said she’d given birth to my bastard. A boy. But… he was taken by the ringleaders.”

I blinked, processing.

Aegon had a son.

Of course he did. With all the drinking and the brothel-hopping, it was bound to happen. And yet, hearing it out loud made me sit down. Hard.

My son had a son.

Gods help me, I was a grandfather.

Not by blood, no. But I never cared for that. I’d raised Aegon as one of mine. Just like Jace, Luke, and Joff. If Aegon was my son, then this boy—his boy—was my grandson.

And my grandson was trapped in a godsdamned underground fighting ring.

Seasmoke was going to be spitting fire before the week was done.

I took a breath. “What’s his name?”

Aegon looked up, startled. “Gaemon,” he whispered. “She named him Gaemon. After Gaemon the Glorious.”

“That’s a good name for a Targaryen prince,” I said quietly.

“But he’s not a prince,” Aegon muttered, voice thick with shame. “Not really.”

“Do you want him to be?” I asked, sharply. “Will you take responsibility?”

Aegon lifted his chin. The hesitation was gone.

“Yes,” he said, firm. “I will.”

“Good.” I nodded, stood, and grabbed my cloak. “Then follow me.”

I knew exactly what I was walking into when I knocked on the King’s chamber doors with Aegon in tow. Viserys had been alert that morning—more alert than usual—and Rhaenyra had just finished giving him her report on the last fortnight’s council decisions. Which meant he was feeling like a real king again. Not great timing, but this couldn’t wait.

He looked up from his bed, pale but sharp-eyed, like a blade left out in the snow too long. “What is it now?” he rasped, his voice thin but stern. “Why is Aegon here?”

Aegon flinched. I didn't blame him.

I bowed my head slightly. “There’s something you need to hear, Your Grace. From your son.”

Aegon shuffled forward, then sank to his knees at the foot of the bed. His head bowed. “I have… done shameful things. I fathered a bastard. And I—I used to attend the fighting pits in Flea Bottom. The ones with children.”

Viserys went still.

The silence stretched. For a moment, I thought the old man had passed out from sheer shock. Then—

“You what?” His voice cracked like a whip, sudden and terrible.

Aegon bowed deeper. “I’m sorry, Father. I was wrong. I know that now.”

Viserys sat upright, wheezing with effort but livid all the same. “You brought shame upon this house. Upon me! What kind of prince skulks around pits to watch babes be beaten for coin?”

I stepped in before Aegon could start crying. “He came forward of his own volition,” I said firmly. “He wasn’t caught. Nor was he dragged here. He chose to confess—and to take responsibility. That deserves recognition.”

Viserys narrowed his eyes at me. “What would you have me do, Laenor? Clap him on the back for siring bastards in brothels?”

“No,” I said, carefully. “I would have you let him clean up the mess he’s made. Strip him of his place in the succession. Let him marry the mother of his child. Let him raise the boy properly. Legitimize the child. Give them Harrenhal, it’s been empty since Larys died and there’s no Strong left to inherit the seat.”

Viserys blinked. “You want me to hand over one of the great castles of the Riverlands to—”

“A boy who wants to be a better man,” I cut in. “And to a child who never asked to be born in a pit. Rhaenyra will take care of the rings. You know she will. Let this be the end of it.”

Aegon looked up at his father, eyes red. “I don’t want the crown,” he said softly. “I never did. I just want to do right by my son.”

Viserys stared at us. Then at Aegon. His shoulders slumped as the last of his fury gave way to exhaustion. The old king waved a hand. “Go,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”

I didn’t waste time. I helped Aegon to his feet, nodded once to Viserys, and got us the hell out of there.

Later that day, Rhaenyra ordered the Gold Cloaks to raid and dismantle every child fighting ring in Flea Bottom.

And that was that.

For now.

Gaemon was legitimized and Aegon married Gaemon’s mother in a quiet ceremony. No pomp, no guests, just me, Rhaenyra, and a few witnesses. The three of them took the name Goldfyre, and Harrenhal was granted to them officially a week later, signed and sealed.

Of course, not everyone was thrilled.

Alicent looked ready to rip my face off the next time she passed me in the halls.

It was just after morning court, and I had barely made it past the Maidenvault when I heard the unmistakable clip of her heels on the stone. Fast, angry, and echoing like war drums. She rounded the corner like a bull let loose from the Dragonpit, green skirts swishing, mouth already open like a loaded crossbow.

“You absolute bastard,” she snapped, voice low but venomous, her smile stretched too tight to be real. “You’ve shamed the entire bloodline. Tarnished it. Do you even care what you’ve done?”

I blinked at her, utterly unbothered, sipping tea like we were chatting about the weather. “Morning to you, too, Your Grace.”

She stepped closer, eyes sharp as Valyrian steel. “You allowed my son to marry a whore. You legitimized a bastard. No noble house will ever support that line. You’ve made a mockery of everything House Targaryen is supposed to stand for.”

I tilted my head. “Funny, I don’t recall you objecting when you tried to betroth your daughter to her brother, or when your darling Cole murdered a man at a wedding. But this is where you draw the line?”

Alicent's nostrils flared, but I didn’t stop.

“You’re upset because you can’t control him anymore. Because Aegon’s not a pawn on your board. Because he chose to take responsability over your damned scheming.” I took a slow step forward. “And let's be honest, Your Grace—I’m surprised any of your children know the meaning of accountability, after being raised by you.”

She curled her lip, ignoring my barb, as she seethed. “And now he’s lord of Harrenhal? Raising a bastard and playing farmer? That’s better?”

I gave her my sweetest, fakest smile. “It’s not your concern anymore. Aegon was removed from the line of succession. Every member of the Small Council signed it. Viserys sealed it. So really, Your Grace, he could marry a sheep if he wanted to, and it still wouldn’t be your business.”

Alicent made a strangled noise—somewhere between a scoff and a shriek—and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. Her hands were clenched so tightly at her sides I half-expected her seven-pointed-star to snap.

“You are going to regret this,” she hissed. “You think you’ve won, but you’ve just weakened the crown.”

I shrugged. “The crown’s doing just fine. Rhaenyra’s holding court, Daemon is winning the war, and you’re losing sleep over potatoes in Harrenhal. I’d say things are looking up.”

She stormed off then, skirts billowing, muttering curses under her breath. Probably heading straight to the sept to pray for my sudden death.

I sipped the last of my tea and kept walking. I had a meeting with a Braavosi wine merchant in an hour, and honestly, after dealing with Alicent, I deserved a drink. Maybe two. Or the whole cask.

But I didn’t care.

Because Aegon was finally free. He could breathe. No more pressure to sit on a throne he hated. No more mother looming over him like a specter. Just a boy, his dragon, his family, and his bloody potatoes.

Harrenhal suited him, strangely enough. That ruin of curses and melted stone. Fertile lands, massive halls, a lake big enough to swim with his son. He took it to like a duck to water. He was still figuring out how to be a husband, a father, and a lord all at once, but his letters were hopeful.

Last I heard, he was knee-deep in experiments trying to ferment potatoes into something strong enough to burn the throat and numb the soul. He said Gaemon helps by stomping the spuds with his bare feet, which I politely tried not to picture.

I wrote back promising a trade agreement if he succeeded. House Goldfyre would produce the alcohol, and House Targaryen would handle its trade across the realm—for a modest fee, of course. Royal endorsement doesn’t come cheap.

He signed his reply Your son, the Master of Potatoes.

I think he’s happy.

That’s all I wanted.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of the Greens’ scheming. It never is with them. You take one piece off the board—like disinheriting Aegon, changing his name, marrying him off, shipping him to Harrenhal with a new life and a bastard-turned-heir—and they just move the next piece forward.

Enter: Aemond.

Because of course it had to be Aemond.

Alicent pivoted so fast you’d think she’d been planning it all along. Suddenly, the quiet second son, the one who once clung to his mother’s skirts and kept a book under one arm like it was a shield, was now her golden boy. Her new hope. The last redeemable Targaryen in her eyes.

And—well—I’ll give credit where it’s due. Aemond was… formidable. Studious, devout in his sword training, and for some godsdamned reason, bonded to Cannibal of all dragons. Cannibal! That boy mounted a beast everyone else avoided like the plague and made it look easy.

Then he went off to the Stepstones and is considered a bloody war hero. One of the youngest knights to be ever knighted. Covered in glory. Hailed by the troops. They even started calling him the “Dark Prince.” Very dramatic. Very marketable.

So, I did the only thing I could do at that point: I prayed.

I prayed the rumors I was hearing were true, because if they were, the irony alone might just win us this war.

See, there was a whisper—a delicious, treasonous whisper—circulating from the Stepstones to the alleys of Lys, all the way to the spymaster notes in my desk drawer: Aemond was Daemon come again. Not just in spirit, but in… lineage. People were starting to wonder if maybe Daemon had snuck one past the king. Because Aemond wasn’t just similar to my goodbrother in temper and talent—he was a bloody mirror.

Same cutting glare. Same dragonriding style. Same love of violence in controlled doses. Same penchant for brooding dramatically near torchlight.

One of my spies in the Stepstones wrote in charcoal-smeared script:
“He speaks like Daemon. He drinks like Daemon. He fights like Daemon. Gods help us, I think he is Daemon.”

And I howled.

I know for a fact that’s not possible—Daemon would combust before laying with anyone who carried Hightower blood. But the rumors. Oh, the rumors! They were snowballing into the most glorious chaos.

Some Essossi traders passing through court started taking bets. One Myrish merchant told me he wagered ten gold dragons that Aemond would either marry a courtesan or start a war on his own just to prove he could out-Daemon Daemon. Another claimed he overheard a Pentoshi envoy whispering that “only one Rogue Prince can exist at a time, and Westeros already has two.”

I hadn’t had time to interrogate Daemon about whether Aemond was an enemy, an ally, or just an extremely unsettling reflection of himself. Not yet. Letters to the Stepstones could be intercepted, and with things the way they were, even ravens had ears. Especially when Alicent was on the move again.

While I was trying to figure out if my rogue nephew was going to join us or stab us in the back, the Green Queen was doing what she did best—wheeling, dealing, and selling off her children like they were prizes at a feast.

With Helaena tucked away in Maidenpool, happily chasing prayer beads and beetles, Alicent had only two sons left in her arsenal—Aemond and Daeron. She was now offering them up like meat to the highest bidder. And not quietly, either. She was going full spectacle.

House Baratheon and House Lannister were her targets, and let me tell you, it was embarrassing watching them dance.

Jason Lannister showed up with polished gold buttons and enough pomade in his hair to coat a ship’s hull. Borros Baratheon came bellowing into the Red Keep like he owned the place, dragging four daughters behind him and clearly hoping to pawn one off on Aemond. Or Daeron. Or both, if he could get away with it.

The worst part? Alicent had them competing.

She wasn’t even subtle about it—she'd hint to Jason that the Baratheons had offered her Storm’s End support if Daeron married one of their daughters, and then wink at Borros, implying that the Lannisters were going to get the Stepstones if Aemond took a golden-haired wife. She dangled the position of Queen like a jewel-encrusted carrot, whispering that whoever got Aemond's hand in marriage could be the next consort when the Greens reclaimed the crown.

I’ll give her this: the woman had picked up a few tricks during her years clinging to Viserys’ elbow.

But gods, the court was a mess.

At one feast, Jason tried to outdo Borros by donating a small fortune to the Queen’s charity for Flea Bottom orphans—a thousand dragons in gold, all delivered with an obnoxious speech about generosity and the "importance of raising strong sons."

Borros scoffed and, not to be outdone, doubled the donation. And then had a bard sing a song about the strength of House Baratheon and how the storm always outlasts the lion.

It was chaos.

Their wives, understandably, were not thrilled. Lady Joanna looked like she wanted to hurl herself into a firepit every time Jason opened his mouth. Lady Elinda kept gripping her wine cup like it was a weapon. They exchanged tight-lipped smiles that could've curdled milk and once, I swear, I saw Joanna Lannister mouth “this bitch” when Alicent passed by in another new gown.

Alicent, meanwhile, was thriving.

Strutting through court like a peacock in mating season. Smiling sweetly, accepting gifts, dropping cryptic comments about wedding bells and the Seven’s blessings. She looked positively radiant—the smug glow of a woman who still believed herself in control of the game.

It was all so painfully transparent. She needed validation like most people need water. The attention of powerful men was her armor. Without it, she’d crumble. But as long as Borros and Jason kept fighting over the chance to plant their banners on her side, she felt untouchable.

“That is going to end up bad,” Rhaenyra muttered, leaning against me at the High Table as if she wasn’t the heir to the throne but just some maiden gossiping. She looked entirely unimpressed, sipping her wine like it was water, eyes locked on the disaster waiting to unfold across the hall.

The feast was in full swing. Trays of roasted boar and lemon cakes were being passed. Minstrels played something cheerful in the corner, though it barely rose above the drunk shouting. People were dancing, toasting, and laughing.

News had come earlier that day by raven—Tyrosh had fallen. Daemon and Aemond had apparently flown their dragons in side by side and reduced the city’s defenses to rubble in a matter of hours. The Stepstones were won, again. Yet this time, we had also conquered Tyrosh. Which prompted Lys and Myr to wave little white banners and begging for peace, as they did not want to be next.

King Viserys—who had only been awake long enough these days to cough and mumble about old memories—suddenly sprang to life when he heard the news. He was so thrilled he almost tripped over his own robes announcing a feast in their honor. Which will be followed by an entire week of celebration and a bloody tourney when the princes returned home. He even named Aemond “Prince of Tyrosh and Lord Paramount of the Stepstones” right there in front of the whole court.

Alicent had practically melted with joy. Her little smirk was back, lips curled like she’d just won a war herself. She made sure to look especially pleased as Borros and Jason competed to see who could dump the most gold into Viserys’ lap. Apparently, they were funding not just for this feast but the tourney too. A great, shiny distraction from the fact that Alicent was still dangling Aemond like fresh meat in front of them—whoever bid the highest would get to marry one of their daughters into the crown.

I followed Rhaenyra’s goblet as she tilted it subtly toward where the two Lords were sitting. Or rather, glowering. Jason looked flushed and smug, Borros looked like he was one rude toast away from flipping the entire table.

I raised an eyebrow. “Dangling the position of Queen into the noses of ambitious lords can work—if you know how to do it without setting the whole table on fire.”

“She’s not doing it right,” Rhaenyra said, taking another slow sip of her Dornish Red. “She’s just throwing bait and hoping the biggest dog wins. And those two? They’re dogs with bad tempers and too much pride. They will end up tearing each other to pieces, before accepting defeat.”

She wasn’t wrong. Borros was halfway into his seventh cup and his face had gone a little too red to be healthy. Jason kept flashing his rings and bragging about his vineyards, and I could feel the tension rolling across the room like a stormcloud. It was like watching two bulls eye each other across a pit. One sneeze from a servant and they’d start brawling.

As if Rhaenyra’s words summoned the Fourteen Hells, it happened.

Jason said something—I didn’t catch it, but Borros sure did. The Lord of Storm’s End leapt across the table, knocking over trays and flagons, and tackled the Lannister heir to the floor. There was a split second of stunned silence, and then swords were drawn.

Stormlanders against Westerlanders. In the middle of the King’s feast.

Knights in full armor were already swinging at each other, shoving guests out of the way, while Queen Alicent shrieked something about honor and dignity.

I didn’t even wait.

I stood and shouted for the Gold Cloaks, pointing toward the chaos like I was herding unruly pigs. “Break it up—now!”

At the same time, I motioned for the Kingsguard to get Rhaenyra and the rest of our family out. If I’d let Joffrey attend tonight, he would’ve been right in the middle of it, probably tossing dinner rolls at their heads like a tiny war general. Thank the Fourteen I’d said no.

Rhaenyra gave me a knowing look as she rose from her seat. “Told you so.”

“Don’t you dare,” I muttered, grabbing her elbow and leading her out.

Behind us, Borros was still yelling. Jason’s tunic was torn. Someone was bleeding. Viserys had slumped in his chair, mumbling something about Aegon the Conqueror and dreams.

What a bloody mess.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 132 A.C 

Of course, the one feast I chose to miss at the Red Keep ended with two Lord Paramounts gutting each other like pigs at a market stall. Truly, this realm never gives a woman a quiet evening.

My idiotic cousin Borros—gods rest his temper—ended up bashing Jason Lannister’s head against the wine-soaked floor. But not before the lion managed to run a sword straight through Borros' gut. It was a mess. Red Keep floors, stained red. Again. As if they ever got a break.

Now Cassandra is Lady of Storm’s End. She’s already six-and-ten and sharper than half the lords in that damned throne room. Elinda’s been grooming her for the role since she could walk, and by all accounts, Cassandra didn’t blink once when the maester confirmed her father was dead. Said only, “Summon the banners.” I always liked that girl.

Cerelle’s situation is a bit more complicated. Her mother, Joanna, stepped in as regent until she came of age, and though I never thought I’d say it, the Lannisters are in competent hands—because Joanna’s far more cunning than Jason ever was. It helps that both widows now blame Alicent for their husbands’ deaths. Apparently, elbowing powerful men into your little schemes only works until their blood is on the floor and your hands still stink of roses and righteousness.

And now, both houses are firmly on Rhaenyra’s side. Because of course they are.

Rhaenyra protects female inheritance. Alicent preaches about male heirs like she’s the Septon’s favorite daughter. There’s not a highborn woman in court who hasn’t noticed. And now with Cassandra betrothed to Daemion Velaryon and Cerelle promised to Daeron Velaryon—well, it’s clear the Princess listens when I give advice.

I had suggested the pairings. Not just for political advantage, but because I’ve watched Daemion and Daeron grow into good, level-headed boys. It was time they were given something of their own.

Which brings me to Vaemond.

Now, I’m no fool. I know my good-brother still burns at the thought of his bloodline being sidelined. He was raised on legacy, on Driftmark’s salt-soaked pride and the weight of seahorse banners. He wanted a son of his own to inherit. Wanted his line to continue. And for a long time, I thought he’d never move past it.

But fostering Lucerys changed things. Not all at once—but slowly, in those quiet, ordinary days when no one else was looking.

The first time I saw the start of the change was one gray Driftmark morning, where the sea mist clung to everything and the gulls wouldn’t shut up for a moment. I was in the solar reviewing ship manifests when I heard the commotion below. Laughter. Loud, giddy, young laughter.

I looked out the window and there he was—Lucerys, barely nine, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair windswept and full of brine. He was beaming. His boots were muddy, his hands stained with fish scales and gods-know-what else from helping unload barrels off one of the trading cogs that had just arrived from Gulltown.

He looked like an absolute mess.

But he also looked happy. Not princely. Just a boy who had worked hard and was proud of it.

Behind him stood Vaemond, arms crossed, jaw tight as always, but his gaze lingered. There was a look in his eyes—not quite warmth, not yet—but something like curiosity. Surprise. Maybe even the flicker of pride that snuck up on him before he had time to shove it down.

I made my way down, slow and careful on the stone steps, and caught the tail end of their conversation.

“You missed the tally on that second barrel,” Vaemond said, gesturing with his chin toward the manifest.

“I did?” Luke’s brows furrowed. “Was it the one marked with the blue seal?”

“No. That one was correct. It was the green. Try again.”

Luke bit his lip and scanned the paper again, smudged with his own thumbprint. After a moment, he nodded. “Right. I counted ten, but there were twelve. I forgot to check the extra crate that came in late.”

Vaemond didn’t praise him. Of course he didn’t. But he nodded. And for Vaemond, that was practically a round of applause.

Later, as they were walking back toward the castle, I heard Luke pipe up, “I want to do the tallies again tomorrow. I’ll get it right.”

“You’d better,” Vaemond replied, gruff. But his pace slowed just enough for Luke to catch up and walk beside him instead of trailing behind. That was when I knew something had shifted.

It wasn’t just that Vaemond tolerated Lucerys. It was that he had started seeing him as part of Driftmark. Not some political inconvenience dropped into our halls, but a boy who woke up early, worked alongside the stewards, learned the weight of goods and names of merchants, and asked questions.

He tried. Gods, he really tried. He practiced his knots until his fingers blistered. He got seasick and still insisted on staying topside during the storm to learn how the helmsman steered. And every night, he’d come to supper with new facts about sail rigging or trade taxes, rattling off terms as if the grown men in the room hadn’t mastered years ago.

A week later, I caught them in the yard. Lucerys was squinting up at the signal tower, lips moving as he tried to translate the ship codes flapping in the wind. He was muttering colors and numbers under his breath, one hand shading his eyes.

Vaemond stood beside him, arms crossed, frown firmly in place. “That’s not a signal to anchor,” Vaemond said, voice low but steady. “Red over blue means fire on board.”

“Oh,” Luke blinked. “That... explains why the guards started yelling last time.”

Vaemond let out a sharp huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Next time, read the masthead before you raise alarm.”

Luke nodded, scratching a note onto the back of his hand because he’d forgotten his parchment again. “Got it.”

I stood in the archway for a while just watching them—Lucerys, eager and earnest, and Vaemond, trying so hard not to let the softness creep into his voice. It was there, though. Rough-edged and reluctant, like every word of encouragement had to be wrestled free from years of suspicion, but real all the same.

By the end of the first moon, something had shifted.

It wasn’t just drills in the yard anymore. Vaemond started bringing him ledgers. Big ones. Thick old tomes bound in cracked leather that smelled of dust and seaweed. Port logs, taxation records, import lists with columns so tight even I needed a candle to read them.

And Lucerys? Gods, the boy took to it like a sponge to water.

He’d sit curled by the hearth in the great hall, cross-legged with his boots half-off, scratching out figures in the margins with a stylus. Every time he got something wrong, he’d grumble under his breath, erase it, and start again.

I found him asleep on the floor more than once, face pressed to a ledger, ink smeared on his cheek. I’d cover him with a blanket and leave him be.

One night, I walked into the solar to find them both hunched over the charting table, squinting at shipping routes and arguing over the taxation weights of different goods from Tyrosh.

“Spices are taxed at five percent,” Luke insisted, tapping the parchment.

“Not when they’re brought in bulk under House Celtigar’s seal,” Vaemond countered. “Then it’s four. Learn the exceptions.”

Luke pouted, but he also nodded, crossed it out, and wrote it again.

Vaemond began pulling him into meetings. Small ones, at first. Listening in on merchant negotiations, observing how tariffs were levied. I saw the way he’d glance at Luke when a deal was struck—like he was waiting to see if the boy got it. And most times, Luke did.

There was one evening—just after supper, candlelight flickering low, maps spread across the war table—when Vaemond handed Lucerys a quill and said, “Plot out a route from Driftmark to Volantis avoiding any Stepstones activity. Let’s see if you’ve been paying attention.”

Lucerys looked at me first, wide-eyed. I gave him a little nod. He sat down, smoothed out the parchment with hands still too small for the weight of lordship, and got to work.

He made a mistake in the first draft. Vaemond made him start over.

But by the fifth try, it was solid.

Vaemond didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “Better. Now memorize it.”

And Lucerys lit up.

That night, when Luke had gone to bed, I cornered Vaemond by the hearth. “You’re teaching him well,” I said softly.

“He listens,” he replied, gruff again. But there was something gentler beneath it. Something resigned and just a bit fond.

“He’s trying to earn his place,” I told him.

Vaemond gave me a look. “He already has.”

That was the moment I knew. Luke had earned his place. Not because of name or blood or politicking—but because he showed up every day. Learned the ropes. Asked questions. Took the lash of sea winds and noble expectations and still smiled through it. The servants adored him. The dockhands respected him. Even the old maester muttered something about him being “born to the salt.”

So yes, Vaemond had grown to accept Lucerys as the heir to Driftmark. He might not have been overjoyed about it, but he respected the boy. But he still didn’t like that his own sons had nothing.

Which is why, when the time came to arrange those matches, I made sure the younger Velaryons were not left wanting. Daemion and Daeron will have lands, wives of influence, and their children will be Lords or Ladies Paramounts. And that eased Vaemond’s bitterness. At least, a little bit.

He may never love Luke like a trueborn grandnephew. But he bows when Luke walks into the council chamber now. He calls him “my lord” without gritting his teeth.

As for the rest of our chaotic family. Aegon and Helaena remained far away from court. Aemond did not even bother to return to King’s Landing for the celebration. He had remained in Tyrosh. Said he’d learned from his elders’ mistakes—no names mentioned, but the implication was loud and clear. He will be turning that archipelago into a proper stronghold for House Targaryen.

However, he didn’t do it alone. Second sons, third sons, all the ones passed over in their own households started drifting toward the Stepstones. Aemond offered them land, titles, purpose. And surprisingly? Aemond made a half-decent lord. Stern but fair, sharp-tongued but honest. The kind of man who could gut you with a word, then hand you a sword and tell you to try better next time.

He was still a copy of Daemon that left ne wary about the boy. If the idea of Daemon bedding Alicent was not enough to have me crying from laughter, I would have believed those ridiculous rumors.

Prince Daeron followed not long after. With Aemond carving a new territory out of old ruins, Daeron packed up and moved to the isles to help him manage it. Two dragonriders, one fledgling kingdom. It was bold. It was risky. And somehow it worked.

That left Alicent in the Red Keep. Alone.

She had no children left to hoard and show off. No direct control. Just a dwindling list of allies in the Reach and a couple Riverland houses too small or too indebted to matter much. Her grip was slipping, and she knew it.

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra’s influence only grew. Her court had become a tide, pulling in nobles and knights with every passing moon. After Jason Lannister’s unfortunate skull-cracking at Borros’s hands, Tyland thought he saw an opportunity. He tried to angle for regency over Joanna Lannister, claiming she needed a strong male hand to help her “manage the affairs of the Rock.”

Unfortunately for him, at that time, Daemon had just returned to the capital.

Back during the war at the Stepstones, soldiers had been complaining about the lack of funds they had to work with. Daemon had been confused and then he was angry. Because Rhaenyra hadn’t cut the navy’s funding. If anything, she’d increased it. So, where had the gold gone to?

The moment Daemon walked into the Small Council chamber; there was a fire in his eyes. He had not changed at all. Just barged in like a storm with a stack of ledgers and that barely contained rage that made lesser men sweat.

And look, I tried not to stare at Daemon, Rhaenyra, and Laenor… but they were a mess. All three of them. Rhaenyra had a bite mark on the back on her neck she clearly didn’t notice, Laenor’s hair was still damp from what I hope was a bath and not something worse, and Daemon—well, Daemon looked like he’d fought a bear and kissed it afterward.

I didn’t ask. Gods help me, I did not ask.

Daemon slammed the first ledger down on the table. “Explain this,” he growled at Tyland, the current Master of Ships who immediately looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Docking taxes delayed due to high tides,” Tyland said, trying to sound confident. “And the harbor ledgers were miscounted—”

Another book hit the table. “And this?”

“Trade tariffs—”

“And this?” Daemon threw down a crumpled letter with Rhaenyra’s seal.

I watched Rhaenyra’s lips tighten. She hadn’t spoken a word yet, but her silence said enough. Laenor raised an eyebrow, looking thoroughly unimpressed, and muttered, “Someone’s been stupid.”

“You’re Master of Ships. You approved these transfers. You signed these accounts. So, tell me, Lord Tyland—where’s the money?” Daemon’s purr was predatory and promised pain.

Tyland turned paler than a snowbear’s arse. “There were… reallocations. Certain infrastructure projects—”

“Lies,” Rhaenyra said, sharp as steel. “I never cut the fleet. I increased the allocation. I have the scrolls to prove it.”

“And yet,” Daemon said, circling Tyland like a dragon, “the docks are rusting, the fleet’s unpaid, and my soldiers are sewing their own boots. So, I’ll ask one more time—where. Is. The. Gold?”

The chamber held its breath.

It didn’t take long after that. Rhaenyra brought out the official scrolls, Laenor summoned copies from the counting house, and Daemon made sure Tyland had no way out but through the truth. He confessed within the hour—embezzlement, redirection of funds, skimming off the war budget.

Treason, plain and simple.

By dusk, the sentence was passed.

The next morning, I stood beside Rhaenyra on the balcony, watching Daemon execute Tyland Lannister with one clean swing.

And Daemon—never one to waste a perfectly good outrage—sent a raven to Casterly Rock that same night. It was polite, technically. Regal, even. But make no mistake, it dripped with threat. He demanded reparations from House Lannister. For the gold stolen. For the insult. And—though he didn’t say it—for the sheer gall of thinking he wouldn’t notice.

He signed it in Valyrian. Just to be petty.

Joanna Lannister responded with equal speed and considerably less flair. The terms were clear. Joanna would keep her regency and Cerelle would remain heir to Casterly Rock. In return, the West would publicly reaffirm their allegiance to Princess Rhaenyra, and House Lannister had to pay back every single stolen gold coin—with interest. Daemon insisted on that. Interest.

“I want them to feel it,” he said at breakfast, tearing into a peach with all the subtlety of a man who once brought down a Triarchy prince with a smile and a dagger. “I want them to weep while signing the ledgers.”

Rhaenyra didn’t even flinch. “Then let’s make sure the whole realm knows exactly how generous we’re being by not taking more.”

And we did.

Thanks to the treasures plundered from the Triarchy—gold, jewels, spices, and silks—House Targaryen’s coffers weren’t just full again. They were overflowing. And that was before the reparations from House Lannister even hit the counting tables.

It would’ve been easy—expected, even—for Rhaenyra to hoard it. To squirrel the coin away in vaults, to line the walls of Dragonstone with rubies and carve her likeness into a hundred gold statues. That’s what most monarchs would’ve done.

But my girl had different plans.

The first thing she did? Ordered the reconstruction of King’s Landing’s sewer system. Gods, it was about time. Rats the size of hounds, gutters that flooded every time someone sneezed near the Blackwater, and an aroma that could knock anyone out.

So, Rhaenyra brought in engineers—good ones, from Braavos and Volantis and even Qohor—to design something new. Something better. Cleaner streets. Faster drainage. Fewer rats. And miracle of miracles? Fewer riots. Apparently, when people aren’t wading through sewage to buy bread, they complain less.

Next came the roads. Pavement where there had been dirt. I watched the first stone laid myself—Baela overseeing the laborers like a drill sergeant, her boots muddy, hair tied back, shouting over carts and mule brays. Jacaerys was beside her, sleeves rolled up, actually helping a builder haul a beam.

And the best part? Rhaenyra didn’t stand in front of the crowd and declare it all her doing.

She stepped back. Let Baela and Jace have the spotlight.

Genius.

Put the future Queen and King in front of the people—not on a velvet-draped dais, but in the dirt, elbow-deep in the mess of the realm they would one day rule. Let the cobbler’s apprentice see Baela cursing at a crooked beam. Let the baker’s boy watch Jacaerys haul bricks. Let them all witness the royal bloodline sweat.

Let them know the crown sees them.

At the reopening of the market square, I stood off to the side, a little in shadow—watching, listening. Beside me was an old fishmonger I’d seen around since Viserys’s first grey hair. His cart was finally off the mud and onto a proper stone path. He leaned close, squinting at Baela as she wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her arm, leaving a smear of dirt across her temple.

“I didn’t know future monarchs could get their boots muddy,” he muttered, more amused than bitter.

A fruit seller to his right snorted. “Look at that girl, barking orders like she owns the place.”

“She will,” said a butcher’s daughter, barely out of her teens, eyes bright as she watched Jacaerys help lift a crate that two men had failed to shift. “And I don’t mind it. Not if she keeps the piss water out of my doorway.”

Someone in the back murmured, “She’s got her grandsire’s temper, that one. The good Velaryon fire.”

Another added, “And the prince’ smile. Makes you think he might actually give a shit what happens to us.”

The whispers spread like wildfire. At the taverns, they called Baela the “Stone Princess”—not for coldness, but for strength. She was solid, grounded. One man claimed she yelled at a corrupt foreman so hard he quit on the spot and moved to Pentos. Another said Jace had sat down with a blind widow who couldn’t leave her home and promised to install steps and a railing by week’s end. And then he did.

Word traveled faster than ravens. Through markets, bakeries, stables. And that was the difference. The truth Alicent and her glass-house court of sermons and silks never understood. You don’t rule the realm by demanding loyalty.

You earn it.

Baela and Jace weren’t just heirs. They were the ones who got dirt under their nails, who fixed the reek and laid the stone, who showed up.

And the people saw it. More than that—they felt it.

No noble dared to comment on it. No one said that this was not the work of a prince and princess. They all knew who held the power at the moment. With Tyland Lannister’s execution still fresh in the memory of every noble with sticky fingers, there wasn’t a soul left on the Small Council who dared to oppose the Crown Princess.

Runciter’s death hadn’t helped either. Quiet. Painless, supposedly. Some said he died in his sleep. Others claimed the wine he sipped at supper had tasted oddly like almonds. The truth didn’t matter. He was gone, and with him, another whisper of resistance.

The Small Council, had finally shifted on the Black’s side.

Harrold Westerling and Lord Beesbury had always stood with Rhaenyra, even when it cost them comfort and favor. Vaemond—newly confirmed as Master of Ships—sat taller now, no longer a reluctant ally, but a man with the fleet behind him and a ledger of duties that Lucerys had once practiced at his side. Grand Maester Gerardys, a steady hand and sharp mind, had replaced Runciter, and not a moment too soon.

And Daemon?

Daemon was back at the table. Wearing the smirk of a man who’d just cracked the shell of his enemy’s best defense and found it hollow. With the Gold Cloaks under his command again, the streets bent to his will. Law and order had his name stamped into it—sometimes literally. The cloaks wore red thread in their belts now, a silent but pointed symbol of their loyalty.

Alicent still lived in the Red Keep. But that’s all she did—live. Her prayers rang hollow in the sept. Her Reach bannermen sent fewer ravens by the week. Her voice at council was met with polite nods and quick adjournments.

She had the Faith. She had tradition. She had memory.

But we had the crown. The council. The army. The gold.

And for the first time in years… the Realm.

So, of course, Alicent would try to do something.

The letter reached Driftmark while I was showing Lucerys how to assess castle upkeep—checking the ledgers, inspecting the granaries, discussing how much grain was stored versus how much was spoiled. Not exactly the stuff of songs, but vital work. My grandson was four-and-ten, nearly a man grown. In a few short years, he'd be of age, and while the day-to-day running of High Tide would eventually fall to his wife, I was making damn sure he’d know the difference between a clever steward and a bleeding embezzler.

Baela and Rhaena had moved to the Red Keep a couple of years back, living with their father. Baela needed time to grow closer to Jacaerys—who’d one day be her husband and her king—and Rhaena… well, Rhaena just wanted to spend more time with her father. I missed them, of course. Driftmark felt quieter without their laughter, their bickering, their dragons lighting up the horizon. But in their absence, I had more time with Lucerys.

And Lucerys… Lucerys had bloomed. He was taller now, stronger, graceful in the way only Velaryons ever were on a ship’s deck. The same Valyrian cheekbones, the same smile as Rhaenyra when she was that age. Gods, sometimes it was like watching the past walk beside me again. Had it not been for his coloring, he could have been easily considered Rhaenyra’s twin copy.

The court had even taken to calling him the Realm’s Delight reborn. And it wasn’t just the courtiers. Maidens whispered behind their fans. Even hardened knights stumbled over their words around him. But my sweet Lucerys didn’t seem to notice. He had no time for flirting or flattery. His mind was on maps, trade winds, and tide charts. He was determined to be a good Lord of Driftmark. And I was just as determined to make sure no one would ever take that from him.

So, imagine my dismay when the calm of our little lesson was shattered by Corlys shouting in High Valyrian loud enough to rattle the bloody castle walls.

Lucerys looked at me with wide eyes. “Should I… go check?”

“No, sweetheart,” I said quickly. “Back to the harbor ledgers. I’ll deal with your grandfather.”

I climbed the stairs to Corlys’ solar, already bracing myself. The maester stood frozen like a mouse before a lion, while my husband stormed back and forth, waving a sealed parchment in one hand like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

“What in the Fourteen’s name is happening here?” I barked, hands on my hips. “Corlys Velaryon, the entire castle can hear you howling curses at the king’s name!”

He spun to face me, eyes blazing. “You want to know what’s happening? Fine. I’ll tell you what’s happening. Your bloody House cannot stop themselves from slighting mine. Again and again, year after year—and I have borne it. I have borne it, Rhaenys. But this—this—is unforgivable!”

That made my spine stiffen. Corlys wasn’t a man prone to theatrics. If he said something was unforgivable, then it damn well was.

I took a step forward, held out my hand. “What’s in the letter, Corlys?”

He gave a bitter, mocking little laugh and slapped the parchment into my palm. “Read it. Go on. You’ll love this.”

I smoothed the royal seal and read it once. Then again. Then a third time, just to be sure my eyes weren’t lying.

“This…” I said slowly, “this is a betrothal decree.”

“Oh, not just any betrothal,” Corlys sneered, jaw tight. “A royal match. An alliance between House Velaryon and House Targaryen. Aemond bloody Targaryen—Prince of Tyrosh, Lord Paramount of the Stepstones, and rider of Cannibal, no less—is to wed our grandson.”

I blinked. “Lucerys.”

“Lucerys,” Corlys confirmed with a snarl. “Our heir. Promised—by Viserys himself—to that half-breed boy, who serves as the shining spearhead of the Highwhore’s ambitions.”

“And he didn’t even consult us,” I muttered, heart pounding.

“Signed, sealed, and probably dictated by that shriveled hag with a septon’s smile,” Corlys spat.

I closed my eyes for a long moment. Then opened them and folded the letter calmly. “Well. They’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Because Lucerys Velaryon may have many things ahead of him—a fleet to command, a title to uphold, a kingdom to serve—but being bound to the Greens? That would never be one of them.

Not while I still drew breath.

I took flight on Meleys, the wind howling through my hair as I urged the Red Queen toward King’s Landing. Corlys, who despises flying with a passion and usually insists that “the sea is the only proper road for a Velaryon,” had reluctantly climbed into the saddle behind me. His jaw was clenched the entire ride. Every gust of wind had him muttering a sailor’s prayer under his breath. He may have commanded half the Realm’s navy, but a dragon’s back? Not his style.

The moment we touched down in the dragonpit and made our way into the Red Keep, Vaemond was already waiting—looking as grim as I’d ever seen him. No greetings, he marched straight up to Corlys and grabbed him by the arm, muttering something low and furious.

Corlys tried to shake him off. “Let go of me before I throw Viserys off the damn throne myself—”

“Get a grip, brother!” Vaemond hissed, dragging him bodily down the hall toward the Velaryon wing. “You’ll only get our entire House killed.”

“I don’t care! I do not fucking care!” Corlys bellowed, wrenching his arm free. His eyes were wild in a way I had never seen before—not even during the war. “I will not let them take my grandson from me!”

My heart thudded, panic beginning to churn in my chest. I stepped in front of them, blocking the door to the solar. “What happened, Vaemond?” I demanded, voice low and cold. “What in the name of the Syrax’s twisted mercy is going on?”

Vaemond looked between the two of us, chest heaving. Then he sighed—loud and bitter. “Alicent strutted into the Small Council yesterday like a smug cat with a bloody mouse in her mouth. One of the few meetings the king was lucid enough to attend. And she came bearing solutions,” he spat the word. “Said it was time to ‘put the rumors of Rhaenyra’s children to rest.’ Said she had a plan to prove Lucerys’ bloodline beyond all doubt.”

Corlys was pacing now, wild-eyed, dragging his hands through his hair. “And somehow that ends with my grandson being betrothed to Aemond Targaryen?!” I could see the fire behind his eyes, like the rage was trying to claw its way out of his chest. “One rogue prince already cost me a daughter,” he growled. “I’m not handing over my grandson to the next one!”

“You and me both, brother,” Vaemond muttered. “She pulled out the betrothal contracts—ours with House Baratheon and House Lannister—and started asking questions. All sweetness and smiles as she poked holes in parentage. Then she said—” he cut himself off, jaw tight, disgust curling at the edge of his mouth, “she said she was moved to read that my sons had two fathers. That it was so beautiful, so progressive.”

He scoffed. “That religious bitch was never a good actress. I could see the revulsion plain as day in her eyes. The smile didn’t even reach her cheeks.”

He didn’t need to explain. We all knew that smile. The same one she gave Rhaenyra before hurling a blade. Polite, polished, poison.

While House Targaryen had been blessed by the fire of Valyria, with dragons and bloodbinding, House Velaryon had its own magic—older, quieter, but no less powerful. A gift from the sea. Some men in our line were born able to carry children. Not many. Not often. We called them pearls. Treasures from the gods beneath the waves.

Vaemond’s husband, Alyn, had been one of them—a Velaryon cousin from a lesser branch, but strong and proud. I remembered the joy in his eyes the first time he spoke of carrying. I had once prayed Laenor would have the gift too. Desperately. It would’ve given him the life he wanted—on his own terms. But the gods, as always, had other plans. They gave him a warm heart, a strong will, but not the pearl.

“And now,” Corlys said suddenly, his voice twisted and brittle, “they want Lucerys to be bred like a prize mare? To prove he’s legitimate?”

He laughed—a sharp, broken sound. It was unhinged, borderline crazed, and it made my skin crawl. Then he switched to High Valyrian, eyes wild.

“Even if Lucerys were Laenor’s by blood, the sea’s gift does not pass like inheritance. I was not gifted. Nor were you, brother. Nor Laenor. Alyn was the first in generations!”

“I know,” Vaemond barked back, his voice cracking with frustration. “I told them that. Repeated it, calmly, then not so calmly. But Alicent—she doesn’t care. She heard Lucerys’ nickname—Driftmark’s Pearl—and twisted it into proof. Said it was a sign from the gods. That the child must be gifted. That the nickname was fate.”

He dragged a hand down his face, looking older than I’d ever seen him. “She said if he’s truly a pearl, then he should prove it. Publicly. Through heirs. Through union.”

Then Vaemond laughed. It was dark, bitter, and entirely humorless.

“But it turned on her. Just like her little matchmaking scheme with Aemond did. King Viserys—still drunk on delusion—saw it as a way to reunify the family. To bind the two branches. To heal old wounds.” He snorted. “The look on that sanctimonious whore’s face when she realized she’d just cornered herself into endorsing a marriage she would’ve once burned a sept over… was delicious.”

For a breath. Just a breath.

Then reality returned.

Vaemond’s voice dropped. “And then I remembered what that meant. What it really meant. That our Lucerys would be tied, bound, possibly broken by that cold-eyed brute.”

I stood frozen.

No words could hold the horror I felt.

And I—who never curses, who has worn my pride like armor through every court, every feast, every war council—said the only thing that fit.

“Fuck.”

And again, softer this time. More prayer than profanity.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Stepstones, Tyrosh – 132 A.C

War was just what the maester recited.

I got to burn down Triarchy pirates and no one looked at me as if I was a monster. If anything, they praised me. Called me the Rogue Prince come again. I took it with a straight face and maybe a bit of morbid delight, because I knew the moment that title reached my mother, she’d probably have a stroke.

I felt a bit bad. I was raised to protect her, not give her chest pains. Making her worry had always been unthinkable. But then I remembered what her greed had done—what it would do if left unchecked—and the guilt started to feel a lot easier to shrug off.

Training under Daemon was a new kind of hell. The fifteenth hell, if you followed the Valyrian pantheon.

I used to think Ser Criston was demanding. He had nothing on Daemon. My kepus had experience layered on top of instinct. He saw your movements before you thought them, read the rhythm of your footwork, caught every shift in weight, in breath, in grip. He was fast, brutal, efficient, and calm in the middle of it all- like he could already see the ending.

Like a dragon.

I never understood how anyone—especially my grandfather—could think Daemon was some pampered fool. He was anything but. In the middle of chaos, he moved like he had the map in his pocket. He tracked every step, every angle, every sword. He’d move before you even knew you were leaving yourself open.

I watched him once, leap off a rock formation like it was nothing, decapitate one pirate mid-air, and shove the next into his second’s spear before he even landed.

That wasn’t brute strength.

And the only reason Otto ever kept the upper hand was because Daemon wouldn’t commit kinslaying. That was his line.

My father? He was the weak one. Otto groomed him into a puppet from the start—smiling on command, pleasing the lords, keeping his crown warm while others moved the pieces around him.

Daemon wasn’t reckless. He just didn’t pretend. He was the storm, and you either learned to fly through it—or burned.

The more time I spent with Daemon, the more I understood my kepus. He didn’t see me, Aegon, Helaena, or Daeron as his niece and nephews. Not really. Not in the way people think uncles should. To him, we were Hightowers. That’s all.

And that’s why sending Blood and Cheese after Jaehaerys hadn’t been hard for him. It wasn’t personal. It had been war and the act was his revenge. To him, that boy was just the grandspawn of Alicent and her pet king.

I’m not saying I agreed with him. Even if Jaehaerys had not meant family to Daemon, he had also been an innocent child. Still, I understood.

Kepus and I agreed on one thing, though—blood doesn’t make family. You want proof? Look at Oldtown. Look at the way they use their own kin like game pieces on a cyvasse board.

My siblings and I—we had the hair, the dragons, the name. But my half-sisters and their children? They were the ones who lived and breathed Valyria. They were the ones raised in fire and ash and truth. We were raised in incense and secrets and quiet back halls of the Sept.

So of course, Daemon never saw us as Targaryens. We were Alicent’s children. Otto’s grandchildren.

But something changed.

As the Second War for the Stepstones dragged on and my time as his squire neared its end, I started to notice it. It was subtle at first—shorter lectures, fewer jabs, a nod instead of a grunt. But it was there.

By the time I was knighted, it was clear.

He still fought for the Blacks. That would never change. But now, he was also fighting for me. Not against me. He didn’t see me as something he needed to wipe off the board to protect Rhaenyra’s claim. He saw me as someone worth pulling away from the Hightower leash.

And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.

I had no interest in returning to King’s Landing. I was perfectly content in my little cluster of islands, building something that didn’t stink of hypocrisy and forced prayers. Because, in the previous timeline, we had not fought for Aegon.

Not really.

We fought for Oldtown. For the gods-damned ambition of a family who thought lighting a few candles made them righteous. And I will never forgive my father for that. For tying our house to a flame that would always burn us in the end.

“What do you mean you are not coming with us?” Daemon demanded with a frown. We were at the beach in Tyrosh, Caraxes in one side ready to take flight, and my sweet Cannibal lounging without any rush to move. “The war is over, taoba. We won, you were knighted. There’s no need for a Prince to remain here.”

“There is,” I drawled drily.

Daemon slapped the back of my head, “Do not speak to me with that tone.”

“Sorry, kepus,” I apologized, rolling my eyes. I raised my hands in defeat when I saw him reaching for a second head slap. I winced when at the last moment, he decided to flick my forehead instead. “You are a violent man.”

“I am the Rogue Prince,” Daemon replied with smugness. I have come to admire that from my kepus, he was honest about his faults and embraced them with pride. I will strive for that kind of confidence one day. “What are you aiming for?”

“Well, the last time we won, we left these isles free for the taking,” I gestured around. “That led to this war, which in my mind was unnecessary.”

“I see… so you are aiming to create a Westerosi stronghold,” Daemon hummed thoughtfully. “That is not a bad idea. We can give Bloodstone to Vaemond, for a branch for House Velaryon. The greedy man has enough coin for a sizeable castle. Corlys might even throw some of his to keep his brother from trying to go after Lucery’s inheritance again.”

I tried not to dwell on the thought of Lucerys. My sweet, beautiful nephew, who had kept correspondence with me. Even threatening to fly to the Stepstones to join the war, if I missed one raven reply.

Such a brat… but he is my brat.

“Grey Gallows can be given to House Celtigar,” I commented, trying to change the topic. Though, from the dangerous glint in Daemon’s eyes, I could tell I was not that successful. My uncle has not been subtle with his comments about my correspondence with Lucerys. “Lord Bartimos has a nephew… Arthos, I think. Giving him his own seat of power, would sooth some hurt pride. House Celtigar is a Valyrian household, but they keep being slighted and passed for House Velaryon.”

“True,” Daemon agreed with amusement. “Then again, you cannot compare the crabs with the seahorses.”

“You are biased, as they are the house of your wife,” I rolled my eyes. “I would like to keep domain over Tyrosh.”

“Prince Aemond Targaryen of Tyrosh, Warden of the Stepstones… it has a good ring,” Daemon smirk was bloodthirsty. But then it softened and kepus even extended a hand to ruffle my hair. “You are wiser than I was your age, taoba. I could have built a stronghold in Bloodstone and give my girls their own inheritance. But I let my pride guide me like a fool. Now, you shall be the second son who will go down in history for creating the first branch of House Targaryen.”

I was stunned by the honest and clear compliment. Those were far in between and hard won, but never as warm as this one had been. When the shock wore off, I smiled. It was small, but honest.

“Thank you, kepus.”

Daemon didn’t say anything else. Just gave me a look—half proud, half something else—and climbed onto Caraxes like the dramatic bastard he was. One minute he was there, the next he was a red blur in the sky, already halfway to King's Landing by the time I finished blinking.

A fortnight later, a royal decree arrived. Fancy parchment, big wax seal, all the usual pretense. It gave me official domain over Tyrosh and named me Prince of Tyrosh, Warden of the Stepstones.

Then I got to work.

Arthos Celtigar was the first to move. He’d been practically vibrating with eagerness, so the moment I waved a hand in the general direction of Grey Gallows, he took it as a royal summons. Built himself a keep, plastered his family’s crab all over it, and started issuing decrees like he was the damn Sea Snake. Good for him.

Daemion and Daeron Velaryon arrived not long after, docking in Bloodstone like it had always belonged to them. Daeron brought half a fleet and three architects; Daemion brought a pet monkey and a harp. I tried not to ask questions.

Within a month, second and third sons from every corner of Westeros were setting sail. All of them full of grand dreams and empty purses. They came to the Stepstones like moths to flame, eager to build something of their own—castles, names, legacies.

Tyrosh, at least, spared me the trouble of starting from scratch. The port was intact, the city already laid out, the walls mostly standing. What I didn’t have to build, I had to win over.

That was the hard part.

See, most of the noble families had been wiped out during the siege. Too proud to surrender, too dumb to run. That left about 70% of the population of slaves, which suited me just fine. Which, of course, I freed. They started calling me the Breaker of Chains after that. A bit dramatic, but I was not going to say anything about it. Not when it helped me win over Tyrosh.

The newly free folk listened when I spoke. They didn’t look afraid or wary—they looked curious. Like they were trying to figure out what came next and whether I had the answer. Most of them weren’t used to choosing anything for themselves, so the idea of starting fresh wasn’t just overwhelming—it was strange. But they wanted to try. That made ruling them easier than dealing with most Westerosi lords, honestly. They weren’t clinging to pride or legacy. They just wanted a chance.

The other 15% were scholars, merchants, scribes, mummers, and whatever passed for entertainment in Tyrosh. They didn’t care who was on charge so long as coin flowed, ports stayed open, and no one banned plays. I agreed to all three and got their loyalty by default.

My real headache was currency.

Tyroshi coin was worthless outside the Free Cities. I needed dragons, stags, and stars in circulation if I wanted to tie this place to the Crown properly. That meant dealing with the Iron Bank.

They welcomed me with fake smiles and sharper knives.

I walked in expecting resistance—fees, threats, the usual “terms and conditions” disguised as pleasantries. Instead, they rolled out the red carpet.

“No tariffs, no interest,” they promised, hands clasped, eyes wide. “We only ask one thing: do not, under any circumstance, try to conquer Braavos.”

I stared at the banker for a long moment. “Are you… planning to invade Westeros?” I asked, dry as driftwood.

His face went white. “Gods save us, no! Of course not!”

“Then why the panic?” I raised an eyebrow. “If I’m not invading Braavos and you’re not invading Westeros, then this is just a nice chat, isn’t it?”

The man laughed nervously. Wiped his forehead with a cloth that probably cost more than half his staff. Kepus was right. Non-Valyrians really are sheep.

By the end of the week, I had a trade agreement with Braavos and a tentative peace treaty signed between the Crown and the Free City. Somehow, somewhere between trying to swap Tyroshi coins for dragons and stags, I ended up negotiating on behalf of King’s Landing.

Don’t ask me how.

I’d walked into the Iron Bank just wanting to make trade easier. And I walked out with Braavos recognizing the Crown’s authority over the Stepstones, shaking my hand like I’d done something remarkable

And I just kept thinking—who in their right mind puts a seven and ten namedays person in charge of a peace treaty?! Of any kind of treaty!

I could barely manage my own dreams, let alone a treaty. But apparently, having a dragon and a Valyrian last name means you’re ready to run a small kingdom. Who knew?

With that dealt with, I moved on to my second problem.

No one in Tyrosh spoke the Common Tongue.

I didn’t have a problem with it personally—kepus made sure my High Valyrian was polished enough to hold my own in war councils and trade negotiations. But my people? My court? My advisors and soldiers who were born in Westeros? Yeah, they were screwed.

It would also make any trade between Tyrosh and the rest of Westeros complicated.

Most of the Tyroshi merchants managed decent Common. Same with the scholars and healers—language is necessary when you’re trying to sell a tincture or stop someone from bleeding out. But the rest? The ex-slaves? The street vendors? The children running barefoot through the beach?

They didn’t speak a word of it.

I spent a whole night pacing around my solar trying to figure it out, biting at my nail and rereading trade laws like they’d suddenly tell me how to make Tyroshi peasants fluent.

Then, like always, Lucerys had the answer.

His letter was short and neat, in that annoyingly perfect handwriting he always had. The ink hadn’t even smudged.

“If they don’t speak Common, teach them.”

That was it. That simple.

I stared at the letter for longer than I care to admit. My first thought wasn’t: brilliant idea. It was: gods, I’m more Hightower than I thought.

Because the idea of teaching the smallfolk had genuinely never crossed my mind.

Teach them? Why? They don’t need it to survive, right?

Except they did. They needed it to trade, to write, to read royal decrees or contracts, to stop getting screwed over by clever bastards with better grammar.

So, we started building learning institutes. Nothing grand. Just rooms with walls and chalkboards and benches. We taught Common, of course. But also, how to read and write, and how to count. Some of the kids were sharp as daggers—already playing dice with numbers before they could write their own names. Some of the adults sat in the back pretending not to care, but I saw how they paid attention when no one was watching.

It felt right. Like something that should’ve always been.

Still, I couldn’t do it all. Between establishing myself as Prince of Tyrosh, managing the new laws for the Stepstones, reviewing ship tariffs, meeting with Braavosi diplomats, and, you know, making sure Cannibal didn’t eat anyone important—I was stretched thin.

So, when Gwayne arrived, I didn’t hesitate.

Uncle Gwayne had grown up in Oldtown, practically raised between the pages of the Citadel. He understood scholars. He also understood how a successful learning institution worked. I handed him the project without a second thought.

My brother Daeron arrived with our uncle, all calm lilac eyes and kind smiles, and Tessarion gliding behind like a living jewel. I gave him a different job—patrolling the Stepstones, burning the odd pirate ship, reminding everyone that dragons still ruled the skies around here whenever I was too busy in my solar.

He was good at it. Looked annoyingly heroic while doing it too.

I had never been close to them in my previous life. Which was a pity, really—because if I had been, I might’ve figured out sooner that Gwayne was the only Hightower with a good head on his shoulders.

He didn’t preach like a Septon, didn’t twist doctrine into a knife, and didn’t use faith as a mask for cruelty. He followed the Seven like someone who actually believed in mercy and compassion. A true knight, in the way they write about in songs. Which, let’s be honest, is rarer than Valyrian steel these days.

And Daeron—well, Daeron was a mystery even to himself. The youngest of us, too smart for his own good and still too soft to realize how dangerous that could be in court. No wonder they’d dubbed him The Daring. He had that kind of quiet courage, the kind that came from still believing things could be good. And honestly? Out of all of mother’s children, he was the only one who actually felt like a prince.

He carried himself like he wanted to earn it.

One night after supper—nothing formal, just roasted lamb and flatbread, shared between the two of us—I noticed it again. The way Daeron sat straighter when I entered. The way he leaned forward when I spoke about the war or the negotiations. The way he practically lit up when someone mentioned dragons.

He was so desperate to prove himself. Not to me. But to the memory of a family that had never really included him.

So, I told him.

“Brother, you have nothing to prove. You might have been raised in Oldtown, far away from House Targaryen, but out of all of mother’s children you are the only one who was raised as a dragon.”

His brows scrunched. Like he didn’t understand the words, like he thought I’d misspoken. I watched the confusion cross his face, so I reached across the table and nudged a goblet of watered-down wine toward him, then picked up mine.

I chuckled, sipping slowly. “Mother raised us as Hightowers. Wearing green, praying to the Seven, only learning Valyrian words that were commands to control our dragons… dragons which she had never let us fly.”

He blinked. “W-what? That makes no sense… we are Targaryen royalty,” he said, voice small, and a little wounded. Like I’d just kicked over the sandcastle he’d spent his whole life building. “Uncle Gwayne did teach me the doctrine of the Seven and the history of House Hightower, but only so I could pay homage to my other side of the family. It was complementary to my studies in High Valyrian and the Targaryen history, but never the focus. I was always able to ride Tessarion, as long as I had finished with my studies and training. And I barely wore green… well, I was not allowed to ever wear black, but most of my robes are shades of red.”

I smiled at that—couldn’t help it. It was such a Daeron answer. Naïve, earnest, sweet. Still believing Uncle Gwayne had been the rule, not the exception.

“That is because Uncle Gwayne seems to be the only Hightower who puts family before ambition, and has a good head on his shoulders,” I said, chuckling into my goblet.

Then I sobered. Set the cup down and turned to face him properly.

“Daeron, I would recommend that you remain in the Stepstones until our sister is crowned. We cannot allow those in Oldtown or mother to use us to usurp her. It would only lead to tragedy and death.”

He went quiet. Just stared at his goblet, like it held some secret answer.

Then he asked, quietly, “Our sister… Rhaenyra, does she desire us harm?”

There was something fragile in his voice. Vulnerability that only comes from being young enough to still hope—and just old enough to be afraid.

“I heard our uncle have a fight with granduncle Ormund before we came to Tyrosh,” he continued, fidgeting with the stem of his goblet. “Uncle Gwayne does not know I overheard them, but Lord Hightower was telling him to start preparing me because father was growing sicker and Rhaenyra would come after us once she is crowned.”

I cursed under my breath.

Of course. Of course, they’d try the same trick again. Fear had always been their favorite tool.

“Do not listen to them,” I huffed, sharper than I meant to. “Our sister might have not been the most involved as we were growing up, but can you blame her? She had three children of her own to take care of. And mother never welcomed her presence.”

Never allowed it, really. Rhaenyra was the rightful heir, and for our mother, that was unforgivable.

Daeron nodded, slowly. But I could see the conflict still tugging at his features. He was torn between the house that raised him and the blood that made him. Between what he’d been taught, and what he was beginning to understand.

And all I could do was sit there, watching him try to figure it out. My little brother, still clinging to the idea that the world was simple. That right and wrong came with banners and titles.

“So, she won’t kill us because we are the challenge?”

Oh, how I hated those words.

If I had a gold dragon for every time I heard “You are the challenge!” growing up, I’d be able to fund my own fleet. Probably two. Each with a carved figurehead shaped like mother’s disapproving face.

I leaned forward, planting my elbows on the desk between us, letting out a sigh as I gathered the words I needed. “See it this way,” I told him, keeping my voice even, “Mother would always say not to trust Rhaenyra or her family. That they wished us harm and were the enemy. But not once did they do anything to Aegon, Helaena, and me.”

I paused, letting that sit.

“It was mother who spread rumors of bastardy about our nephews. As if those boys didn’t have Baratheon and Arryn blood from both sides of their family.” I scoffed, the bitterness rising too easily. “Mother even had our sister walk all the way to her chambers the moment Joffrey had been born—still bleeding, mind you—through all the halls of the Red Keep.”

“W-what?” Daeron’s voice came out strangled. He looked like someone had just told him the sky was purple. “But mother is a follower of the Seven, a devout lady of the Faith. Why would she do something so cruel when it went against the teachings of the Mother?”

Oh, sweet summer child.

“Because nobles in Westeros use the Gods like a mask,” I said, voice sharper now. “A banner to justify whatever ugly thing they already wanted to do. If our sister gave birth to bastards, then she needed to be punished. And good, pious Queen Alicent got to play the Champion of the Seven—dishing out righteousness like it was her Seven-blessed job.”

I rolled my eyes. The whole thing still made my stomach twist. “Not that it mattered, of course. Bastards or not, our nephews are family. They’re kin to mother’s children. And she still treated the Crown Princess—her husband’s heir—like filth. Just because father is too weak to stop her.”

Daeron had gone pale. His knuckles were tight around his goblet, but he hadn’t moved to drink. Just stared at me like he was starting to see cracks in a painting he’d always thought was perfect.

And I softened. Just a little.

My little brother might’ve only been a year younger than me on paper, but right now he looked smaller. Like the armor he’d been raised in didn’t quite fit anymore. Like he’d never realized it was armor at all.

I stood up quietly and walked around the desk. My boots barely made a sound on the stone. I placed my hands gently on his shoulders and leaned down, just enough that we were eye to eye. He didn’t flinch, but I could see the question trembling behind his lips.

“You were lucky,” I said, voice low. “You grew up under Uncle Gwayne’s protection. Away from the poison of the Red Keep. Even now, he’s shielding you—taking you away from people who would use you, twist you.”

My grip tightened slightly, just for a second. “I wish I’d had that kind of protection.”

Daeron blinked, still watching me like he couldn’t quite believe this version of our family existed. Then he asked, tentative, “I heard about Ser Criston…”

I smirked, all teeth and no joy. “The Kingsguard that attacked me?” I drawled. “Yes. He broke my arm. You know what mother and grandfather did?”

Daeron stayed quiet.

“They scolded me,” I said, leaning back again, letting my hands fall away. “Because I lost them a pawn. That’s all it was to them. The first ones who asked how I was doing—who cared—were Rhaenyra and her husband, Laenor.”

I sat back down, more tired than I expected.

Daeron’s voice was smaller now. “They are not our enemy, are they?”

“No,” I told him, soft but firm. “They never were.”

He looked like he wanted to cry. Or scream. Or maybe both. I remembered that feeling. The moment when the lie unravels and the truth is just... staring at you.

“Daemon took me as his squire,” I continued, gentler now. “He taught me how to fight, how to be a dragon. He knighted me. I’m good friends with our nephew Lucerys—we write to each other every fortnight.”

That last part made him blink again. He probably hadn’t known that. Probably hadn’t imagined the big, scary ‘challenge’ keeping up with letters.

“The words ‘We are the challenge!’” I said, dragging the words out in mocking mimicry, “are nothing but a tool. A way for House Hightower to twist us, shape us into weapons. Because they’ve been trying to put their blood on the Iron Throne since the time of Maegor the Cruel.”

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing the side of my jaw.

Daeron sat in silence for a long time. Then, very slowly, he turned towards the window, looking at the sea. His shoulders slumped in that quiet, heavy way that said it all. “I see… do you think I can be close to my nephews too? I need to apologize to them, for my unkind thoughts after what I was taught by our Hightower relatives.”

The words made my chest ache a little. Daeron always wore his heart too openly, too honestly, like no one had taught him how to tuck it away before someone stepped on it.

“Well, Aegon and Jacaerys had been partners in crime since we were children,” I said, thinking back to those rare moments where the tension hadn’t choked us all. “You can always write to Joffrey, he does not seem to have an uncle to bother.” I paused for a moment, glancing at Daeron’s hopeful eyes before adding, “I could always write to kepus Daemon to start the correspondence, if you would like that.”

“I would like that,” Daeron beamed.

And for a second—just one fleeting, cursed second—my breath caught in my throat. His whole face lit up like the sun had been waiting behind his teeth. There was nothing rehearsed about it. No trained courtly grin, no polite dip of the mouth. Just… joy. Pure and stupid and blinding.

“Thank you, brother.”

“You are welcome,” I replied, voice stuck somewhere between a breath and a whisper. Too stunned to say anything else.

Because that smile? That stupid radiant smile?

I’d seen it before.

I had just found another reason as to why mother had sent Daeron to Oldtown. My little brother looked like a carbon copy of Rhaenyra. At first, you wouldn’t notice. One was clearly a woman, the other a young man. They dressed differently, held themselves differently. But when Daeron smiled so brightly—so openly—that was the same godsdamned smile our sister wore in the presence of her sons. The same one I remembered her giving Lucerys after a sparring match, or Jace when he tried to help with court matters and got too serious about it.

It hit me like a punch.

Well, fuck.

After our conversation, I sent a raven to Daemon. Just a simple letter, informing him about Daeron wanting to reach out to our nephews. That he was open to getting to know Joffrey. That maybe we could foster some kind of bond there. You know, normal, healthy family stuff. Not that I would know a thing about that.

What I received in return was a scathing reply.

Apparently, I was corrupting Lucerys. Laenor had already “snatched” Aegon and turned him into a soft, reasonable man. And now Daeron—the sweet, polite, ridiculously well-mannered Daeron—was trying to steal Daemon’s “hatchling” from him.

Kepus was such a possessive dragon. You’d think he had laid all of us himself.

I could already see the future: the day Rhaena got married, Daemon was going to have an aneurysm. Poor groom. At least Baela was marrying Jace, one of Daemon’s pseudo-sons, and arguably the only one of us who had a fully-functioning moral compass. Gods know Jacaerys was too honorable for his own good.

Still, despite Daemon’s furious rant, there had been a second note in the bundle. Short, scribbled, ink smudged at the corners. Joffrey’s handwriting. The little brat had only just learned his letters, and yet here he was sending shaky Valyrian greetings with a clumsy but eager signature at the bottom.

Daeron was delighted.

He lit up like a bonfire at every raven that came his way. He started writing every week—sometimes twice. His letters were carefully folded, sealed with too much wax, and written in the neatest script I’d ever seen. He even asked Uncle Gwayne for help on phrasing once or twice.

The ravens coming and going between Tyrosh, King's Landing, and Driftmark became such a normal routine that the staff stopped checking who the letter was addressed to. They just checked where it was coming to and brought it to whatever prince they thought it belonged to.

Which is how this mishap happened.

Daeron knocked on my solar door while I was halfway through hearing Uncle Gwayne’s weekly report about the learning institutes. It was mind-numbingly boring and full of words like “curriculum adaptation” and “cross-cultural educational implementation.”

“I think this one is yours,” Daeron said as he strolled in, waving a letter in his hand like a victory banner. “It has the seal of the Crown Princess.”

I raised a brow and reached for my letter knife as he handed it over. Cracked the wax and started reading.

And then I frowned.

And then the frown deepened.

And then—I burst out laughing. Loud and absolutely unhinged.

“Nephew... are you all right?” Gwayne asked slowly, exchanging one of those What fresh madness is this? looks with Daeron.

But I couldn’t stop. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I slapped my desk. I wheezed. I had tears in my eyes. This timeline was insane. I knew—without a single doubt—that the Gods were watching me and having the time of their immortal lives out of my expense.

I shoved the letter toward Gwayne, unable to form words, still choking on laughter. Daeron leaned over to read it with him.

“Aegon married a whore and started his own house?!” Daeron yelped, voice going high with shock.

I just nodded and kept laughing, practically hysterical at this point.

“Goldfyre,” Gwayne muttered, brushing a thumb over the signature at the bottom. “Lord of Harrenhal.”

Daeron scoffed. “Aegon should have been punished, not rewarded! He’s a drunk and a lecher who attends child fighting rings!”

“Used to, nephew,” Gwayne chided mildly, ever the composed one. “From what I’ve heard since Prince Laenor took him as an apprentice, Aegon has become… well, if not a saint, at least a responsible man. Marrying the whore and legitimizing his son Gaemon shows some progress. And being struck from the line of succession is punishment enough for some.”

“They gave him the largest castle in the Riverlands,” Daeron muttered dryly.

And gods help me, I actually choked on my own laugh. Since when had my properly-schooled, temple-trained, Seven-blessed baby brother learned sarcasm?

“I suppose you’re right,” Gwayne murmured, frowning at the parchment. “But truly, you can blame your mother’s upbringing for that. She didn’t raise him to be a prince, much less a king.”

“But she raised Aemond,” Daeron said, looking at me now, “and he conquered the Stepstones and Tyrosh!”

The room went quiet.

That stopped my laughter cold.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks and sighed, shaking my head slowly. “Yes. And it also earned me the nickname of the Rogue Prince Come Again.”

A beat of silence.

“Which is truly earned,” I added with a half-hearted grin. “Just… less whores, more blood. I am not someone you should aspire to be, Daeron.”

“Understood,” Daeron chuckled, and that damned soft smile was back.

Of course, he said it like that. Like he didn’t already admire me more than I deserved. Which just made me want to crawl under the table and pretend none of this was happening.

However, Uncle Gwayne was still frowning. He tapped his fingers against the armrest of the chair, his brows drawn in thought. “You should be more careful now, Aemond. Without Aegon in the line, House Hightower will push for you to sit on the throne. Which makes things complicated because you’re a well-known hero of war, tamer of the monster Cannibal, and have a kingdom of your own backing you.”

“Monster?” I frowned, my arms crossing over my chest. “Cannibal is sweet.”

I definitely didn’t pout. No matter what Gwayne might say later.

“Only you would call Cannibal sweet,” Daeron shook his head in amusement, lips twitching into a grin. “Anyway,” he added, turning to me more seriously, “you have my support, brother.”

“I thank you,” I replied with a nod. “But there will be no war. My sister will sit on the throne and then Jacaerys.” I leaned back into my chair, letting the wood creak beneath me. “House Hightower can proclaim me king all they want, but they cannot force me to sit on that monstrosity.”

Gwayne chuckled first, Daeron joined in, and I allowed myself to relax and laugh with them. It was nice.

Our correspondence went back to normal after that—raven scrolls rolled and sealed, letters passed back and forth like rhythm to our routine. And so did my work. Tyrosh was stable, the ports were busy, and the trade routes through the Stepstones practically sang with coin.

There was even talk—quiet at first, then louder as the moons passed—about Dorne and the Summer Islands forming a formal trade pact with us. A kind of triarchy of our own. One that could keep Lys and Myr in check, make sure they never got enough power to claw at our waters again.

Prince Qoren Martell had visited to discuss it, and I’d seen right through him. He was eyeing me up like I was a stallion at auction. I knew that look. His second daughter, Coryanne Martell, had been brought along under the guise of “learning about the wider world.” She was polite. Bright-eyed. Fierce in her own Dornish way. I liked her well enough.

But I wasn’t fooled.

At the same time, I’d noticed him eyeing Daeron too. Aliandra, his heir, was of marrying age. That match would’ve been more advantageous. Daeron was a third son with no titles to inherit, and Martell blood in the Targaryen line would’ve made a bold statement.

Still. The idea of Daeron being married off like a pawn left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I will not do what Mother and Aegon did to me, to my own brother. It reminded me too much of what had happened to me with Borros Baratheon. Being tossed at a lord like meat, forced into someone else’s game without a single say in it. I would never let that happen to Daeron.

In another timeline, both Aegon and I had been landless. Nothing to our name but a dragon.

And look at us now.

Aegon was Lord Goldfyre of Harrenhal, ruling over the cursed fortress with his bastard-turned-heir Gaemon at his side. And me… well, I had Tyrosh and the Stepstones. I had my own small kingdom and Cannibal sunbathing on my beach.

Daeron didn’t need to be traded off for alliances. If he wanted Lys or Myr, he could conquer them himself. If he wanted to marry, let it be for love—or at least mutual respect. And if he wanted to join the Kingsguard, I’d help him get the white cloak personally.

I’d said as much to Qoren. I made sure to stay calm and explain it clearly to the prince, I did not wish to be the one to start the next Dornish War. But I added just enough edge to remind him that Tyrosh had dragons. His expression had shifted then. For the first time since he docked in my city, he had looked at me with respect.

However, my focus had been on Daeron who looked close to tears. Later, when the Martells finally left, my brother lingered by the door, then suddenly darted forward and hugged me.

It startled me.

I wasn’t used to touch. Mother had made sure of that. But I caught Uncle Gwayne’s proud gaze from behind him, so I hesitantly wrapped my arms around Daeron in return.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But of course, it wasn’t.

Peace is not something I’m allowed for long. Not in this life. Not in my previous life either.

It came in the form of a letter.

I broke the seal with a tired hand, expecting more trade updates or maybe another raven from Lucerys.

Instead, I stared at the page in disbelief. Read it again. And then once more.

“…He’s lost his mind,” I muttered.

Daeron, seated nearby and sipping watered wine, tilted his head. “Another tax request?”

“No,” I said slowly, eyes still on the letter. “It’s from father.”

That caught Uncle Gwayne’s attention. He set his ledger down, brows furrowed.

I raised the parchment in the air, my fingers trembling slightly from the shock. “He… Father has ordered that I marry Lucerys Velaryon.”

There was a pause.

And then I started laughing.

A slow, quiet laugh at first. Disbelieving. Then louder. I leaned back, practically hysterical. The idea! The sheer absurdity of it.

“Aemond…” Gwayne said cautiously.

“No, no, it’s fine,” I waved him off between laughs. “This is perfect.”

Because the moment the words had settled in my brain, something else had sparked. Something dangerous and possessive and wild. A fire that only was present in my bloodline.

I hadn’t thought about marrying Lucerys before.

But now that it was a possibility?

Now that someone dared to put the idea on paper and seal it with the Targaryen crest?

They’d have to rip him from my cold, charred hands if they wanted to undo it.

A slow, dangerous smirk spread across my face. I folded the letter with precision, eyes burning with quiet satisfaction. “I will burn Westeros to ashes,” I said softly, “if they try to take my taoba from me.”