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Chapter Text

An impossible task. Such was the first reaction of the commander of the assassination unit, a motley crew of weathery old fighters and young hotshots trained in the art of stealth combat - an art hated amongst the chivaldic Andal society but finding more of a home both north of the Neck and south of the Boneway. Many of them had many kills to their names, but this was not any ordinary task. No, it seemed to be more daunting than their usual missions climbing the crags of the Red Mountains to get at the marcher lords.

The gentle waves of Blackwater Bay audible as they crashed against the cliffs and beaches of the new city, it was clear as day to why they were here. They were to assassinate the dragons.

Each of the men resigned themselves to the task and immediately started planning since arriving aboard a Pentosi merchant cog one moon before. Some marks were easy, many ignorant of the threat against them. Dragons were far different. Importance real and not taken for granted, the self-styled King and Queens of Westeros did not take chances. Dragons circled overhead, guards born of Dragonstone surrounding the wood and stone Aegonfort. Out of sheer bad luck, the youngest Queen had departed the city days ago, ending their chance to hit them all at once - not that they'd possess any chance of killing the infant prince dwelling within the keep - but such was the luck of the draw.

Things weren't simple here, they never were with the Valyrians. But the art remained the same. Team members blended into the crowds - easier since all were stony Dornish from the Wyl or Torrentine that looked more like Andals - charting all movements into and out of the Aegonfort. From the largest convoy of knights and wheelhouses to the most insignificant stablehand bringing back hay for the horses, all were jotted down and memorized for any routing that could be manipulated.

It hadn't been a week before they decided that assaulting the Aegonfort was suicide. The household guards would kill them where they stood, let alone the lumbering forms of Balerion and Vhagar circling overhead.

No, they would have to kill the Valyrians outside the Aegonfort.

Attacking outside the dragon's lair also posed an arduous task, but the assassination team operated by a universal dogma - valar morghulis. All men must die, including the dragonlords. Eating their rations and drinking their Dornish Red, they pondered how they would proceed.

The King and Queen only left their domain for two reasons - dragonriding and inspecting the large concentration of troops readying to sail south to the homeland. The first was impossible to deal with, while the latter posed possibilities. They were heavily armed with knights and men-at-arms guarding them, but both the King and his warrior Queen rode rather than ride in a wheelhouse… exposing them. Doable, especially since at the normal mid-afternoon time the inspections were made, the dragons flew to sea to hunt and fish.

Perfect.

The route was soon chosen. The Valyrians had a routine that was spotted, their security's first major flaw. They were as crafty as ever - no route was the same, every procession taking a separate direction through the rapidly growing city. The team wasn't about to attack near the Aegonfort nor the army camp, so it had to be somewhere along the route.

Through further observation the second major flaw was spotted. No route was ever taken twice in succession. However, it was discovered that the route taken would always be one of seven. Wolfish grins curled on each of the assassin's faces at this knowledge.

The plan was set.

The dragons would die that afternoon, and their homeland saved.

Fishing boat bobbing gently on the calm surface of Blackwater Bay, the deckhands suddenly dove for the deck as a large green shape dove over them. Roar filling the air as its head plunged under the water. It kicked up a large, white spray, emerging with a shark impaled on its massive teeth.

Droplets of water showering her, Visenya Targaryen smirked. Whooping in spite of herself as the wind blowed through her hair - doing its best to rip the silver locks from their braids. "Easy girl," she chuckled, feeling the large bulk of Vhagar beneath her sizzle the shark in her mouth before gulping it down.

Vhagar hooted, only to change to a roar. Above, much as the she-dragon had with the poor fishing vessel scared shitless by her, the golden scales of Meraxes twirled past in a spin. Sleek and agile, Vhagar's sister loved showing off… and that went similarly for her rider. "WHOOOOO!" Her own silver locks let loose as befitting her free spirit.

Visenya could have sworn that Rhae was teasing her - the moment slowing as her lavender eyes looked down, sparkling at her. Meraxes quickly carrying her away as she climbed from the surface towards the clouds.

Oh, it was on. "Climb, girl!" Vhagar hooted and beat her green wingspan, kicking up another salty spray and rocketing higher and higher.

Jinking, weaving, Vhagar's larger wings carried Visenya up to Rhaenys, trading the lead with Meraxes nearly a half-dozen times. Merry laughs from the younger daughter traded with fierce grins from the oldest, drawn out of her taciturn shell with the roar of the wind and the majesty of the dragons. Enjoying what only they and their brother ever could.

An immense bellow drew the two sisters from their competition. Immense, size double that of either Meraxes or Vhagar, the bulk of Balerion separated the both of them - revealing the powerful build of their only brother. Aegon looked the part of a great Valyrian warrior, and normally a small smile would grace his face at these races… but not now. Not in the slightest could any merriment be found in the midst of his scowl. Visenya gripped Vhagar's spines, knitting her brows.

Aegon pointed to the ground before spurring Balerion into a dive. The sisters shared a look before diving after him - landing atop the ground with a jolt.

Visenya was the first to approach her brother. "Egg, what bit you in the ass?" crossing her arms, she glared at him with a cross look. Aegon had his back turned towards her, sitting upon the grass on the far end of the island, overlooked by their keep and the Dragonmont. "Well?"

"Kepa is dying."

She blinked, almost thinking she misheard. "What?"

Less skilled than her siblings, Rhaenys jogged up from climbing off Meraxes. "Egg… what's wrong?" She was always the more gentle of the three. "Vis?"

It was slowly sinking in. "Kepa's on his deathbed…" Aegon would never lie about that.

Her hands flew to clasp her mouth. "No…" Lord Aerion Targaryen had grown from a strapping knight into a frail man, but none of his children imagined he could fall… Rhaenys' eyes welled with tears. "Kepa…" Without prompting, the normally touch-adverse Visenya threw her arms around Rhae, sobs soon wracking the both of them. Two large arms then wrapped around the both of them, hot tears soaking Vis' hair from where Egg buried his face.

It was far more intimate than they had dared in spite of their family's traditions.

It was exactly what they needed.

An hour later, they all leaned against the trunk of an oak tree, Rhaenys leaning into Aegon's chest while Vis rested beside him - arms touching and her head on his shoulder. "Everything's going to change, isn't it?" she mused.

"Aye…" Aegon ran his hand up Rhaenys' arm. "I don't know if I'm ready to be Lord of Dragonstone."

"Father trained you well, Egg," Rhae remarked. "He trained all of us."

"The last of the dragonlords," he continued. "Stuck on a pitiful rock in the middle of the ocean… we were meant for greater things."

"I've always thought so." For Visenya, more inclined to spar than displaying affection, the arm that wrapped round her waist was oddly welcome. "But what do you mean, Egg?"

Looking at him, she saw his eyes cast west. Across Blackwater Bay, to the great lands of the Sunset Kingdoms. In them, she saw the covetous gaze of a conqueror.

Ones she would later see in her own eyes.

"Seven's blessings upon you, your Graces!"

The proclamation from the craftsman drew Queen Visenya from her internal musings. Bobbing up and down on her clearly bored mount, an awkward wave at her subject caused the man to bend the knee, seemingly in awe at the blessings of the royal house. Fought over by the Stormlords, Valemen, and Ironborn for centuries, the residents of Blackwater Bay saw the dragons as near gods come to rescue them from perpetual war prizes. It… unsettled Visenya. Gods, Rhaenys was always better at this than me.

A gentle chuckle drew her attention. Beside her was Aegon, grinning at her. "Only you would be perturbed that our subjects adore you, Vis."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Not all of us like to be fawned over to soothe our insecurities," Visenya shot back.

"Sure, sure." As always, the King of the Seven Kingdoms wore his hair styled short but not too short, face clean-shaven to accentuate his strong jaw. Once, he had tried to grow a beard, but a complaint from Rhaenys put an end to that idea. Disrupted his natural god-like handsomeness, she had put it.

Visenya wasn't too proud to admit that Rhaenys was absolutely right, though she'd never tell her younger brother that. He'd lord it over her for moons.

"Seriously though." She looked back at him to find his face serious again, violet eyes boring straight into her in the way that made Rhaenys swoon and her own knees… Visenya would never say weaken. Both were strong women, and the intensity of their husband was a major draw. "What are you thinking of?"

Oh, this was not a conversation Vis wanted to have. "How is little Aenys? Is he missing Rhae?" The newborn babe born two weeks before had been held by her exactly twice - she wasn't exactly the motherly type, adding yet another insecurity to silently stoke her ire.

Egg blinked. "Aenys is fine, Vis. What is bothering you?"

Debating whether to lie to him to avoid an awkward conversation, Visenya instead sighed. "Long story." Passing through the bustling streets of what was being called 'King's Landing,' while surrounded closely by guards picked from Quenton Qoherys' elite Dragonstone bannermen there was no one in earshot. Words were safer here than in the Aegonfort. "Do you remember when all of this was still merely a dream? Just you, Rhae, and I hoping for glory?"

Aegon's jaw set harder, closing his eyes as the procession turned a corner towards the outskirts of the new yet growing city. "Increasingly every day," was his response. "You're feeling it too… the death of purpose?"

She nodded. "It wasn't supposed to be like this." Raining fire upon their enemies, securing their brother Orys the keep of a legendary house, watching as King after King bent the knee… all of it disappeared into the muck and mire of mundane ruling and the growing Dornish ulcer that kept enveloping their armies in their mission of death. "There is no glory in this war anymore. Nothing but death and atrocity."

Aegon looked away, eyes falling upon the crowds of people that milled about to catch a glimpse of their King and Queen. "We're in too deep to come out now," he said quietly. "Win or die."

"We will win, if not us then our descendants." This Visenya believed with all of her being, but unlike what many portrayed her as, the stern ruthlessness was but one part of her. "But will it be worth the suffering?" She could see it in Orys' eyes, their once jovial bastard brother filled with rage and bitterness thanks to Lord Wyl's torture. She saw it in their sister, her sister-wife. Lover of merriment and pleasure, when she thought herself alone she would hold Aenys close, crying softly. As if afraid their only future would be shorn away from them at the first opportunity.

It was destroying them all, even herself. Visenya hated it. "Have we lost our power, Egg, or is it merely that we've lost sight of what matters?"

"Rhaenys said something before she left, in response to this very question. 'Only the wicked find their paths to be enjoyable. The just must suffer in their cause.'" He snorted. "Probably read it somewhere - she's eloquent but not that eloquent, the minx."

Visenya raised an eyebrow. "Why am I not shocked you talked to Rhae before I."

He furrowed his brows. "Vis, that's not what I meant…"

"No, it's alright. I understand." I will not be jealous of my own sister… I will not be jealous of my own sister. "You and she always understood each other, while I was just the gruff oldest sibling to spar and butt heads with."

"That wasn't it at all." For the life of him, Aegon didn't know how it got to this topic. Gods, let me at the Dornish over this. "You're my sister and my wife."

"A wife from duty, as opposed to a wife of choice that Rhae was and is. I know what the courtiers whisper behind my back." Whenever she was gone, Egg was always morose - Visenya accepted it long ago. It was easier to deal with the shame and humiliation when one had a dragon. Poor Argella Baratheon could never escape the indignity of being delivered naked to Orys as a gift… she was in a constant battle to prove herself… which Visenya supposed she was in as well. "You need not apologize or seek redemption for it, Egg."

Much as Vis inwardly wished he'd do so anyway.

About to open his mouth, Aegon was cut off as a sharp thwack echoed beside them. Two pairs of eyes swiveled around, catching the groaning figure of one of their guards as he slumped over on the horse - collapsing bonelessly to the ground. Out of his breastplate, an arrow shaft projected out. The entire column halted, guards tensing around their reins or weapons.

Visenya was the first to rally herself. "AMBUSH!" She and Egg had just drawn their blades as the rain of arrows began to fall upon them.

Screams rang out as the smallfolk scattered, racing away like scurrying ants while the knights and men-at-arms reacted. Using instincts only years of combat experience could give, Visenya leapt off her now screaming mount - Aegon did the same only a split-second later, less flexible and agile than his more nubile sister. From the buildings to all sides, a pair of javelins hurled towards where they once were… instead burying deep into the flesh of the horses.

Neither monarch had the time to celebrate their good instincts. Egg rolled towards the side of the road while Vis jumped to her feet, following him in a crouch.

The others weren't as lucky. The ones still mounted instead tried to charge the front… only for a hidden tripwire at head height to knock the front two from their horses - throats slit open by the sharp wire. Horses skidding to a halt, arrows and javelins followed, while pre-placed pitch and oil soaking the rear exit was ignited, creating a wall of fire that hemmed them all in.

Wedged into whatever cover they could, Visenya gritted her teeth - the screams and cries of their men being slaughtered filling her ears. "Spot any of them?!" Egg yelled beside her, enraged that they were being attacked… enraged at the gall of the Dornish.

Easing her head out of their alcove of cover, suddenly an arrow tore right along her shoulder's chainmail armor - slicing through flesh. "Fuck!" Her blood burned.

"Vis!"

She ignored Aegon's worry. "We have to get out of here!" Snarling, she hit her uninjured shoulder against the thin plywood wall of the building they sheltered against. It gave a bit but didn't budge. "Shit!"

"I got it!" With a grunt Aegon crashed through, opening up an avenue of escape.

The stench of death was first noted, violet eyes finding a trio of corpses piled in a corner - a tradesman and his family all with their throats slit, the wife and daughter with their dresses torn apart from obvious violation. Their murderers… at least the inference was strong, were at a battered table winding up two crossbows. A tense quiet filled the house, both sides staring at each other.

Visenya reacted first. Half from survival and half from sheer hate at such brutality, she charged with a snarl that would make Vhagar blanch. Crashing against the first man before he could even move, she bashed him into the wall and cut across his chest with Dark Sister. She reached forward and then ripped out his throat with her armored fist, eyes blazing.

Behind, the second assassin tried to level the crossbow but Blackfyre batted it aside, bolt fired harmlessly into a wooden beam. Aegon spun the longsword back and thrust forward, burying the blade into his gut.

"Valyrian!" The commotion had only drawn attention from upstairs. Curved scimitar up high with murder in his eyes, an assassin charged down the stairs towards the monarchs - both easily recognizable with their silver hair and Valyrian armor. Two followed him, one equally scrawny as the first while the other… he towered over Aegon in size and strength, wielding a scimitar in each meaty hand.

Visenya found herself double teamed, and not in the pleasurable way she and Egg did to Rhae on occasion. Meeting the hateful and not a little dismissive gaze of both Dornishmen, Visenya spun her wrist gently, bending her knees just a bit as she stood her ground. Not backing down. Daring them to attack.

A dare they took, the first of them launching a leftward slash directly at the Dragon Queen. One that Dark Sister parried easily, forcing him back.

The other advanced as well, swinging an uppercut right at Vis' chest only for her to lean back. Tip shooting past just an inch from her face. Her wound ached, but the hot blood of the dragon suppressed it. Spinning, she slashed to the side, cutting his chest and sending him reeling to the ground with a scream.

Aegon was struggling, though not from lack of skill. Blackfyre slashed and parried like an extension of his arm, meeting the twin blades of his opponent with furious clangs. Using his endurance to make the bruiser tire. However, he refused to take the bait, attacking ever harder, trying to just bash through Aegon's defenses… and it was working.

Crying out a shrill battlecry, the assassin swiped at Visenya's head, the Queen twirling out of the way on one foot… an ever so slight savage smirk crossing her lips as she chopped downward, severing the man's spine and sending him to the ground. A smirk that disappeared quickly. "Egg!"

Lunging with Blackfyre, Aegon was blocked by crossed scimitars, muscles straining to try and overcome them. The bruiser chuckled deeply, red flush beneath his swarthy skin as he leaned his head back and rocketed forward, bashing the King in the skull and sending him reeling. Watching Aegon stumble, he lashed out with his left.

"Egg!" Visenya's cry was followed by a bellow of agony from the Dornishman, his arm severed at the wrist by Dark Sister. Recovering at his sister's call, Aegon threw a left hook to the assassin's face, feeling the crack of bone. Angling Blackfyre, he thrust - pulverizing bone and impaling the Dornishman's heart clean through. There was a slight delay, only for the man to topple dead to the ground.

Breathing hard, their eyes met - soon, Egg and Vis were embracing tightly, thanking all above that the other lived. But the cacophony of the outside ended the moment soon after it started. Aegon grabbed for his sister-wife, pointing to a back exit. "Let's get out of here!"

Everything passed by in a blur. Dark allies, crowded shanties, countless men, women, and children that they simply barrelled through in their mad dash away from the ambush. Their wounds and bruises burned and ached but nothing could stop them. It hurt to leave their men to die, but there was no other choice. Stopping in an alley to pause - one that reeked of shit and piss - it was their lives or their deaths. The only choice that House Martell and Wyl of Wyl left them.

Suddenly, they heard voices approaching.

Hidden in the shadows of the alley, Visenya resolved to toss her boots as the concoction of human excretions soaked the leather. As the voices grew closer, she tightened her grip around Dark Sister, blood of their tormentors dripping onto the hilt. Head leaning slightly forward, Visenya met Aegon's eyes - silently communicating their joint plan. You go high, I go low. Aegon nodded, each counting down to three before the shadows grew closer and the time to erupt came. Crouching down, Visenya prepared to swipe at the attacker's legs before the red three-headed dragon emerged into view.

Aegon froze just as she did, faced with a half-dozen Targaryen guardsmen, blades at the ready. "Your Graces!" They bowed their heads, fists clasping their breastplates.

Twirling her blade, Visenya pointed it back in a nonthreatening pose. "Who sent you?"

"Lord Fell, your Grace," the lead man answered. "Are you alright, was it the Dornish swine?"

She waved off the questions. "Fetch us mounts, and be fucking quick about it!" Nothing could be answered unless they were safe behind the walls of the Aegonfort.

Men-at-arms surrounding them in a protective screen, suddenly Aegon clutched his head, groaning in pain. "Your Grace!"

"Egg!" For a moment, Visenya's heart stopped - but there was no new wound visible. She wasn't going to take any chances. "Let's go!"

"I'm… fine…" Egg grounded out, nonetheless practically dragged through the city streets by his guards and sister-wife. "Just… fuck… something bad happened. He couldn't explain it, but it was as if his soul was burning alive.

Visenya opened her mouth to respond, only for the same inferno to hit her like a wall of Vhagar's dragonfire. She stilled but recovered - gritting her teeth and pushing through the pain.

Feel it that they did, neither the King nor Queen of Westeros could fathom what had transpired in Dorne that very moment.

Where one attack failed, another succeeded beyond its wildest dreams.

None of it registered to him. Not the hint of disapproval on the bedservant's face as she found her in the bed of her Lady. Not the unabashed nonchalance from his lover as to him being there. No, for Hugor Flowers only the information contained in the dispatch truly mattered as he leaned up in bed - sheets falling to expose his lean upper body. "By all… the gods are toying with us." Heavy resignation filled his voice.

Keeping her still trim figure - even at five and thirty - shrouded by the sheets, Sharra Arryn craned her head at her lover… and the Resident Septon of the Eyrie. "Why the melancholy, dear Hugor?"

He sighed. "The Dornish swine failed in their attempt on their Graces' lives." The last was spat out in disgust, loathing the fact the Targaryens actually ruled over them all. Given his blood and history, such was expected from him, but dangerous if he wasn't among friends here.

Sharra snorted. "Nonsense, they may have lived but the Dornish managed to kill Queen Rhaenys." She leaned up, swell of cleavage exposed as she did, pointing at the bottom of the dispatch parchment. "Killed her dragon too. A great victory." Once the proud Queen of the Vale, her humbling at the hands of Visenya Targaryen didn't predispose her to their rulers even as her growing son maintained his childhood excitement and loyalty to the woman that gave him a dragonride.

Hugor hated them far more than the Flower of the Mountain. "One good thing the Dornish have ever done." Being from the Reach, he hated them too. "But not enough… nothing will ever be enough."

"I know you blame them for your family, but you need to learn to be patient with your goals, Hugor."

"I want them to burn. To choke and suffer for what they did." In truth, Hugor was no ordinary bastard of the Reach. His father was Mern, Ninth of his Name and King of the Reach. The blood of House Gardener flowed in his veins, the last male of the family to live following the field of fire. "I was studying in Oldtown when I learned of my family's demise…" He hung his head. "I want vengeance but I can do nothing."

Soft hand stroking his bare back, Sharra kissed his shoulder. Theirs had started out of lust, but the affair spanned half a decade and grew into some affection. She wanted to help him, seeing someone that could restore the glory of their people. "Such won't last, Hugor."

Her Septon peered up at her. "How do you know?"

She smirked. "My cousin just became the new High Septon." Formerly of House Tarly, Sharra's aunt had married Lord Althos Hightower - such a noble and august family often filled the Starry Sept with their spare sons and daughters, and one finally ascended to become His High Holiness. "He wrote to me and asked if I knew anyone that could help fill his household."

Hugor's eyes widened. "You don't mean…?"

"Which position would you like?" It would take him away from her, but Hugor knew both he and she would never pass such an opportunity. "Take your time, dear Hugor. We have time, now." She leaned back, looking at him sultrily. "I believe we should make more memories before you leave." Running a hand through his dark brown locks topping a fair and intelligent face, Hugor chuckled and gave into temptation.

Slowly shutting the door behind him hours later, Hugor released the deep sigh he had held in for so long. Never was he allowed to be himself anymore, his soul given to the Seven and his body carrying itself with the august blood flowing through his veins. Not even with Sharra… No, his true fears and worries were saved for solitude.

The chambers of the resident Septon of the Eyrie was rather drab. It hadn't all been this way, but Hugor had all the gilt and luxuries of the previous septon stripped out and donated to the orphanages of Gulltown as befitting a true man of the cloth. He had his temptations, but they manifested in fine food and pleasures of the flesh… though never in excess. There was no excess in his chambers. A single bed and drab writing desk. Two chairs thrown about and a small shelf of texts and tomes in the corner. Hanging from the wall was the green hand sigil of House Gardener, a token of his youth.

But Hugor Flowers was no longer a Gardener. He belonged to the Seven while his house was attained and extinct.

Because of the dragons...

A layer of dust covered the room, Hugor drawn to the soft sheets and warm arms of the Flower of the Mountain over his modest upkeep. Something he would savor while it lasted, even as both he and she strategized his rise through the Starry Sept. Quietly, he removed a copy of the Seven Pointed Star, holding it to his breast. Hugor gazed upon the sigil of his ancestors - imagining the fires that roasted them. His father, brothers, uncles, and cousins. Their screams while burning, although by the mercy of the Stranger they died instantly.

He burned with hate. Hate for the Valyrians, for the dragons they rode, and for the traitors that fought alongside them.

Falling to his knees, he placed the book to his forehead, hoping for the wisdom of the Seven who are One to seep into his soul. "Holy Seven… why does this happen to the righteous? Why must you torment us so?" Heart heavy, Hugor let it out. "We are your humble servants upon this earth. When will it be time for our victories? For our triumph?"

He knew there would be no answer, no divine miracle for the Faithful - but he knew what the Seven wished. If they were to triumph over the dragons, they would have to earn it. To take it.

"Let it be done."

Chapter Text

A gentle wind wafted against the peak of the high hill, a weak shove by the gods upon the city of the dragons. It brought coolness to the people of the city, of the Aegonfort, needed in the damp squalor of the early autumn heat. And almost playfully, the very same wind brushed against the dangling bodies of a half-hundred men. Swaying in the breeze from the nooses that had taken their lives only minutes before.

It was a scene that the silver-haired highborn watched without a word being said - only two hands clasped over the pleats of her dress, the green and white of her ancestral house.

"The deed is done, your Grace," stated Ser Osmund Strong, Master of Laws for their graces, Aegon and Visenya Targaryen. "Justice for your daughter, peace be unto her."

Sea green eyes flickering to his, Queen Dowager Valaena Targaryen - formerly Velaryon - unsettled Ser Osmund. A large bear of a man, the stare of the dragon was one he wished not to get onto the wrong side of. But just as it came her eyes shifted back to the dangling corpses. Half a hundred, a mix of the condemned perpetrators, hostages, and unfortunate souls trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only commonality being their origins.

Dornish, the lot of them.

"Will their death bring my daughter back?" she asked Ser Osmund evenly. "Will they spare the pain my surviving children feel? Give my grandson his mother alive and well again?" Questions she didn't expect nor want an answer to. "Don't speak of justice unless you can see their atrocities undone."

Ser Osmund only bobbed his head. "Aye, your Grace."

Pushing the Master of Laws out of her mind, Valaena raked her eyes up and down the still bodies of the dead Dornishmen. She wanted to loathe them with the same fiery hate that her surviving daughter did, but instead all that was left was a hollow pit in her soul. Even at the captured assassins dangling… no contempt, just… nothing.

Killing them doesn't bring my Rhae back to me. Unlike Aegon and Visenya, the Queen Dowager had the experience to realize such matters. Vengeance was fleeting, a temporary fix. In the end, only love and death were finite.

The roaring shadow of Balerion drew her from her solemn musings. Wingspan over a hundred and fifty feet across, he dwarfed Vhagar and the slightly smaller Meraxes… well, once dwarfed Meraxes. No more fitting a mount for the King of all Westeros. "His Grace has returned from Storm's End."

"Aye, he has." Valaena looked at Ser Osmund. "Leave them to dangle till tomorrow night, then cut them down and toss them into the sea."

"Yes, your Grace."

Vengeance may have been fleeting, but in the moment it felt good.

The Aegonfort was quite well chosen as a fortress. Built upon the high hill overlooking all of Blackwater Bay and the surrounding fields and woodland, the keep itself was actually several hundred yards inland atop the crest. Where the cliffs plunged down towards the sea and small stretch of beach, the planners kept a large grassy knoll fallow, most of the actual buildings that helped keep the castle running on the inland side.

As Balerion landed upon the grass with a thud, it wasn't hard to see why.

Walking briskly, Valaena truly missed her youth. Still graceful and beautiful at seven and forty, it seemed like a waste without her wonderful Aerion beside her. She had other lovers since - discrete as to not draw the ire of her children - but it wasn't the same. He would know what to say here. The current situation needed his kindly touch and comforting embraces, but Valaena would have to do the best she could.

Her babes were hurting greatly.

Aegon worked like a man possessed. He said little, ate little, and spent most of his time locked in his solar pouring over ravenscrolls from Orys and Addam Hightower, discussing battleplans with his master of war and master of ships, and overseeing the latest supply manifests that a twenty-nameday old clerk was more suited to review. Nothing could be pried from him besides such, not even his newborn son. Aenys was left in Valaena's care, not that she minded, but it broke her heart.

Visenya was the opposite problem. While Aegon was dour, Valaena's eldest erupted with the fury of the fourteen flames. The day after the news of Rhaenys' death reached her, she and Vhagar disappeared - they returned many hours later, ahead of the news that Godsgrace had been immolated and Lord Allyrion turned into ash, simply for being the first Dornish keep they could reach. Her anger boiled over on everyone, on everything. Lord Alton, Lord Edmyn, and Ser Osmund only just managed to convince her to not slaughter every dornish man, woman, and child in the capitol… only those men connected to House Martell.

Seeing the stoic form of her son climb down from Balerion, she didn't blame either him nor Vis for their feelings. Both adored Rhae, their sister-wife, and each felt the hole she left in their hearts in their own way. In this - visible in the tension and pain that radiated from Aegon like wisps of smoke - the distance between the couple truly exposed itself. Aegon used to confide in Rhae, while Visenya confided in no one.

I should have stopped this long ago… Better late than never.

Valaena approached the great beast without fear. Her mother was a Targaryen dragonrider - ironically, her mount had been Balerion, passed down from Daenys the Dreamer to her. There was an intimate familiarity between herself and her only son's mount. "Welcome back, son."

Hand absentmindedly stroking the Black Dread's snout, Egg looked back to his mother. Anyone else would have been ignored. "Muna." They were always the closest, while Rhaenys and the late Aerion Targaryen were joined at the hip - Visenya was often on her own, much to Valaena's regret. "Orys," he began, voice hollow and brooding. "He's planning to sail the reinforcements to Sunspear once our fleet arrives."

"The Martells won't be anywhere close to there." Valaena knew her son, trying to bury his feelings in his duties just as his father used to. Visenya had anger, Aegon had brooding. But she went with it for now. "You'd be better off sending assassins as they did."

He stiffened at the memory, but said nothing. Aegon hadn't yet talked about that fateful day. "Vis wants to unleash our dragons and I agree with her. We fly once Orys lands at Sunspear."

She frowned. "If you think the Dornish Lords barricaded themselves in their keeps then you're being foolish. They won;t make that mistake again."

"Well what choice do I have, muna?" The innate Targaryen temper began to rise, even in someone as brooding as Aegon. Good. "Those monsters killed Rhae, they nearly killed…" This time, he shut up. Instead trying to trudge back to the keep where a soft bed and warm food awaited him.

But Valaena grabbed his shoulder before he could. "No, Egg."

He tensed, smoldering. "Let go of me, muna."

She wasn't about to take his ire - her own rose. "You will not speak to me that way, and you will stop this childishness right now."

"I'm no child."

"You're acting just like one at the moment."

He turned, simply staring at her. His skin was flush with anger, but the violet eyes of his father merely reflected pain and grief. "I'm acting as anyone would who lost their wife… whom they loved with everything in them." Aegon talked little of his emotions, but when speaking to or about Rhae he was a little more open.

That was good, but he had someone else as well. "You have another wife, Egg. One that's alive and needs you."

Aegon's gaze shifted out to sea. Finding Vhagar flapping over the waves. "Visenya is strong - she doesn't need me as Rhae did…"

"Horseshit!" His eyes widened, not expecting his dignified mother to curse. All my babes… they put me on a pedestal. Little did they know she was far different deep down. "Gods, it was just like this when you were babes. Visenya forcing herself to be tough and aloof and you shunning her for it."

"I never shunned her…" Even Aegon knew the moment he spoke that it was a lie, half-hearted to defend himself. The first walls began to crack.

Valaena crossed her arms. "I'm not going to speak of Rhaenys… we all miss her, I among all." Her daughter, her silver flame of fun and excitement, life snuffed out by a lucky Dornishman with a scorpion bolt. The tears that left her eyes every night still hadn't ran dry. "Now is about you, and Visenya. You can't grieve unless the both of you do it together."

"She doesn't speak to me. Never since our childhood did she." He loved her - seven hells he did, but not once did they ever truly open up to each other. Aegon never truly could figure out why and eventually he hardened his heart to it. Rhaenys was their seal, but with her gone there was no escaping it. "I don't know how to get through to her."

His mother offered a sad smile. "Perhaps you should approach it from her level." Leaning up, she kissed his forehead and headed back to the keep.

Left alone in the breeze, it wasn't long before Balerion's hot snout prodded him gently - it still was a struggle not to topple over. "Easy boy." He placed his hand on Balerion's scales. "You agree with muna?" The dragon snorted. "Kessa, I know."

He had to find Visenya, but didn't know where she was.

Stop being an idiot. Aegon knew exactly where she was.

She is no mortal… she is a demon…

Such had been some of the more… tame characterizations of Queen Visenya Targaryen. Most were far more profane or derogatory, often both, and she despised it.

Loathed it.

Let it fuel her rage and vitality.

Letting the training sword spin in her hand, the weight and feel of it obscene to the feel of Dark Sister, Visenya brought it up to clutch in both hands. Fingers tightened around the pommel. Two and thirty namedays old, age slowed her down in no manner. Fast, powerful, the narrowed violets of her eyes struck fear into any man that faced her.

As it should be.

"Come on!" Visenya bellowed at the four milling men-at-arms, dressed in full plate for this - she, on the other hand, only wore a tunic, lady's riding trousers, and a leather cuirass. "Anyone man enough to fight the Queen?!"

None made the first move. In her youth many had tried to take advantage of the young maiden, her violent reactions leading to many instances of her father having to soften bruised egos and strained relations. A decade of battle prowess against the armies of the Sunset Kingdoms solidified such a legend, but in the last weeks everyone knew her mood. The broken arms and bruised chests of all Lords and Knights commanded to fight her told the tale. She had a bloodlust that couldn't be sated, and any hapless fool that came in her sights would be subjected to the fight of his life.

It would have been amusing if the focused rage wasn't present in Visenya's eyes. "Gods! Do something, you cunts!" When none moved yet again, Visenya rolled her eyes and tensed. "Fine then." Raising the training sword up, she charged herself.

The clash of steel upon steel was intimately familiar to King Aegon, hearing it through the wood and stone corridors that formed the central keep. His earlier intuition was correct after all… Gods help those poor souls. Chided for recklessness at the unilateral burning of Dornish castles and madness for proposing executing women and babes, Visenya had taken to unleashing her rage at Rhaenys' death upon the knights and men-at-arms on the sparring court. Not yet had she lost.

No worthy opponent has yet been found. Aegon knew there was only one who could go toe to toe with her.

Rounded in an almost oval shape, the Targaryens had insisted on the inner courtyard's construction as a place to train. It was surrounded by a wooden palisade, two balconies running one atop the other all around. Normally when the King or Queen trained there would be countless servants, knights, or visiting lords watching the sight. Not now. Everyone feared the Queen's wrath, not that Aegon blamed them. I should have never let it come to this.

Emerging into the well, Egg moved to approach his sister and end this but stopped. Waiting in the entrance, his eyes landed upon the silver-haired warrior Queen and he saw her. Really saw her. Visenya looked to all as strong and fierce, but moved with a dexterity and grace that put the lumbering Westerosi knights to shame. The blade never rested in two hands, instead twirling and slashing like an extension of her arm. Her hands and feet weren't idle either, punching and kicking in a frenzied yet fluid attempt to bash aside all of her enemies.

Aegon himself often used his strength as a weapon, but Vis needed to compensate for hers didn't come naturally. A year older than him, Visenya's martial attitude was always just a given for him - the aloof and stern elder sister always scowling and challenging him to a fight - but here he truly witnessed the breathtaking being before him.

A true dragon.

When she bashed one of the men-at-arms in the face, breaking his nose, Aegon finally intervened. "Enough!" To Visenya's credit, she stopped her sparring. The men seemed eager to end it, falling to their knees at their King. "Sister, this has gone far enough."

Propping a hand on her hip - unintentionally showing off just how toned and beautiful she was - Visenya scoffed. "Brother," she addressed him curtly. "How nice of you to emerge from your solar and war room for once."

Her sarcasm hurt, for she was right. However, Aegon knew he wasn't entirely to blame for adopting coping strategies - she did too. "Get out of here!" he bellowed at the men, who scrambled away as fast as their legs would take them. "Does it please you to fight those that are clearly out of your league?"

She only chuckled darkly, sword resting on her shoulder. "It isn't my fault our guards and sworn swords aren't worth a damn. Our dragons can't protect us forever, Egg." The two seemed to circle each other, tension coming to a head.

"Vis, stop this," he urged, softening his voice. "Put down the blade and let's talk in our chambers."

"I have nothing to say to you," was her reply, dark and growling… but with a hint of quivering. Had Egg not spoken to his mother, he wouldn't have picked it up. "I have nothing to say to anyone except to Lady Martell when I burn her alive."

"You don't think this is what Rhae would want…" Aegon knew such was the worst thing to say at the moment.

Sword leveled at him, Visenya's eyes blazed dragonfire. "Don't you dare tell me what our sister would want! She would want us to avenge her, and that's what I intend to do!"

As do I. It wasn't the sentiment that Aegon could now see was toxic… it was her attitude in general. Strong as she was, this level of grief and emotion would eat her alive if she didn't let it out.

"Perhaps you should approach it from her level."

Good advice from his mother, and he knew just the thing. "You want to fight someone so much, fight someone who's on your level." Reaching up to his neck to untie the straps of his armor, he moved towards the collection of blunted sparring swords - just like the set he and Visenya learned from.

Slightly surprised by his sentiment, the wide eyes changed to a chuckle. "You can't be serious."

"Not keen on fighting me?" He smirked, knowing exactly which points to push. "Think a woman isn't up to taking on the King of Westeros?"

It took a moment for Visenya to process the words, but her lips curled into a snarl and her body shook with ire. "Fine. You want it you got it." But the Queen tossed the blade to the ground, instead going for the fine longsword propped against one of the benches. "Valyrian steel against Valyrian steel, like proper dragonlords."

With anyone else he would have been sure Vis was asking for a death wish, but this was personal. She couldn't back down, not against her brother. Wordlessly, Aegon drew Blackfyre just as she drew Dark Sister. Both longswords glinting in the noonday sun. "Melee rules?" Egg asked.

She cocked her head. "You know better than that." Without a word or a cry, just burning eyes, Visenya lunged straight for him. There was no chance either would hold back with their ancestral blades - both knew the other could take it.

There was something about Visenya, one that made her as powerful a warrior as any of the renowned knights that were celebrated across Westeros. She combined the strength of the dragon - surprising for a woman and thus leaving her underestimated - with an uncompromising agility. Spinning, whirling, dancing around her foes and attacking their weak spots, she was relentless at it.

Such was why it put Aegon off balance when she assaulted straight into him with the bullheaded charge of a melee knight. Surprising for her, but one that worked as Aegon was forced back, Blackfyre on the defensive as Dark Sister slashed at him.

But Egg was just as skilled, escaping a narrow swing by leaning back, using momentum to shove forward, but Vis redoubled, using her retreat to spin around and sidestep his thrust. Dark Sister swung through the air, reflecting the sun as it met flesh.

Stinging pain shooting through his cheek, Aegon bashed aside Dark Sister, quickly scrambling back - putting yards of distance between them. His hand shot up and felt a shallow gash cut along the skin. Blood marred his fingers. Visenya circled, spinning her blade out of impatience and anger. "Not once did Black Harren's men harm me," Aegon said evenly.

Visenya laughed. "Black Harren and the Ironborn are thugs. I am a Valyrian Queen, there is no comparison!"

"Perhaps not." Time to end this.

Suddenly, Visenya found Egg charging, his feet showing a surprising speed for someone as bulky as he. But she knew all his movements, Dark Sister rising to parry Blackfyre's sideways slash… only for him to kick at her foot. It was a risky move that weakened his stance, but Visenya didn't expect it and staggered, teeth gritting in pain.

Seeing an opening and taking it, Aegon pressed forward. His bulk was an advantage, keeping Vis reacting to him rather than the other way around. He twirled Blackfyre parallel with his forearm to block Dark Sister's assaults while he swung at his sister. Making sure she was off balance until his blade rocketed back into position, a shout on his lips as he swung hard.

Dark Sister dropping onto the grass with a thud, Visenya staggered back two paces, shock written all over her face just as determination filled Aegon's. They stood there, not a word shared between them… the former still while the latter waited for what would transpire. "Yield," he finally said, voice low - firm but soft at the same time.

Her eyes narrowed, but lips quivered. "I… yield," Visenya grounded out. The tension deemed to deflate from her, replaced with… resignation. "I suppose this is what you've always wanted, right? Proving me weak."

Aegon dropped from his stance. "No one that can stand toe to toe with me deserves to be called weak."

"But weaker than you," she replied, the ire leeching from her voice. "That's what they all desired, to show that I'm just as weak as they wish all women to be." It was an accusation, but for once a chink developed in Visenya's armor… a hole in her walls. If Aegon didn't apply it correctly, then she could immolate.

Sighing, he sheathed Blackfyre, leaning down to pick up Dark Sister and press it into her hands. "That's not what I think… what I ever thought." She replied for naught, shifting her eyes away from him. "I'm your husband, Visenya. You need not put walls from me."

That drew her attention as she sheathed her blade, arms wrapping protectively round her waist. "You mean the walls you put up from me, Egg? The ones that you didn't with…" Visenya couldn't say her name. If she did… she'd fall apart.

Not replying directly, Aegon wrapped his arms around her shoulder. To his elation, she didn't resist, though her eyes were still downcast. "I know we both have more to say. Please, Vis, our chambers?" Visenya replied not, but nodded - letting her husband lead her out of the courtyard.

Aegon paid little attention to the guards... or the servants... or the errant Lord or knight that attempted to seek his favor. No, they didn't deserve his time. The only one who did was the woman his arm wrapped around the waist of. Visenya was all that mattered to him at the moment.

How quiet she was, the increasingly hollow look in her eye… gods, it scared him.

Their bedchamber was lavishly decorated - by Rhae it turned out, filled with a mix of golden colors vibrant with light, gentle blues and whites, and the red and black of their house. Aegon honestly liked it, as did Vis at the time… well, he took her grunt as liking it, but now it just added to his sorrow. Don't dwell on it now. Be strong for Vis. Leading her to the large bed that could fit all three of them, he guided them to sit.

"You comfortable?" he asked, breaking the silence. All he got was a nod in return. "Good… good…" Working on what he wanted to tell her, it died on his lips the moment they sat. Better improvise then. "You're not weak, Vis. I never thought you were." She didn't reply. "I mean, a woman that managed to destroy the Vale fleet at Gulltown while single-handedly forcing the surrender of House Arryn cannot be weak." Technically she got Ronnel Arryn to submit by taking him on a dragon ride, but it was just mindless detail.

Slowly, Visenya tilted her head to look at him. The pain in her eyes broke his heart in a way that nothing did since seeing Rhaenys so pale after delivering Aenys. "Do you know what it's like to be dismissed by everyone?" It wasn't accusatory, Visenya simply put it out there. "To be looked down upon."

"No." He could quibble, but the premise was correct.

Her lip quivered, a completely different Visenya from the one he knew. "I tried not to let it get to me, but it did." She chuckled, dryly and without levity. "Every comment, every insult, every look of disgust or novelty… Do you know why I was drawn to the magic and lore of our ancestors, Egg?"

From a young age, she poured through the libraries of Dragonstone to find the secrets of Old Valyria - to connect to their illustrious past. "You were always the most proud of our Valyrian ancestry, Vis." It was one of her top charms.

"It was after a point, but I was first drawn to it because of the nature of dragonlords." She closed her eyes, as if imagining Old Valyria. "You never had to distinguish between them. The sheer act of bonding with a dragon made you an elite. Man, woman, it didn't matter. Here, in Westeros…" Visenya practically spat out the last. "If I wasn't born with a cock, then it doesn't matter. Unless I'm charming like Rhae was, then it's off to the back of the room to churn out babies!" Ire of long suppressed anger - let out, but never spoken about - led to her grabbing a candlestick from the nightstand and throwing it against the wall.

Aegon moved to hug her, but Visenya pushed him away. He tried not to take it personally, but it did hurt. Memories of his own younger years came back. "None on Dragonstone stopped you becoming a warrior."

"Aye, they didn't, but I knew what they 'expected of me.' The disapproval came from everyone."

"Who's everyone, Vis?" he shot back. "Muna? Kepa? Quenton?"

"You."

He flinched as if struck. "Me? What in seven hells did I do?!" This was not going as planned, but Aegon couldn't help his raised voice.

It only managed to stoke Visenya's ire. "Don't deny it, brother. You preferred Rhaenys over me because I was strong. You wanted a weak woman."

"I can hardly describe Rhaenys as weak, Vis."

"But you wanted a feminine one! One who could whisper sweet things and dance sensually for you! With me you get a female version of yourself and I know you hated it!" She was practically screaming at him by now. "Ever since we were children, all until our marriage you avoided me! Don't try to deny it!"

"Avoided…" He wracked his memories, but suddenly it came to Egg. "I wasn't avoiding you because of that." His voice grew softer. Visenya scoffed. "No, you kept pushing me away."

"Because of your attitude."

"No!" he roared, making her eyes flash with fear. Visenya… in fear. The image quickly sobered him. "Vis, you were my elder sister. A fierce warrior who tamed Vhagar at seven namedays. I looked up to you… but you always shooed me away." He sighed. "I suppose after a while I hardened my heart."

Blinking, Visenya wanted to retort… but the more she thought about it, perhaps he was right. "I don't see it, Egg… I… I just wanted someone not to look at me as if I was a disappointment. Why would I shun you if you didn't?" It didn't make sense.

Aegon smiled wanly. "Perhaps you just assumed? I did always want to be a knight… your opinion of them was always colored that way." Vis averted her gaze, but Aegon placed a hand on her cheek. "Vis, you're my sister and my wife. Please don't shut me out."

"Like you're one to complain," she shot back, but her voice lacked bite. "I know what they say nowadays. How you chose Rhae for pleasure and me for duty."

Gently but forcefully, he turned her head so she was looking at him. "I chose you because I love you." True, he was an ass sometimes. True, their strained relationship built on youthful misunderstandings kept it aloof, but he did. He did love her just as much as he had Rhae.

Her resolve was cracking. "You loved Rhae," she murmured. Visenya actually sounded vulnerable.

It was something only he had ever seen since Kepa died. "I did… desperately so. But I love you, and I knew she did as well. I may be a right cunt sometimes, and it shouldn't have taken this long for us to have this conversation, but it's true and I do love you."

He does love me. She chose to brush off all the rumors spread by nobles and maesters looking to take her down a peg, but Visenya was truly hurt by them. Hurt at his seeming devotion to Rhae over her. Gods… they both fucked this up.

Looking up at him, violet eyes softening, Visenya suddenly became aware of the wound on Egg's face. "Your cheek." Gently, she raised her hand and placed it along the now scabbing line across it - Dark Sister was a fine blade, and its cuts were clean. "It'll scar…" she murmured.

He shrugged. "Most probably. Haven't given it much thought."

"My fault." She bit her lip, never looking so vulnerable. "Oh Egg." Desperate, Visenya hugged him tightly. "Gods, how could you ever forgive me?" In her rage, she actually hurt the man she loved.

"I knew what I was in for when I married a dragon." Aegon smiled. "I suppose I never would have wanted anyone else than that."

At that, Visenya couldn't control herself anymore. She moved forward to capture his lips, distant anger fading as a desire took its place. The grief and recriminations could wait, but for right now all she could think of was that her husband loved her.

And she him.

"Vis…" Feeling him pushing her back, she did not understand his hesitation until Egg pointed to the swords still tied around their waists. "I'd rather not risk getting cut." Fuck, Visenya found she missed his dry humor, even if it was still irritating.

Seemed she was admitting a lot to herself.

Impatient to have him again, Visenya shucked off Dark Sister, which clattered to the ground just as Blackfyre did. The moment the swords were gone did Aegon grab her ass, pinning her to the bed. Visenya gasped, but in a good manner... She grew wet for him, needing her strong Dragon King. With her legs wrapped around his waist and his tongue plunging into her mouth, she felt as if it was their first time all over again.

Kessa, Egg...

But as he pulled back for air, she blinked away sudden tears. "What is it?" Aegon asked, the lust in her face falling to sadness

"I…I do not deserve you," Visenya said, shaking her head with unshed tears in her eyes. "I was so awful to you."

He just looked at her. "You do deserve me." He rocked their bodies together, making her feel his hardness against her core. "I like you the way you are."

Visenya trembled, as if dragonfire coursed within. His words… it was out of a dream.

"I love being married to a dragon." He leaned down and sucked at her neck, making Visenya moan. "Do you know how beautiful you are?" In the moment all worries, all pain disappeared, lost in their moment of passion.

"Tell me… I want to know." Normally uncaring, she discovered that if from Egg, it did matter to her.

He smiled, beginning to slowly strip the both of them. "Your hair… it's amazing in braids but when it's loose. Gods, you're breathtaking."

Sighing, Visenya shuddered from his hands undoing her braids. "Go on."

Their pants went. "Your skin is flawless." He kissed up her hip, playing with the hem of her tunic. "Your body… every spar, every battle… all the fighting just makes you more beautiful." She bucked up, his words obviously well received. "Your breasts… I have no words."

Seeing his lecherous grin, directed at her - her! - Visenya broke. They were completely nude now, and nothing but will was stopping them. "Gods, husband. Fuck me!"

Looking at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world - to him, she was just that - Egg cared not how this had morphed into something out of his wet dreams. "Soon, my love," he murmured in high Valyrian, husky with desire. Her eyes darkened. Aegon moved his hands from her hips to ass, mouth instantaneously suckling one breast while his hand teased the other.

"Oh… Aegon…" They had fucked before. Wild couplings that left each other bruised, cut, but very satisfied, but this was different. Like the passionate moments he shared with Rhae, there was something deeper to their coupling here. Almost like her bond with Vhagar, only much, much more pleasing.

He lapped at her nipple, flicking the other one to drive her mad. "Beg, sister."

"No."

"Beg." Slowly, his finger stroked her gushing slit.

It was enough to break her. "Please… please…" A soft moan escaped Visenya's lips, Aegon wasting no time to bury his cock inside her cunt. "Oh… Oh… Oh…" He was perfect for her, slowly pushing deeper and deeper till he was buried to the hilt.

"You're tight," he ground out, suddenly kissing her. The kiss enveloped the both of them, tongues dueling as Aegon grabbed her hip and started to thrust into her cunt. He went slow, easing into and out of her with care.

Skin slapping together, Visenya moaned his name into his mouth. This was what she realized she always wanted - needed but never truly had. But it wasn't enough. "Egg." Lips detaching, she bit at his shoulder. "Faster, I won't break."

Growling like the dragon he was, Aegon picked up the pace - pushing his cock deeper and harder into her core. Every thrust drove her further into his spell, and him into hers. Aegon suddenly felt her nails digging into his flesh, surely drawing blood on his back. It spurred him on, faster. Harder. "Gods, Vis."

"Kessa, brother, kessa…" The mix of Valyrian and common tongue was electrifying on her lips. "I want you, I need you."

"You have… me... " The King was relentless, slamming into her and pushing his Queen into the plush mattress. Making her claw at whatever was available, from his flesh to the sheets. It was amazing, taking the great warrior and dragonrider to her peak as her walls began to close. Mine… you're mine, sister...

"Yes… only yours." He must have said it out loud. He didn't care, for Visenya was clenching around him even tighter.

There was no stopping him. "Visenya!" he bellowed, undoubtedly heard through the keep.

The feeling of his cock pulsing within her cunt was enough for her. "Aegon!" His cry was joined by hers, even louder.

Heart thumping in her chest, Visenya molded herself against Aegon's side. Not wanting one inch of their skin not connected. His arm held her firmly in place and lightly stroked her back. Gods, she loved it. All of this felt so… soft and meek, but Visenya couldn't be bothered to care. Egg was a dragon just like her… an equal. Why hadn't she just accepted it before rather than insisting on something to prove to him?

"I love you," she murmured, kissing his chest.

Visenya swore she could hear him smile. "I love you too." Leaning his head, Aegon pressed a kiss to her forehead - sweat-soaked hair matted to the flushed skin. Suddenly he chuckled. "I'm sorry… but I can't help but think that you're gonna thump me for beating you earlier."

Running her hand on his chest, Visenya almost smacked him playfully, but demurred. Smirking at the surprise he was undoubtedly feeling. "No, that was a fair fight… and I don't intend to thump you in the bedchamber - it would be unfair."

There was a silence. "Where are you and what have you done with my wife?"

Eyes shifting to look at him, an impish smile appeared on her face. "Don't worry. I intend to thump you in a rematch tomorrow."

Egg laughed. "There's my wife."

"That's right, your wife." She poked him in the chest. "Don't forget it." In lieu of response, Aegon simply captured her lips, to which she lost herself in.

While before had been a source of lust and comfort, the kiss now was a promise. A learning experience, Egg feeling as if he was newly married and exploring his new bride… seven hells, in effect it was. He had been given a second chance with Vis, and damned if he wasn't going to take it.

Air became an issue however, and they pulled away. Her lips were swollen, and Visenya bit it shyly - he rather liked the look on her, but only when they were alone. Only I get to see her like this. It seemed like the most precious of gifts. "I hadn't realized how good a kisser you were."

"Rhae always thought so," he mentioned, only for both their faces to fall. "Rhae…"

Her name before would send Vis into a tirade, but now she merely rested her head against his chest. Letting his heartbeat soothe her. "Why did they take her from us? Why did she have to die?" Visenya's voice was mournful, a tear falling from her cheek onto his skin.

Aegon sighed, grieving too. "She didn't deserve it… she was the best of us."

"We'll avenge her." Dorne would pay, but now she simply couldn't be angry - that would come again later. "Poor Aenys, my motherless nephew."

Cupping her cheek, Aegon made Visenya look at him - touch gentle. "No, he has a mother."

His smile revealed his meaning. "Me?" She wasn't opposed to the idea, but… "I don't know how to be a mother."

"You'll be an amazing muna, one I and Rhae would be proud of." He kissed her eyelid. "Both to Aenys and our future babes."

She stared at him. "Our…"

Aegon nodded, cupping her belly. "I'd like another son and a daughter, only if you would." He wasn't ready for Vis to jump onto him, their words disappearing into teary-eyed kisses.

The servants looked as if they had seen the three-headed Targaryen dragon take flight before them. In all the time most had spent around Queen Visenya, only a few could remember seeing her in a dress. Or seeing her look so… gentle. Such was the prerogative of Queen Rhaenys, and with her dead none had imagined such a sight to return.

Walking calmly through the halls, Visenya wasn't completely unrecognizable. The dress was simple, mostly black but with a red hem and collar, the colors of her house. Her silver hair was still up in her simple braids, Dark Sister a grounding constant strapped to her side. She knew the looks she was getting but didn't care.

She wouldn't let all that had happened destroy her.

The doubles guard outside the nursery door immediately bowed as she approached. "Your Grace." Being from Dragonstone, they were absolutely loyal and professional.

Nodding at them, Visenya looked at one with recognition. "You, you were part of the relief party that found my husband and I."

He seemed in awe that the great Targaryen Queen recognized him. "Aye, your Grace. Thank the gods we arrived before the worst."

"Your name?"

"Jon Bean, my Queen."

"Do you have any children?" Given why she was here, babes were on Visenya's mind.

"Aye, a young son named Dick."

Visenya smiled. If he grows up as strong as his father, then I'll make sure he has a place in my service." The guard grinned madly, as if given the greatest of honors.

The greatest honor is being married to Egg and Rhae. Too little too late she realized the wonder of the latter… but not too late to enjoy the former. Opening the door, Visenya resolved to do just that. Starting with this.

Having expected Aenys' wetnurses, she froze when she saw her mother holding Rhaenys' son. "Muna!" She didn't expect her to be there.

Looking up from her grandson to see her daughter, Valaena smiles. The smile turned bright at something other than rage written on her face. "Dear daughter." She set the band in his crib and rose to embrace Visenya tightly. "You look quite beautiful. The dress suits you."

"Muna…" Warrior and Queen that she was, clucking compliments from her mother made her feel a six-and-ten nameday maiden. "I thought… I'd feel better while dressing less… fiercely."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is it working?"

Visenya nodded. "Aye, though not as much as being with Egg through this. I… truly I missed him even while he was beside me." It felt so much easier to open up to her mother and Visenya felt heartened by it.

The Queen Dowager quirked her eyebrow. "And are things better? In…" She let it hang.

A bright blush formed on Visenya's cheeks, quite a contrast, but with her mother looking at her like that she couldn't help it. "I'd rather not go into details."

"That's all I need to know," Valaena chuckled, kissing her girl on the cheek. "It's what you deserved."

Nodding, in a moment Visenya felt a tear fall from her lids. "Is it wrong of me? To feel happy even though Rhaenys is gone?" Now was truly the time to grieve, but she couldn't help basking in the feeling of finally having the relationship with Egg that she had always been too proud to admit she wanted - did that make her the evil demon that so many painted herself as?

Sensing the conflict inside her, Valaena hugged her again. "It's alright to cling to that which makes us truly happy during times of grief. I did that with the three of you when your kepa passed on." Pulling back, she let her hands fall on the skirt of her dress. "I am certain Rhaenys would want you and Egg to be happy. She adored the both of you."

Visenya's lips curved up. "Thank you, muna."

"Now, I am sure you didn't come her to speak to me." Valaena headed to the door. "He's been quite morose… I think Aenys knows in some manner his mother isn't coming back. Please don't let him feel alone." With that, she was gone.

Hesitantly walking to the crib, Visenya gasped at the state of Rhaenys' son. Egg's son. Aenys had the silver hair and violet eyes of the Targaryens, the epitome of ethereal beauty that made Valyrians so revered by appreciative eyes - but it wasn't what stood out to her. He was smaller than she expected, with spindly limbs and eyes filled with tears of discomfort. Weak and sickly, nowhere near the happy, strong babes that Orys had sired off Argella Baratheon.

A motherless child…

No, not motherless…

Without hesitating, Visenya reached down and scooped up Rhae's child… her child. "Hush now, little one," she whispered in Valyrian. "Muna's here."

Aenys, blinking away his quiet tears, looked up at her. The violets staring in awe at the figure before him. Was it just a loving touch, or did he know? Did the dragonblood within him know?

Visenya hoped to find out. "Your kepa and I will need to go away within a moon, but you won't be alone anymore… I promise you, little hatchling." Leaning down, Visenya pressed a kiss against his forehead. A Queen, a wife, and now a mother… hopefully to be joined by a babe of her own after this was over.

The Dragon Queen would kill to defend it all.

Chapter Text

They said Oldtown was bigger… they said Lannisport was grander… they said Gulltown was more bustling. Swilling the honeyed Arbor gold in a silver goblet, Lord Torrhen Stark hadn't seen any of those so couldn't ascertain the rumors for any truth. King's Landing was certainly larger and grander than White Harbor, the one city of the North and its only major port… the lifeblood of his Kingdom. Once he ruled it by crown, now with the authority of a crown less ornate yet far more powerful.

You're part of something greater now. Fostered with his mother's family at Bear Island, a veteran of battles against the Ironborn and wildlings, explorer of the swamps of the Neck with his young bride, the still youthful Lord Stark hadn't been south of Moat Cailin since marching his men for a first strike against the Targaryens - which led to him doing the opposite and bending the knee. A set of circumstances that must change.

Such led him to surprise the Kingdom by accepting the Royal invitation to celebrate the birth of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the second child of his Grace King Aegon and his wife Queen Visenya. No one expected the Starks to show up. Torrhen enjoyed their surprise.

There were other reasons why he was here rather than sending his cousin or the Manderlys, but that was a topic for another time.

"My wolf?" Torrhen's smile curled up. "Why are you out here?" Out onto the balcony of the large keep walked his beautiful bride - Jocelyn Reed, daughter of the Neck and once the Queen of Winter. The sparkling crown didn't adorn her dark-black hair or accentuate her petite features anymore, but she was still stunning to him. "You are the talk of the feast, besides the Princess of course."

Chuckling - quite dour to most, Torrhen was open to those he cared about… something that his taciturn brother didn't even have. He drew Jocelyn into his arms. "Just enjoying the sights of this city." Outside, the flickering lights seemed to ward off even the darkness of night. They flickered through the resounding echo of sound, crowds clogging the streets and alleys to celebrate their new Princess. "They love the Targaryens here."

Jocelyn nodded, leaning up on tiptoes to kiss his chin. They were alone. A perfect time for a bit of affection for two northmen lost in the south. "There's no chance they'll be dislodged… dragons are here to stay."

"I think the sentiments are different in Oldtown or Lannisport." He sighed. "I suppose that's why I'm here."

"Inclined to accept?" Though born among the secretive Crannogmen, Jocelyn was bright and a quick study in politics.

Torrhen shrugged. "Have to see how much they want it." Wordlessly, he extended his hand… offering to escort her in. Giggling, his bride accepted.

Feasts in the North were nothing like the elegant affair that seemed plucked right out of a painting or mosaic of Gardener-era Highgarden. By the gods, were the Northmen bored, drawn eagerly to the flagons of wine being brought about by the servants. Luckily Lady Mormont - Torrhen's cousin - and Lord Bolton were even-headed enough to keep their comrades from making fools of themselves within the formal crowd.

Shunning the alcohol, Torrhen mingled among the guests. Introducing himself to familiar and unfamiliar names alike. The Tyrells were pleasant enough for a man that lost his father in the ill-fated war with Dorne, as was Edmyn Tully of Riverrun - though for the first Lord to rebel against Black Harren Hoare, the redheaded Lord Paramount seemed quite weak and indecisive. A paradox… one that Torrhen enjoyed deciphering.

"I must say," Lady Sharra Arryn elucidated, her beauty and poise self-evident even as she aged. "Your bannermen are making a wonderful impression against reputation." Both he and Jocelyn were rapidly being introduced to the half-compliment, half-insult of court. While Sharra smiled at them, her facade dropped into a genuine sneer at someone in the distance. "Unlike some people."

Eyes flickering to the side, all of the group gathered in a circle close to the Iron Throne itself watched as a burly figure with dark-silver hair repeatedly shoving a servant. Wine sloshed out of a goblet, the man both a sloppy and angry drunk. "I presume that is the young Lord Gargon," Torrhen said, looking at the war hero Lord Quenton Qoherys, the boy's grandfather.

As Osmund Strong and Markus Darry both moved to subdue the hulking brute before he killed the hapless servant who had simply told him that he would need to rush to the kitchens for another pitcher of Arbor Gold, Lord Quenton buried his head in his hand. "I don't know what is up with that child."

"Not a child anymore," mused Argella Baratheon. Beauty not exaggerated, she could hold her own in any conversation much as Jocelyn. "I suggest you do something about him."

"Put him under my care, Quenton," her husband, Lord Orys, grunted. Torrhen remembered a boisterous, jovial man… sullen and blunt, the wooden hand in place of one of flesh and bone belied the personality change. "I'll have that idiot battered into shape in no time."

But Quenton shook his head, hair long since gone to white. "I'll handle it myself." No one found it their place to challenge that.

"Be thankful you have a spare heir, Lord Quenton," Sharra said, sipping gingerly. "Lord Loren had to start over with a younger wife and a new son when his old one disappointed him."

Torrhen raised an eyebrow. "How did that happen?"

"You didn't hear?" Sharra seemed amused at the Lord of Winterfell's ignorance of southern gossip. "Poor Jason Lannister… he was pursuing Dornish raiders and allowed his men to be ambushed. Rather than fight, he shat himself and was forced to be carried from the field."

"Luckier than the Gardener sons, that's for sure," Argella remarked.

"Quite… but Lord Loren basically disowned him and ordered him to the wall. Rather than take the black, he killed himself." Sharra shook her head. "Unfortunate business."

Jocelyn was incredulous. "What sort of man does that to their own child?" The Boltons were known to do it in the past… as were the wildlings… but they bred like rabbits so it wasn't as much of an issue there.

Sharra raised an eyebrow. "Survival is different here in the South, Lady Stark. There, only strength matters. Here, one must also consider how one appears. A weak heir only invites challenge and pain." She shrugged. "Hopefully his Tully bride would produce someone stronger."

"Fat chance of that happening," Orys mumbled, drawing a chuckle from Argella. Given their inauspicious start, the couple was quite affectionate.

The conversation was interrupted by the heralds. "Presenting, His Grace Aegon, First of His Name, and Visenya, First of Her Name - and the newly born Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen!" Trumpets blaring again, out of the royal entrance walked the King and Queen. Falling to one knee along with all the others, Torrhen studied them. They wore formal wear in the fashion of Oldtown, colored red and black of House Targaryen. They looked immaculate and ethereal in their Valyrian beauty, and Visenya carried a little bundle in her arms.

Princess Rhaenys… after the Late Queen. Both truly did care for her.

Turned out, after Lord and Lady Baratheon - not surprising, being the King and Queen's half-brother - and the fawning Lady Arryn, all of it fake yet propriety insisting their Graces overlook it, Torrhen was the third Lord to approach the monarchs. Jocelyn by his side, they both bowed. "Your Graces," Torrhen said with respect. "Allow my sincerest congratulations to the birth of your beautiful daughter."

From her perch in Visenya's arms, little Rhaenys seemed quite… taken with the world. She cooed and grunted, violet eyes looking every which way. Any other parent would have struggled to keep her in their arms, but Visenya was no ordinary mother. "Thank you, Lord Stark." Her strong arms kept a tight grip on Princess Rhaenys. "You have our gratitude for arriving. By boat?"

Torrhen shook his head. "No, nothing so pedestrian. We rode from Winterfell… much easier when not at the van of an army."

Visenya quirked her lips ever so slightly. "Quite." She seemed amused, yet not wishing to show it. "Why did you go overland though?'

"To speak to my goodfamily, the Reeds… as well as visit my cousin, Lord Blackwood." He was the son of Torrhen's father's sister, the only old gods-worshipping house in the South other than Dayne or Royce. A noble match for a Stark.

"Keep your family close, I like that." Their eyes shifted to the King. "Truth be told, I won a bet with poor Lord Celtigar that you'd show up," King Aegon said with a tiny grin. He seemed a lot looser and jovial than the stern conqueror Torrhen last witnessed. Took on his late sister's role, eh?

Torrhen's pondering could wait, though. "I must keep my eyes peeled for Lord Celtigar's revenge, then." Jocelyn snickered, while mirth danced in the Queen's eyes.

King Aegon, on the other hand, barked out a laugh. "It was only a single gold dragon. He's got thousands more." Casually, he tickled his daughter's cheek, earning gurgling giggles from the princess. "I know Princess Rhaenys appreciates the secretive Northmen to join us for her feast."

"Unfortunately you weren't inclined to do the same for Maegor's nameday… or Aenys'." Visenya let it out there, a challenge.

It was Jocelyn that answered the woman, herself a head shorter. "Our apologies, but winter was dreadful at the time. Six foot snows… they are hard to travel through, even for a dragon." It hung, Visenya's hard look meeting Jocelyn's cheery but equally hard smile. "I trust Lord Manderly represented ourselves properly."

Softening, Visenya nodded. "He was very respectful, yes."

"I am glad to hear that." Jocelyn turned her attention to the Princess. "I have no doubt that the wee one will break many hearts in the future."

"No doubt at all, dear wife." Torrhen peered down at her. "The eyes… they resemble the late Queen's, I'm sure." A flash of grief clouded Aegon and Visenya's eyes. "Forgive me, but I must say that her presence was a light on the entire Realm. Her Grace is sorely missed."

Aegon sighed. "Aye. I just hope that she will look down with joy at her namesake. The least Visenya and I can do to honor her."

Gaze flickering to Visenya, he could see the Queen still silently grieved. Torrhen knew from the death of his parents that these matters never truly healed. "My people, we believe that when we die, our souls pass into the bosom of the old gods. Since they inhabit nature, our loved ones are always around us. Their memories serving as guides we cannot see but that our souls can feel. I can sincerely hope Queen Rhaenys is doing the same for you."

For the first time that night, Visenya cracked a genuine smile, even though it was small. "That is a lovely thought. Thank you, Lord Stark."

The two couples parted way not long after - second impressions only confirming the intentions of all parties involved.

They were seven strong. Clad in black and red armor in the color of their patron House - three headed dragons emblazoned on their breastplates - the knights of the Kingsguard surrounded the King and Queen of Westeros. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords, ready to defend their monarchs with their life. Drawn from the highest born families in the Six Kingdoms, there would never be another close call on the King and Queen's lives if they had anything to say about it.

"Are you still sure about Lord Stark?" Visenya asked her husband, tone hushed to avoid unwelcome listeners. Though, given the introduction of the completely loyal Kingsguard, they had much more leeway to speak than years prior.

Aegon nodded. "Yes, though it's not sure that we have many more options. Orys is behind us, while the Tyrells need us. Everywhere else we have either weak fools or persons more willing to see us dead than not."

Visenya frowned. "I told you to kill Loren Lannister and be done with it."

"And yet it wasn't I that left Sharra Arryn the Lady Protector of the Vale for her young son."

There was a silence for a moment before the two of them ended up chuckling at their twin accusations, hands weaving together in their personal form of public affection. The years of the Dragon's Wroth and its aftermath were ones fraught with death and pain, but two children and many nights intertwined in each other's embrace led to the solidified relationship between the King and Queen. For their confidants, it was a blessing of providence - even if their fights still shook the very cliffs of which the Aegonfort rested upon.

Such was the risk of waking two dragons at once.

But yet another trait of a dragon was that they loved fiercely. The Kingsguards stationed outside their chambers every night could attest to that… but so could the nursemaids that tended to the three royal children. Housed in the same wing of the Aegonfort, Aegon and Visenya made sure that at least once a day besides meals would find them spending time with their children. Three times more than most Lords.

Head bent as he scrawled drawings on parchment - rather intricate ones for someone so young - the six nameday Crown Prince Aenys' lips curled into a bright smile at his parents' arrival. "Muna! Kepa!" He rushed to Visenya and hugged her waist tightly before darting off to Aegon.

"Easy there, son," laughed Aegon. "Don't crush me."

While he giggled at that and Visenya grinned, both monarchs knew it was only in jest. Hatching his dragon moons ago had drawn the sickly child into health, but he was still slender and weedy. Someone who preferred the stories of the gods and sorcerers rather than the warrior dragonlords of Old Valyria. Not a fighter, but a charming boy they both loved dearly.

He reminded them so much of Rhae, if without the fiery temper.

Kissing the tops of his head, Visenya made her way across the room to where her second son, the first of her womb, played with a wooden dragon. "Hello, hatchling."

Prince Maegor was the opposite of his elder brother. Happy and the picture of health, he was a boisterous babe… good thing that he had two dragonriders for parents to keep up with him. "Hi muna." Unlike Aenys at his age, Maegor was tight with his words.

"You're gonna be a strong dragonlord, like your father," she said with pride, ruffling his silver hair.

This perked him up. "Really?"

"Oh no doubt!" called out the King, proud as any father could be. "All three of our hatchlings, chained by neither man nor god."

"Fire and blood, kepa!" Visenya chucked his cheek once more before going to pick up the newborn Rhaenys, eager to hold her babe.

"Your Graces?" Lord Commander Corlys Velaryon bowed, hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. "Lord Torrhen has been admitted to your solar as you requested. Ser Humfrey is watching over him at the moment."

Visenya nodded. "Thank you, Ser Corlys. Give us but a moment."

"Of course." Professional and loyal, he took a step out of the nursery.

The Queen, released her eldest boy and placed her hands on his shoulders. "We'll be gone for an hour or two, sweetling, but after we'll have that ride. I promise."

Aenys pouted. "Why do you have to go?" In his corner, Maegor just played silently… as if enjoying being alone.

Kissing his newborn daughter on the cheek, Aegon looked at his son. "Meeting with the Lord of Winterfell. It won't take too long, I promise."

Trusting of his parents, Aenys smiled. "'Aight, kepa! I can't wait!"

Ruffling his silver curls, Visenya then approached Maegor - his hair was straighter, more wispy. Much like his father. "I'll be back soon, hatchling."

"I wanna ride Vhagar." Voice mushy with his age, the Prince nevertheless was blunt and direct.

Visenya saw nothing wrong, laughing and hugging him. "You're just like your kepa."

"That sounds more like you, Vis," Aegon replied with a grin.

Yes, their little dragon creche was the joy in their lives.

"Hmmm… it is ironic, your Graces." Torrhen Stark fiddled with a cyvasse piece between his fingers as he sat across the King's desk, the airs and formalities of the Andals lost on him… or deliberately ignored. "The last time that I, the Warden of your largest Kingdom, were alone with you was two days after I bent the knee."

Aegon melded his fingers together, resting on his desk. "Aye, it is quite ironic." He looked up from his seat to Visenya, perched to his right upon the ironwood surface with hard eyes. The stick to his carrot. "One of the reasons I chose to send the raven to you - it is a situation I would like to rectify."

Saying nothing - letting her husband speak - Visenya took her time to study the Warden of the North. The blunt, relaxed man before was an enigma to her. Every other high Lord had their mettle tested on more than one occasion and Visenya knew what to make of them. Ronnel Arryn… growing into a man by looks but still a boy by temperament. Loren Lannister, a conniving manipulator broken by abject defeat but who could rise again. Edmyn Tully, opportunistic but weak willed. Harlan Tyrell and his son, perpetually pissing themselves to hold their new domain. Orys, their strong and shrewd bastard brother, always in their corner. She knew them all.

Torrhen Stark, none at all. A blank slate for Visenya and she didn't like it.

One thing she was sure of, though - the nonchalance and impolitic attitude was a front. While he may have been like this with family, it served as useful armor for him here. "You know, your Graces… we have something in common. Both of us have bastard brothers that are quite near and dear to us."

Raising an eyebrow, Aegon nodded. "Seems the North and Valyria have the same attitudes towards bastards… not that the Andals share such concerns within the Seven-Pointed Star."

"Another matter that binds us… significant distrust of the majority of this continent, given we come from different stock." He tilted his head to look at Visenya. "It's greater for you, isn't it, my Queen? Being you still practice the faith of Old Valyria."

Visenya narrowed her eyes - how did he know that? "You speak quite boldly to your monarchs."

Torrhen pursed his lips. "Given how affectionate you two are, I wouldn't doubt his Grace has less of a commitment to his official faith as proclamations would announce."

"You are out of line, Lord Stark," Aegon said firmly.

"Apologies." He leaned forward. "Perhaps it would be better if the three of us decided to be up front and honest… dispense with such formalistic horseshit the southern flower knights engage in."

"I seemed to have identified your boldness quite underwhelmingly, Lord Stark." Visenya happened to find her impression of him rising. "Accepted. Please continue."

His Grace allows her to answer for him. Their reputation as joint rulers was correct. "My bastard brother, Brandon Snow, felt that I shouldn't have come here. That even if your dragons gained our fealty, that we Northmen should stay out of the affairs of the South as we've done for thousands of years."

Aegon furrowed his brows. "Brandon Snow? That name seems familiar."

"He…" Torrhen fought between a grin or a wince. "May have plotted to sneak up to your dragons and kill them with a weirwood arrow to the eye." He watched them both stiffen. "Given that I bent the knee instead, that did not occur."

"And yet your bastard brother still seems to harbor disloyalty."

Torrhen shook his head. "He honors his oaths, even if he's more committed to… the old ways than I am. While we both agree on the substance, he embraces the form as well." He didn't expect the King and Queen to understand the old way, so he moved on. "What he did end up advising me on is that your raven for a specific alliance between us is quite deficient. I agree with him."

Glancing at each other, Visenya answered for the two of them. "You decline, then?"

"Yes, but with room for renegotiation."

It had been hotly debated ever since the evacuation of Dorne. So far only the inevitable tide of victory kept their young hold on power from delving into widespread discontent, but the dragons had been humbled by the vipers. Aegon and Visenya spent many a sleepless night in each others arms, worried over the future their children would inherit. The Faith had been lucky to fall into their laps during the conquest of the Reach, but perhaps they wouldn't be as lucky later.

Only one Kingdom resisted the knights of Andalos, a Kingdom that the Targaryens wished to bind to them beyond fealty for the wars to come… if Torrhen Stark accepted that is.

"Why do you need to renegotiate?"

A sigh left the northern lord… his first expression of weakness. "You need to realize the Northern mindset… it's hard to explain to someone not of the blood of the First Men, but we cannot trust the Andal houses of the south. No one can given our history and how the North Remembers…"

"Remembers what?" Visenya crossed her arms, intrigued.

"Everything. We remember everything." As cryptic a statement as could be. "You clearly wish for an alliance given how humbled you were in Dorne, thus breathing new life in the battered and subjugated Andals after you humiliated them in battle after battle." Her was smart, Visenya gave him. "However, I cannot make such a deal even if I wanted to unless you give me something to shore up my position. A few northern houses are still not happy with my decision to bend the knee."

"I didn't expect that all would," Visenya conceded to him. "What do you want, then?"

Torrhen had thought about it for his entire journey down to the capitol. His position was tuned well. "A betrothal… between your newborn daughter and my son and heir."

There was a silence before Visenya hissed. "You wish for us to barter our daughter after she was just born?" Aegon's eyes burned as well - the Princess was their joy in a life of struggle and sorrow, just as her namesake had been.

"It would show my bannermen that you are negotiating with us in good faith, without seeking to subjugate us." He had been hesitant to insist on it, but Brandon convinced him that this was the only way. "Princess Rhaenys would have significant authority as Lady of Winterfell. Given our hardy life, we're more… egalitarian when it comes to women."

While such talk would usually mollify the Queen, not when her daughter's life was at stake. "She will not be traded like a farm animal, end of story." She wasn't, Rhaenys wasn't, and ultimately her muna and kepa weren't. Each of them married for love once of age - Visenya pledged long ago to only marry them to highborns that drew their fancy.

For the King, he saw merit in Torrhen's proposal, but the urge to shield his daughter from a potentially horrible marriage also raised its head. "I'm not adverse to a… pact of ice and fire if you will." Before Visenya could berate him, he replied to her. "We need this alliance, Lord Stark, but you need it as well."

"How so?"

"The north is a proud land, but it is also desolate and… largely virgin land. I know you love your home, so wouldn't you wish to better it into a stronger and greater entity? With the resources of the Crown, you can make it happen."

Torrhen's eyes twinkled. The King and Queen had certainly grown into shrewd rulers from the brash conquerors he had bent the knee to.

"I will not make a formal betrothal until my daughter has the opportunity to meet and grow fond of your son."

"Do not misunderstand me, I do not wish for your daughter to feel trapped… but my bannermen need something from you if they will concede to binding the North with the Crown?"

Aegon had just the thing - it just having come to him. "How would you like to foster Prince Maegor in Winterfell?" He didn't dare to look at Visenya, while Torrhen's eyebrow merely rose.

It used to be the throne room.

Narrow within the confines of the Rock, high stained glass windows let in the brightest of light to shine down upon the twin lion's head armrests of the throne itself. Depicted in the most vivid of reds and golds were images of the Kings of the Rock from history long past, recounting their glorious deeds. Surrounding the throne itself were windows of the purest blown glass paid for by the gold of the kingdom. They illuminated the throne, and oft the proud monarchs wielding Brightroar - their ancestral Valyrian steel sword.

Alone with his flagon of wine, Lord Loren Lannister had them all covered with drapes. He couldn't stand the light. It only allowed him to get a glimpse of the realm that was no longer his. That someone else could rule over him.

A feeling he despised, but could do nothing about.

Tried that long ago… Mern Gardener got off lucky. The poor, immolated King of the Reach didn't have to watch as the dragons raped their land. Didn't have to bow before a young upstart ten years his junior. What illustrious glory did Aegon Targaryen have? House Lannister had ruled over the Rock since the Age of Heroes.

He sighed. No sense in pouring over old matters that couldn't be solved in the here and now. So he drank… and drank… and drank. The old plotter simply had nothing left in him.

Opening a creak, the doors to the throne room revealed the keep's Septon - a thin but vibrant man that believed in the Seven with a modest zeal. "My Lord," he began.

Only reminding Loren of what he had lost… "I told my guards that I wished to be undisturbed."

The septon made no moves to leave. "Forgive me, my Lord, but Lady Alla was insistent. She wishes for you to join herself and young Tyrion for dinner."

Loren winced. In spite of losing his firstborn heir to cowardice, the tragic circumstances to his marriage to Alla Tully didn't preclude him from enjoying her company. Or the new babe she had given him or the one currently growing in her belly. "Tell her I'll be there within the hour."

"Of course, my Lord." But the septon only approached Loren. "There are many who share your… displeasure with the way the last few wars turned out."

Blinking, Loren narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what you mean." Was this a trap?

"Perhaps, perhaps not, but there is someone that wishes to meet with you in the catacombs of the Rock. Someone high up in the circle of the High Septon."

"Who is this person?"

"I can't say, but you may bring as many guards as you wish. He will be alone and unarmed… I can come with you if you like."

While this seemed like a possible trap, Loren was intrigued. "When can we meet?"

The septon smiled. "He is already in Lannisport."

"And it is with great honor that House Stark welcomes Prince Maegor Targaryen, the son of our noble King and Queen, to foster within the walls of Winterfell." Lord Torrhen Stark, bearded face soft and welcoming as he stood next to his wife Jocelyn Reed, extended his arms to Maegor as the steward offered the Prince guest rite… officially passing him under their care.

Maegor smiled and nodded through the entire ceremony, though it did not reach his eyes. Inwardly, he struggled to keep from shivering. Seven bloody hells was it cold. How can people live in this beastly weather? Nine namedays old but as precocious as his mother, Maegor could fathom such if there was beauty here, but there was no beauty to Winterfell in his eyes. Just a drab, sorry excuse for a keep.

What were kepa and muna thinking?

With Lord Torrhen leading his Kingsguard protector Ser Robin Darklyn towards the keep, the two of them animated as they spoke of something or other, Maegor was about to follow when a tall figure stepped in front of him - blocking his way. Maegor recognized the figure in black and dark grey as someone who hung back during the welcoming ceremony. He held the Stark look, but it was sharper. Wilder.

This was the Bastard of Winterfell. The brother Lord Torrhen spoke of.

"Brandon Snow."

The bastard nodded. "Observant, good." He inspected the Prince as one would a horse to purchase. "You're strong and clearly skilled in combat… I'll give you that." But the little praise morphed into contempt. "But arrogant… weak… you'd never survive a proper fight."

Eyes widening, Maegor was taken aback. No one spoke to him in such a manner… at least not directly. "Do you know who I am?" the ten nameday-old Prince replied.

"Aye, a puissant, arrogant shitling who knows shit about anything." Brandon scoffed. "It'll take moons just to drum that out of you and into a proper man."

Anger truly getting the better of him - one Lord Baratheon would humorously compare to his mother in her youth - Maegor's fist shot out. Attempting to smash into Brandon Snow's gut as it had an insulting household guard that made him miss a deer while hunting with a longbow. But Lord Snow batted the fist aside with his forearm, a fist of his own crashing into Maegor's chest. With a grunt, the boy Prince crumpled on the ground, wheezing in breaths.

The pain was agonizing, Maegor blocking out the laughs as he curled into a ball on the ground. Hearing the crunch of boots on snow he looked up - there was Brandon Snow, crouched down by his head and looking into his eyes. His own greys narrowed and dark. "Can you hear me, Prince Maegor?"

Gritting his teeth, the pain was too much to even respond so he nodded.

"You think you can snap your fingers and have everyone do your bidding. That may work in the south but not here, you know why?" Maegor didn't respond, not that Brandon wished him to. "Because here in the North, you earn loyalty and affection. No one will give it to you."

"I am… the prince…" he sputtered.

"Anyone who says they're a prince or a King expecting it to move mountains, isn't a true one. So endeth the lesson." Noticing the leering northmen enjoying the Valyrian getting his ass handed to him, Brandon leaned in - voice dropping to a whisper. "It is very easy for you to be lost in a blizzard and never be seen again. Think about that the next time you wish to be a right cunt." With that, Brandon Snow stood, shuffled the snow from his cloak, and stalked back to the keep. Leaving Maegor there.

An interminable time passed before a hand poked at his. "Here, let me help you."

Maegor, still shivering from the cold, looked up to see a smiling boy his own age. He was bundled up, but the silver direwolf pinned to his cloak was visible. Squaring his shoulders, Maegor took the offered limb and hauled himself up… brushing off the snow and dirt. "Thank you." The first genuinely kind thing anyone had done for him in Winterfell.

The boy merely patted the Prince's back. "Don't take my uncle seriously. He does that with everyone - you grin and bear it, then beat him at his own game, he'll respect you forever."

An eyebrow raised. "You're a Stark."

He nodded. "Aye, Brandon Stark. Heir to Winterfell."

The boy certainly looked like Torrhen Stark, though he was of a shorter build and much… hardier. Comes from his Reed mother, I suppose. "I must be honest in saying your house hasn't endeared itself to me." Maegor let it hang, wanting to see how he reacted.

To the Prince's surprise, Brandon only laughed merrily. "Then we're doing something right." Wrapping his arm around Maegor's shoulder in an overly friendly way, he gestured to the keep. "It's warmer inside, I promise."

Imagining warmth made Maegor more tractable and he followed without delay.

"You know, Prince Maegor, I'm glad you came."

"Oh? Why?"

"Gave me the day off from my uncle's training regimen." Raising an eyebrow, Maegor found he understood. "We get a feast tonight… but don't expect to eat your fill. We'll be restricted in our portions."

He rolled his eyes. "Trying to torture us, I think. The Dornish supposedly play games like that."

Brandon snorted. "Don't know about Dorne other than it's warm." Suddenly, two little creatures barked at him, racing through the snow until they were mobbing the young heir. "Blizzard, you little devil." A small wolf attracted his attention, Brandon ruffling his fur.

Maegor found himself chuckling, crossing his arms with a smirk. "You keep wolves?"

"Direwolves, my Prince. They're both young, but they'll grow bigger." He grinned as the other wolf, her fur a pitch black, began rubbing her side on Maegor's legs. "She likes you… we haven't named her yet."

"Cute…" Maegor knew not what to do.

"Only the one who bonds with them gets to name them."

That was familiar. "Same with our dragons. My brother got to name his hatchling." Gods, seeing him fawn over Quicksilver was irritating. "I haven't had one yet."

"Why not?"

"Only one is worthy of me." Much as many tried to ridicule him over it, that was Maegor's only answer.

"Fair enough." But his eyes sparkled. "I managed to sneak some pastries from the kitchens for the two of us… if you want to. My chambers have a lit hearth."

Maegor found that his chilled body and rumbling stomach couldn't say no to that. "Lead the way, future Lord Stark."

The heir to Winterfell mock bowed. "At once, my Prince."

Chapter Text

Spear propped against his side, the sentry jerked up from where he rested. Eyes narrowed as he peered into the swirling snow. Nothing, just the still forms of the trees of the Haunted Forest assaulted by the howling winds of the blizzard.

Easing back against the tree, the young Thenn still was tense. He had grown up on the sounds of the wind… the little echo hadn't been that. While the blizzard provided needed cover for their warriors, but if they couldn't see worth a damn…

He didn't see the flash charge out from the undergrowth until it was on him. Not even a scream… just a growl followed by the ripping gurgle of sharp teeth ripping through flesh.

Blood covering his muzzle, the direwolf sniffed the air before throwing his head back and letting out a quick howl. A signal for all clear.

Dark grey cloak pulled tightly round his shoulders, the figure of a northern warrior trotted through the snow. Hand reaching out to scratch between the white beast's ear. "Good boy, Blizzard." The direwolf merely nuzzled the proffered hand.

Other hand not far from his sword, Brandon Stark removed the hood obscuring his raven black hair. Ears keen, he swiveled his head - trying to spot his fellow scout in the maelstrom around him. It obscured his vision just as he did the Thenn Blizzard dispatched. Damn it… where is he…

The black blur cutting through the snow eased his tension considerably. Especially at the other grey-cloaked figure behind it. "Fuck, where were you?" Brandon hissed - while it sounded like a whisper, in the howling wind a should could be masked.

"Those scouts travelled in a pair." Emblazoned in black over the cloak was the revealing three-headed dragon. It was eminently visible as Prince Maegor Targaryen sheathed his sword. "They're not as attentive as usual… or perhaps we're simply getting better at this."

"Aye… one of us at least." The dour prince scowled at the taunt before the barest of smirks crossed his lips, Brandon laughed… that was practically a guffaw from the infamous Maegor Targaryen, and the Stark heir was one of the few Maegor trusted with it.

The young dragon was as fiery as the beast on his sigil, and his time in the North only added a cold ice to it. Flexing his fingers, he gently petted the black direwolf's neck. "We can't be far from the Wall."

Brandon nodded. "If the sentries are posted here, then they're definitely forming a screen." Many described the wildlings as savages, but stupid they weren't. "Come on. Better find them before they manage to climb over. Father won't be happy at that."

"Your father's in King's Landing with my parents… and I'd rather face him than your uncle."

"Quite true. Blizzard, come."

Maegor pulled a bow from where it was slung on his back, keeping an arrow ready. "Sȳndor, with me." The black direwolf bobbed her head for her unlikely master before bounding ahead in the snow.

With an agility quite out of place for his strong build, Maegor leapt and trudged through the snowdrifts alongside Brandon, his cloak tight around his shoulders. They darted between the trees, every so often ducking behind one while the direwolves scouted ahead. It was a technique learned in the wolfswood in hunting big game. Maegor supposed that they were hunting the most dangerous game, though not as enjoyable.

It wasn't fun when the game attacked back.

Even through the swirling vortex of ice and snow around the pine canopy, the greatest wonder of the manmade world loomed large. Taller than even the Hightower of the Citadel or the Colossus of Braavos, Maegor had been quite taken aback the first time he bore witness to the Wall. Such ended quickly once he knew just how often the wildlings breached it, most by climbing. With word coming that the Thenn clan were plotting a mass raid into the Gift and the lorships to the south of it, Lord Commander Hoare - currently past his eightieth nameday - requested aid from Winterfell. Brandon Snow subsequently brought the two of them, so here they were. Ranging north of the Wall. Got old pretty quick, but Maegor valued it.

For more reasons than one.

The gap in the trees approaching, suddenly a rather feminine hand tapped against Maegor's shoulder. Sword still drawn, he instead lashed out with a gloved fist… only to still at the ice-blonde hair that poked from under her hood. "Ralla."

"Greetings to you, too," the wildling grinned at the Prince, motioning to both him and Brandon to follow her. "They've set up camp under the wall. I found a burrow to watch them from." The prospect of getting out of the wind appealed to them, the two highborns following her with the wolves in tow.

Turns out, the observation post was a burrow dug out from underneath the root of a large pine. Ralla had draped a bleached white mammoth hide over it, blocking out the wind and covering all but the entrance and small slit to watch out over the wall - it was situated on a tiny ridge, so their vision was good. "Thank the gods," Maegor breathed, rubbing his hands together. "Glad to be out of that."

Brandon scoffed, pulling out a sliver of dried beef from his knapsack. "If you had hatched that dragon egg like your father insisted, we could be flying over and burning these savages… no offense," he remarked to their guide.

Ralla rolled her eyes. "Fuck off, Stark." Growing up north of the wall allowed her to fit right in to the rough and tumble world of young southern warriors. "Dragon egg, my Prince?" The last was quite teasing.

"My brother hatched his dragon when I was still young," he explained, tearing through his own rations while dropping one sliver for Sȳndor to chew on. Her black fur matched her name, Valyrian for shadow, while her body warmth helped ease the numbness in his limbs. "Father wanted me to as well, but I couldn't."

"Why not? From what you said about your brother, you're far more a dragon than he." Since they had met, Maegor found it easy to confide in her. "Couldn't hatch one?" Naturally, she leaned her head on his shoulder.

Wasn't just words that he confided in her with. "None of the eggs felt proper for me. I can't explain it."

"I can." Brandon drank from a canteen filled with snowmelt. "Your dragon is Balerion."

Maegor glared. "Shut it."

"Who's Balerion?" Ralla looked up at him with her blue eyes. Aside from a scar on her forehead, the hard life of the 'free folk' didn't register on her willowy face - gods help anyone that underestimated her in a fight.

Sighing, he leaned back against the packed snow walls of the burrow. "My father's dragon. The Black Dread, he who burned Harrenhal and the Ironborn King."

"You mean the lead Crow's brother? Hmm… if we free folk knew that then we'd have been more partial to you when you stumbled on our hamlet." She smirked. "Stark, not so much."

Brandon waved at her. "Just be thankful we didn't kill all of you on the spot."

"Keep dreaming, southerner. We all know who's getting the most from our alliance." Land in the Gift in exchange for scouting against the Thenns, decreed by a Prince of the Realm. Even Lord Commander Hoare couldn't go against a Targaryen's decree.

The Stark heir scoffed again before peeking out the vision slit. "I can see their camp… seem to be tending to a fire - means they won't be ascending till the morning." Burrowing close to Blizzard's side for warmth, he crossed his arms. "Wake me in two hours, then I'll take watch." Exhausted, he was asleep not one second after his last word.

Smoketrails not advisable even in the blizzard, the small fire that had been lit inside the dugout was quickly extinguished… leaving smoldering chunks of firewood that gave off a residual heat. Not nearly enough for comfort, but enough warmth to make it livable. Luckily for Maegor, he had a fellow companion that willingly melded to his side to huddle. "You never did say why you don't think you'll bond with your father's dragon," Ralla asked him, intimately draped over his chest.

Maegor looked down with an uncommon affection in his purple eyes. Few confidants he had. "My father is a strong, powerful King. He deserves Balerion as his mount." Quicksilver was far more slender and swift, which matched his brother perfectly. "Besides, a dragon can only bond with one rider for the life of the rider."

Ignorance didn't breed stupidity. Ralla was a quick study. "You could only ride him if your father dies." At his nod, she held him closer - caring for him, if not love. Maegor didn't think he knew what love was, only that his parents exemplified it. "I couldn't think of losing my own father… I made my peace with the possibility, but personally he's just always been there."

"Same." Not wishing to dwell on it further, he changed the subject. "Bran is a heavy sleeper."

While his face was still mostly flat and dour, Ralla was able to read her lover well. Seeing the sparkle in his eyes. "Filthy, filthy. Is that how they raise Princes in the south?"

"You'd be surprised." Easing her on top of him, luckily the blizzard masked most of their sounds.

Sometimes she hated her silver hair.

Darting between the intricately styled Braavosi columns of her father's manse, little Rhaena Targaryen was small and delicate enough even at eight namedays to blend into the background. A simple dress and bun made her look like one of the servants, someone that the guests gathered tonight would stridently avoid.

Such happened to a young boy carrying a tray of goblets, completely ignored by a cluster of heavily drinking Reach knights. It was the mark of a true highborn to never look a servant in the eye. Rhaena, hidden behind a curtain, would have been able to take advantage of that… if not for her hair. The wavy silver gave her away like a brand - if she was to escape the clutches of her nursery and the ridiculous games her little brothers wanted to play, the eldest born grandchild of King Aegon I Targaryen had to sneak around.

Luckily for her, she was good at it. Escaping the glances of the guests through agile maneuvering, strategic cover, and a few servants looking the other way for their beloved little Princess, Rhaena managed to crawl beneath one of the tables where plates of finger-food rested - pastries, fresh shrimp and oysters, and loaves of fresh bread. Such gave her the perfect vantage point to hear the various conversations around her.

With his ascension into maturity, Crown Prince Aenys Targaryen was thrust out from his chambers in the Aegonfort into authority of his own. Officially the Lord of Dragonstone, the merry Prince shunned the harsh Valyrian black stone and militaristic air in favor of his newly build manse along the east slope of what was increasingly being called 'Rhaenys' Hill.' It was a large, sprawling villa built in the style of Braavos or Pentos - airy and filled with art and stylistic architecture, illuminated with light. It was the talk of the nobility of Westeros, at least those that were interested in the finer elements of life. Given the King and Queen's shunning of such displays, the feasts often held by the Crown Prince were the social events of the season and all who could attend did attend.

Tonight was no exception. Through the throngs of plump Lords, dashing knights, and blushing maidens - the female serving girls groped by those knights and Lords deep in their cups were flushed for different reasons - Rhaena quickly found her father. Tall and thin, Aenys nevertheless held a brilliant smile framed by his free-flowing silver curls. Her mother by his side, he laughed at something said by Lord Daeron Qoherys, one of his closest friends. A servant topped off his goblet with deference, which he accepted with sincerity. Rhaena smiled… she loved her father dearly.

"And it was said that the clouds above the Starry Sept broke as soon as the High Septon made the appointment," Aenys recounted, the various Lords of the Crownlands gathered around him listening with rapt attention. "Through a skylight in the ceiling of the building, a beam of sunlight descended and bathed dear Murmison and only him." The merry Prince wrapped an arm around his friend the new Chief Septon for King's Landing. "Fortuitous as any omen could be, and I knew I had to hold this feast in his honor."

Claps and well-wishes poured from the Lords and knights. Crown Princess Alyssa Velaryon squeezed her husband's hand, only to surreptitiously scan the crowd. Some were genuine friends of her husband, while others were mere toadies sucking up. She loved Aenys, truly she did, but Alyssa knew his tendency to see sincerity in every word of praise was not going to serve him well. She had long been resigned to that fact, especially ever since…

She shook her head. Never would Alyssa think of it. Aenys was her husband, and her love was his and duty was to him. "It is well deserved, dear Septon," she finally spoke, hand looped in her husband's and side tastefully but intimately pressed into his.

"A miracle, your Grace," remarked Tybolt Reyne, recently arrived in King's Landing and having just joined the circle round Aenys. "A sign of the Seven."

Murmison, a soft man not much older than his friend and longtime companion the Prince but nevertheless sporting a slight paunch, waved off the praise humbly. "An omen I cannot say, that is for the chief Auger to declare. But a miracle I don't believe it is."

"Balderdash," laughed Alyn Stokeworth. "Modest you are, but the bards will add that to the dozens of miracles you have performed in your service to the Seven… and the many more to come." Many raised their glasses to that, Aenys among them, a beaming smile on his lips.

Alyssa wasn't among them, though she drank too out of politeness. Daeron Qoherys did the same - even with their westerosi upbringing, both remained largely Valryian as their ancestors did. The Faith served a purpose, but it would never take their hearts.

Neither would they go as far as Queen Vsenya as repudiating it though.

For Daeron's nephew Gargon, he needed no excuse to drink. "Uncle!" he called out, pushing himself through the throng of people and almost knocking some over - beside him was his… companion. She looked highborn, but was most likely a courtesan. "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you."

Daeron offered a look of apology to Alyssa before planting a forced smile on his face. "Yes, nephew? I told you I was speaking with his Grace."

"Didn't find Aenys till now." Some stiffened at his intemperance.

Aenys, the cheery charmer he was, chuckled it off. "Oh Gargon, my dear friend. You need not worry. I shan't ever get in the way of family discussions. You have my leave, Daeron."

"No," Gargon replied, letting his hand fall upon the breast of his companion - the Lords looked in barely concealed disgust. They at least wait till private to indulge in such banality with their servants or whores. Alyssa hated them all. "I shall stay. I wish to congratulate Murmison for this glorious feast!" He laughed. "I haven't eaten so much this moon, and his Grace's feasts always have the best food."

"I can't argue with that, Ser Gargon," Lord Ronnel Arryn remarked, a boon companion of the Prince from a young age. "To Murmison. May he perform many miracles to come." Another toast rang out.

Lavender eyes falling upon Alyssa's sea green, Aenys nodded slightly. She cocked her head. Here… now? The mental question needed not be asked. Of course her husband would do this - the feast had been too grand even for Murmison. "Lords and Ladies," he called out, tenor's voice projecting outward. At their Prince's call, the musicians stopped playing and all eyes found their way to him - including little Rhaena's from under the table. "I must confess to poor Murmison here, not to discount his wondrous accomplishment." He actually did look sheepish and apologetic. "But I had an ulterior motive for arranging this feast." Beaming, he walked to Alyssa and placed his hand on her belly. "I shall be a father for a fourth time."

If the cheers were loud for Murmison, they were ecstatic for this announcement. From Daeron, Alyn, and Ronnel came hearty calls of genuine congratulation, while Gargon belted out a whoop and lifted both the Prince and Princess in his meaty arms. Underneath the table, Rhaena found her mood soar. Another sibling. She bit her lip so that the smile wouldn't rip her face.

I hope it's a baby sister. Aegon and Viserys were dear to her, but she could use a little girl to play properly with. Samantha Stokeworth was fun, but she wasn't blood.

"Can you believe this frivolity?" She stiffened, the hushed voice of the booted foot that approached the refreshment table indicating someone with something to hide. "All of this for Septon Murmison's appointment to the Sept of Remembrance."

"What can you expect, Ser Morrigan?" Rhaena didn't know who that was… but he sounded important. "Murmison was always a confidant of our Crown Prince."

With a growl, the other man picked up something from the table, scarfing it in his mouth. "Morgan, he is a Septon of the Seven," he said through chews. "He should be rejecting such idolatrous shit."

"Careful, Damon. People can listen."

"There's no one around," he dismissed. "And another dragon brat - aren't three of the fuckers enough for the incest-spawn?"

With that, the man was gone, followed by his companion. Unseen underneath the table, Rhaena drew her knees to her chest. Why do they say bad things about kepa? Her Kepa was the most perfect man in the world, him and her grandfather.

For the eight nameday old princess, there were no answers forthcoming.

Meanwhile, by popular demand and his own sense of romance, Aenys drew his wife to the center of the great hall. At his command, the band began playing a soft melody, Aenys' eyes sparkling. "This is for you, dearest wife." She blinked as he began singing a love song from Lys - it wasn't bawdy, as the Crown Prince held not a bawdy bone in his body, but sweet and gentle. Celebrating the life she was now carrying.

There was silence in the hall, all eyes watching them with smiles both fake and real. At each new lyric Alyssa blushed, unable not to enjoy it. His naivete may have been insufferable at times, but the dragon Prince had truly swept her off her feet - as long as she chose to look that is. Alyssa always looked, not that the rule had been followed fastidiously in the past as now.

Suddenly there was a collective hush in the crowd, one Aenys failed to see from over his shoulder… but Alyssa did. Lords and ladies drew back as if water parting, and it wasn't long before she saw why.

Hand of the King Torrhen Stark by his side, in walked Aegon I Targaryen, First of His Name. And he did not look happy.

Alyssa tapping her husband on the shoulder, at her gesture behind him Aenys turned… his eyes widened slightly at seeing the King. "Father." He bowed, though was quite happy. "I am so glad you've decided to join us. Is mother here too?"

Frown not leaving his face, Aegon merely shook his head as he walked towards his son. "No, your muna…" He let it hang for a moment - while he adored Quicksilver, in all other respects Aenys had adopted the mannerisms and speech of an Andal highborn given his proximity to many septons and maesters. Neither monarch liked it. "Had pressing business to deal with at Storm's End. She may have stayed had you told us about our newest grandchild." Gaze falling upon Torrhen Stark, he shrugged. "Tell me, Lord Torrhen. Do you find it odd that the guests of a feast were told first about the new hatchling over myself and Queen Visenya?"

Aenys gulped, while Alyssa wished herself to be anywhere else. The King loved his sons, but came down hard on their shortcomings. Maegor's temper and callousness were beaten out by his Northern teachers, while with Aenys… lessons needed to be taught in less direct ways.

"I would be quite insulted, your Grace," the Lord of Winterfell replied. Brown hair now streaked with grey, he still retained his strength and sharpness. As the one Lord who knelt willingly to House Targaryen, he commanded much respect among the true loyalists.

The Prince had the sense to look apologetic, though with Aenys he had absolutely no guile. Everything he said or displayed was sincere. "Forgive me, father. I should have told you and mother." With that, the King softened.

"Why quibble about when and fuckin' where?!" Gargon Qoherys displayed his customary lack of tact. "Come, my King. Let's fuckin' drink and be merry!"

Torrhen scowled. "He is your King. You will speak to him with respect."

Gargon regarded him like an insect. "Get fucked, wolfie. No one asked you shit."

"I believe he is 'Lord Hand,' or 'Lord Stark,' to you, Ser Gargon," Aegon remarked in a quiet voice. One to any that associated with him could be described as dangerous. "Do you know what you are?"

"Father… let's not do this here…" Aenys began, striding forward.

Aegon held up a hand, pointing at him. "Stay right there, my son." His gaze fell on Gargon. "You are a disgrace to your grandfather, the man I owe everything to. He taught me to fight and be honorable, while you just grow fat and stupid on his legacy."

Face reddening with anger, Gargon's fists clenched. "King you may be, but you can't fucking speak to me like that, old man."

"Old man?" There was a silence before Aegon suddenly broke out into laughter. "Old man he says." The laughter grew infectious, most of the courtiers following the King's lead - even Gargon in his stupidity. Aenys looked confused, while Alyssa and Torrhen wore smirks on their faces, waiting for what was to come.

Aegon didn't keep them waiting. With speed, his fist shot out and jabbed Gargon in the neck. The hulking knight began coughing and sputtering, to which the King took advantage of and kneed him in the groin.

It was over before anyone could speak a word. "Lord Daeron."

"Yes, your Grace."

"Get your nephew out of my sight before I do something I regret." The Lord of Harrenhal nodded and quickly hauled up the groaning Gargon - helped by some of his sworn knights.

Satisfied at that, Aegon looked at the guests. "Well, do go on. Celebrate my new grandchild." There was a collective silence before one guest, the nephew of Lord Tully, raised his glass with a shout of support. The party was back in full swing soon after. Torrhen following, Aegon approached his son. "Aenys, you are my son and I love you, but do not ever talk back or speak against me in front of others again, understood?" His words left no room for argument.

The Crown Prince trembled. "Yes, father."

Shouting only exasperating the swirling thoughts, Rhaena had withdrawn into herself. Resting in a ball on the ground, she couldn't help but play back the conversation she had heard. How could those men say such things of her father? Of her grandfather and blood grandmother, the one whom her Aunt Rhaenys was named after. The girl had lived a cloistered life, spoiled by her father and taught by her mother and Maester Gawen… the most beloved maiden in the seven kingdoms besides her aunt.

The dark side of humanity wasn't something familiar to her.

Suddenly the drape that covered the table was drawn back, causing her to jump with a yelp. "Well hello there."

Rhaena's heart calmed at seeing her smiling grandfather - all traces of the indomitable conqueror had disappeared, leaving a jolly elder delighting at finding his granddaughter. "Hi, grandfather," she said softly.

"What are you doing down here?" She bit her lip, which seemed to add a wistful sparkle to Aegon's gaze. "Just like Visenya, you are. Methinks you want to be with the grown ups. Come on, you can be my companion tonight."

"Really? But mother…"

He waved her off. "She can't disobey her King. Come on." Nothing sounded better to the Princess than spending the night by her grandfather's side.

Inch by inch, foot by foot. Slowly did Maegor crawl his way through the snowdrifts. The cold stabbed through even his thick furs and fleece, all the worse given his dragonblood - the Valyrian wasn't meant to live in such cold, and yet here it was.

As Brandon Snow taught him, he let the discomfort and ire fuel his inner fire. The only way he could win.

By some miracle the blizzard had cleared up overnight, though Maegor considered it a curse. While the cold was less biting - the wind less tortuous - visibility had increased and with it their best cover. For the treeless gap between the haunted forest and the Wall, they would need to approach cautiously… thus the slow crawl. A white tarp covered him as he advanced, not the best camouflage but better than nothing.

A low whimper came from beside him. Apparently there was a breaking point even for direwolves. "Easy, girl, easy." His voice was a low whisper, but somehow Sȳndor understood him. A bond similar to that of Brandon and Blizzard… or his parents and brother with their dragons. Maegor had long come to accept the curious case of a northern beast bonding to a Valyrian. His mother felt it a combination of destiny and the innate connection between those of magical blood, but he didn't understand such talk, a far more practical man.

The Starks respected him far more for it, so who was he to reject the loyalty and love of the furry creature? Maegor certainly appreciated and loved her back.

Somewhere out there were Brandon, Blizzard, and Ralla, each inching forward just as he was. Their three warriors and two direwolves were nowhere near enough for the two dozen Thenns ready to climb the enchanted wall of ice and rock that protected the realms of men, but that was not the plan. All hinged on something they did not have any control or knowledge about, but as the snow fell upon them the signal would become apparent if it…

The wind may have been loud, but with the blizzard lessened the whoops and gallops were easily heard. Head up, Maegor could see the Thenns all stop their preparations, bodies tensing as many pointed towards the east. Following their line of sight, Maegor grinned.

Half a dozen horses charging across the plains, the black-clad brothers of the Night's Watch swinging swords and axes atop their mounts. Among them were sprinkled another dozen ragged wildling… no, 'Free Folk' warriors of Ralla's band, holding up their other end of the bargain by wading into the fight. The ambush worked like a charm, the Thenns undoubtedly focused more on the western approach from Castle Black and not the east - complete surprise.

Time for the three scouts to enhance that. Slowly drawing his bow, Maegor suddenly popped up from the snow. He nocked an arrow and let it fly, smirking darkly as it skewered a Thenn warrior before he let himself fall prone again - letting the chaos further brew.

"Fuck!" Ralla… "We're spotted!"

Well, that was that. Sȳndor, go! Erupting to his feet, he let loose another arrow towards the Thenns before drawing his longsword - the blade looking quite small in his large grip - and charged into the fray. Already he could see Sȳndor and Blizzard bounding ahead of them, growls and snarls leaving their mouths all the way. The forty yard distance was covered quickly by the direwolves as they leapt on the surprised Thenns. Flashes of blood began to coat the snow.

Ralla giving them covering fire from her bow, Brandon and Maegor engaged the Thenns - who by now were starting to focus on slaughtering them. A large warrior with a battle axe swung at Maegor, but the Prince jumped to the side and buried his blade into the man's side with a thrust. He toppled with a grunt, while two others booked at Maegor. Bigger than the two of them, he countercharged right for them, fist flying in a right hook that staggered the Thenn in the van. He fell, only for Sȳndor to sink teeth into his neck as he screamed.

Sword up, Maegor turned to face the second man when an arrow smacked into his temple. He angrily turned to see Ralla. "I had the fucker."

The Free Folk huntress grinned and bowed mockingly. "Sure you did, my Prince."

Looking around, the itched fighting had quieted down… all that remained were the groans of wounded men and the grunts of horses. Blizzard trotted up, fur streaked with blood, nuzzling Sȳndor's neck as the two of them sniffed at each other. And where Blizzard was… "Got em all," Brandon said, not a scratch on him. They really did take the Thenns by surprise. "Cept those fuckers up there." He pointed to the wall, where two others were free-scaling the ice.

"I got em," Ralla remarked, nocking her bow.

"Not letting you take the last kill," muttered Maegor, also drawing his bow. The arrows flew at the same time, both hitting in the center mass. "Now it's over."

Chapter Text

The sound of snapping twigs drew the attention of predators. Crouching upon blades of spring grass, Maegor was the apex predator. Blood of the dragon, the ten and three Prince armed with the finest of bows and steel-tipped arrows, he gingerly stepped forward with expert woodsmanship. His ears were peeled for the location of the noise, heart thumping with elation at the chase.

At the hunt. The proper game for a dragon at peace.

His childhood frame dodging and weaving through the brambles and brush once again growing green with life - though the first muscles much like his father began to sculpt themselves through his labors - Maegor gently pushed aside a group of leaves to reveal the source of the sound. A large doe, snout poking through the leaf litter for fresh shoots. While not a buck, it was much bigger than normal and would be a fine hide for the tanners of Winterfell castle. A good head to mount on his wall and earn favor with the young maidens.

"Found something, your Grace?"

Maegor turned his head to see Allard Poole, the son of the Winterfell Steward. He was two years his senior, but both deferent and mindful not to hurt the hunt by speaking above a murmur. Maegor nodded, gesturing to the doe. Slowly, he pulled the barbed arrow from his quiver.

Another patter of broken twigs or crumbled leaves registered. "Ah shit," mumbled Poole, a newborn fawn emerging from the underbrush. But Maegor nocked the arrow. "What are you doing?"

"Getting our midday meal," whispered the Prince. If he killed the mother first, then the fawn would be too confused to race off and he could get them both. "Double haul."

The other boy was aghast. "You can't kill a fawning female?" But he was ignored, Maegor already drawing. Eye shut, he aimed right for the doe's heart. A perfect shot… "Stop!" Hand jerking out, Allard shoved Maegor enough for the arrow to fly off wildly - barbed tip smacking into the trunk of a tree five feet from the deer. Head jerking up, the doe immediately fled into the underbrush, fawn following on pure instinct.

Violet eyes watching his prey disappear, Maegor's blood was up. "Fucking hells! I had a perfect shot!" He shoved Allard - the younger Maegor would have included words to the effect of the crime to strike a prince, but that had been battered out of him the first few days in the North. "What's your fucking problem?!"

While his battle prowess intimidated most of the other Winterfell youths, Allard did not back down. "My fucking problem?!" He shoved Maegor back. "You were going to kill a fawning mother!" Another shove resulted in a right hook to his jaw, and soon both boys were tumbling in the underbrush - punches and kicks flying in all directions.

Allard bigger and older, Maegor though had dragonblood and the ferocity that came for it. He pinned the older boy on the ground, fists getting bloody as he delivered blow after blow. It had gone beyond the ire of a kill denied. Maegor saw red, an unbelievable anger welling up as he kept battering the poor Allard…

"Enough!" With a sharp kick, the looming form of Brandon Snow kicked Maegor off. Coughing from the blow to his gut, he coughed and sputtered until his mentor and teacher grabbed him by the gambeson. "Look at me, boy!"

Normally he was sullen and deferent to the Stark bastard, but Maegor was too livid. "He blocked my shot!"

And he got a slap for his trouble, stinging his cheek. "You never, never kill a mother with a babe! Do you hear me, you cunt?!" More slaps, joined by a punch. "Only a sadistic coward would do so! You are a Prince! You will be honorable if I have to kill you to make it stick!"

Blinking his eyes of the memory, Maegor watched as the mother brown bear led her cubs away from the stream, deeper into the woodland scrub that dotted the land west of Mole's Town. Though he had the perfect shot, he simply lowered his bow and walked away. The stewpots of Castle Black wouldn't be filled with that particular bear.

"A fool goes hungry and calls it kindness, a right cunt slaughters everything in his path and calls it superiority, a noble man feeds himself with honor and says nothing, for he has the pride of righteousness to call back on."

Brandon Snow's words after he had woken up in the office of Winterfell's maester all those years ago still stuck with him. He may have been a cold, hard bastard - literally - but the thought of his previously callous self made Maegor shudder. Gods, I was cruel.

"Hey, boy!" At the aforementioned bastard's call, Maegor shouldered the bow and trotted to where it came from. "There you are!" Brandon Snow had felled a large stag, one that clearly couldn't be carried by a single man. "Help me with this, she weighs a ton."

Smirking, the Prince grabbed at the rear and hauled it up with Lord Snow. "Knew an old, bastard ass couldn't hack it."

"Fuck you, dragon cunt." A moment passed before his lip twitched upward. Brandon Snow was cold and hard, but like a wolf he cared for his wards… if they proved themselves as Maegor did. "Let's get this to the black bastards before we freeze."

Castle Black was nothing to be proud of. What the Northmen considered a great outpost was more akin to the hive of scum and villainy that those south of the Neck regarded it as. Only general resignation to living here forever kept the rapists, thieves, and murderers in line… that and iron discipline from both the lifers and the volunteers such as Lord Commander Hoare. If there was any hate he held for the family that killed his line, he did not show it, professional to the core.

With a fresh stag to supplement their rations of salt pork and hard bread, he and his mentor were the most popular figures in the keep. Even his bringing of two dozen wildlings south of the Wall was put aside with the prospect of warm bellies. Waving their knives, the stewards that served as the camp cooks managed to keep hungry men from tearing off chunks of their kill. "Got a juicy one, Snow," one said with admiration, directing several to haul it off.

"Well, that's our duty done." Brandon cracked his knuckles. "Git wherever you want, I'm headin' to Mole's Town for some lovin'." Coin liberal and face ruggedly handsome, he became a legend with the whores there.

Maegor nodded with a tiny grin. "Ever consider finding a wife, Lord Snow?"

"What name would I pass on to 'em?" he dismissed, only for his face to soften. "I suppose I consider you and young Bran like my children. Certainly gave me the grief of a brood triple your size." With that he was off, the most sentimentality he would ever offer.

"Prince Maegor!" The chief steward to the Lord Commander trotted to him, containing a ravenscroll. "Letter to you from the capitol. Seal of the King."

Eyes widening, Maegor snatched the letter and raced up to his quarters. They were the guest quarters handed to him and Bran for their use, although as of late he preferred to sneak out to the tent the wildlings set up for nights with Ralla. But such was not on his mind as he sat, breaking the royal seal to read his father's words.

My son,

I'll keep this brief. Your muna and I are flying to Winterfell with Lord Stark. We are bringing your sister, as it is time for her to take her place as the future Lady of Winterfell. I cannot wait to see how much of a man you have become.

Make sure the hearth in our room is ready.

Kepa

Letter falling to his lap, Maegor let out a breath. "So little Rhae is getting married." It was unspoken that the newfound closeness between house Stark and house Targaryen was sealed by a marriage, but his father's words made it all too real. Couldn't think of a better husband for her than Bran.

The door to their shared chambers opening, Brandon walked in holding his own ravenscroll, face a portrait of apprehension - not knowing what to think. "Your father?" Maegor asked his friend. Brandon nodded. "Getting married?"

Slightly ashen, Brandon looked up at him. "Looks like we'll be brothers for real."

"You don't seem too happy about it."

"I know you, Mag. Your sister is a mystery to me." He plopped down onto the cot opposite Maegor, groaning. "What if she's awful."

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "You know I'm her brother, right?" But he chuckled. "I see your point. Don't worry, she's not a madwoman or anything. We have a great relationship."

Brandon shook his head. "She's your sister… she has to love you." Maegor raised his eyebrow again. "Alright, you understand my argument. How she is with you is different from how she could be with me." The heir to Winterfell had heard all the stories about the Royal Family - big, juicy tidbits that any purveyor of gossip would have salivated over. Not one time did he betray Maegor's confidence, but as of now the sweet stories of the Prince's younger sister were met with paranoid skepticism. "Does she ride a dragon?"

"Yeah, a red one. Arrax I believe the name is." He remembered the last time he had been in King's Landing, how excited Rhaenys was to start her riding lessons on the dragon she had hatched at ten and three namedays. At Brandon's face lose all color, Maegor snorted. "Seven bloody hells, it'll be fine. She only has Arrax burn people she doesn't like."

That earned him a lumpy pillow tossed at his head. "Shut it."

Brandon was more of a brother to him than his own brother was.

"Don't worry about the dragons, Lady Manderly," Maegor assured the Lead Governess of Winterfell as they walked through the halls of the ancient castle. The Prince only had a light cloak of the Targaryen colors thrown about his shoulders - it still never ceased to amaze him how wonderful the hot springs underneath the keep warmed everything. Even in the dead of winter, Winterfell was merely chilly. "You won't need to worry about food too much."

Frowning, the eight and twenty Sarra Manderly shook her head. "You're telling me that three fire-breathing beasts almost the size of this keep won't eat us out of all our livestock stores? His Grace's last visit here came close to doing so, and that was only with the Black Dread."

He couldn't help but chuckle, which drew a look of ire from Lady Manderly - merely a look, because the head of the household in Jocelyn Stark's absence was quite fond of him. "Firstly, my muna's mount and sister's mount are not nearly as big." Maegor truly enjoyed teaching his northern friends the truth about Valyrians, given until he arrived most had never seen those that they were in liege to. "And secondly, they usually fly out to the oceans to feed on the massive fish there. They'll sate themselves on wild game."

Pursing her lips, Lady Manderly soon smirked. "You dragons are a queer bunch, my Prince."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Gods, I really have mellowed since coming here. The duplicitous, honeyed faces of the southern court of his parents drew back the fiery, suspicious Prince, but the Northmen were so blunt and open that he could relax his guard if not trusting anyone not his mentor or brother in all but blood. They showed their emotions and he never needed to worry about what they truly were.

As with Lady Sarra, he saw her wandering eyes drawn to his broad chest and… lower parts. Sniffed out her not so subtle flirting. She was not of the Lords of White Harbor, but rather a Karstark by birth. Her husband frittered between King's Landing and trade missions which led her to come here for the prestige and desire to flee boredom.

And almost immediately after seeing him, attempting to seduce Maegor to be her lover. Something he didn't hold as problematic in and of itself, but he always demurred.

"It is easier on me that their Grace's are foregoing the normal procession of royalty. Only a few guests to deal with, one of them being the future Lady of the Castle. I shall make sure to keep Princess Rhaenys lodged as far from Lord Brandon as possible."

Nodding at the governess' prescriptions, Maegor rubbed the back of his neck as something else came up in his mind - something… uncomfortable for him to think of. "One last recommendation, Lady Manderly. Please make sure his and her Grace are placed in the room at the farthest end of the guest wing, away from the others."

The older woman raised her pretty eyebrows in confusion. "I already planned on it given that it is the largest of all the guest chambers, but I am curious. Why must I do it?"

His cheeks reddened. "I… umm…" It wasn't often that the mighty Prince Maegor grew tongue tied or embarrassed. "My muna and kepa may be aging in their years, but are still pretty… vocal… in the bedchamber. It carries through the thickest of walls." He had the misfortune of getting the chamber directly adjacent to his parents on his last stay in King's Landing and suffered sleepless nights for it.

Though it took a moment to sink in, when it finally did Sarra's eyes widened. "Oh… um…" Blushing bright red, several seconds of sputtering passed before she composed herself enough to speak. "Well… it works out then. Wait, they really are that way?" She had heard the rumors of how his Grace only took her for duty.

"Aye. They love each other more than anyone I've seen, and I've seen Lord and Lady Stark's affections for each other." Lord Torrhen greatly loved his Reed wife. But Maegor was not keen on thinking of his parents… coupling anymore. "I believe I must retire for the evening. Goodnight, Lady Sarra."

She curtseyed, though seemingly deflated. "Goodnight, my Prince." Unfortunately for her, she wasn't closer to inviting him to her bed.

Ser Darklyn - Darkrobin as many called him - had watched over him all during the day. For nighttime, the watch outside his personal chambers was taken by a different kind of guard. "Hey girl." Sȳndor raised her head from where it rested on the ground, letting him scratch it. "She's in there, isn't she?" The direwolf bobbed her head.

Sȳndor never took watch outside the room unless Maegor had company. Tousling her black fur once more time, he opened the door and found the blonde waiting for him on the bed, hands crossed over her lap. "Took you long enough," she huffed.

He sighed, shucking off his cloak and hanging it up. "Not your husband. I can go where I want." it was gruff as was his trademark, but the two of them knew it wasn't serious. "I take it you waiting for me rather than sleeping means you want something."

"Cheeky bastard."

"And yet you're still here."

Down to her underclothes - a sleeping shift that hugged her body, one of the few 'southern' comforts the spearwife indulged in - Ralla ran a hand along the thick blanket atop Maegor's bed. "While I miss life back in the North, the damn fuckin' piles of furs aren't one of 'em."

Something, Maegor smirked. "You should sleep in the beds in King's Lansing then, much softer."

"Fuck off," she said incredulously. "Make 'em outta clouds or somethin'?"

"We may fly among the clouds, but even my family can't shape them as Rhoynish mages can water."

She snorted. "You still talk gibberish sometimes." Ralla walked to him and wrapped her arms round his neck. "But I'm gonna learn it all."

He smirked. "So you're gonna be a southerner like me?"

"Rip out your fuckin' tongue… but I plan on makin' their prick jaws drop at me."

"They already do." Maegor dipped his head and took her lips with his. His tongue pushed through to open her mouth, finding hers in a sensual duel. Pulling back for air, he frowned at her wistful expression. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Aye," she mumbled. "Ye' made me love you."

Oh, hells… Their connection since the days beyond the wall had been magnetic, but had not been love on his end. It was somewhat callous and he admitted it, but that was the reality. "I do care for you, Ralla."

"But yer' a Prince and I'm a spearwife. I fuckin' get it." She wasn't mad - Ralla accepted it with resignation. "Gonna' marry a fancy southern lady to git an alliance for your father. We can't ever truly be together… lest you run away with me. Be free like yer' wild dragons."

"I can't do that to my House."

"They say we Free Folk are savages, but we're free. Ye' southerners are savages for giving it up." Ralla rested her head on his. "But I'll always be loyal to ye'. I can't not.'

Maegor smiled wanly. "I know." Kissing her again, it soon got heated but less passionate… more sweet and desperate. "Let's not think about it."

"I'm not." She dropped her nightgown, exposing the slender body to his enjoyment. "Plan on enjoying this." Oh, so would the Prince.

"Mother… you don't have to…" Brandon groaned as Lady Jocelyn Stark began fussing over his hair, making sure it was just right. "Ow."

"Stop moving, pup," the Lady of Winterfell mused, trying to discipline the wild cowlicks of youth into something presentable. "You wish to look good for their Graces… and your new bride?"

He winced, although this time not from pain. "Please, don't remind me."

Hair already styled to perfection - at least that was what he figured, though Ralla commented he looked like a silver turd was shat on his head in her usual parlance - Maegor leaned against the wall. "Apparently the dear one believes that my sister will feed him to her dragon."

Joceyln tut tutted. "Stop being paranoid, Bran. That would cause an incident the royal family doesn't want." Brandon groaned again, which made his mother laugh. "Calm down, she'll love you. You have the classic Stark beauty of your father that seduced me long ago."

"Have mercy, mother. My stomach already churns enough."

Minutes later, all three were gathered at the van of the assembled household. The senior members of House Stark stood ahead of over a dozen visiting lords from around the North - behind were the bannermen and servants, and at the very back the wildlings Maegor brought from Castle Black. Standing with his arms at his side, Maegor hoped to introduce them to his parents, earn them lands somewhere they could ranch and till. Close to where he was, though he was sure Ralla would shun settling down and rather travel with him on his journeys.

A loud roar brought Maegor out of his thoughts - as it did for everyone, all murmurs and hushed conversations ceasing while the entire assembled household glanced skywards. Searching for the sight, one they had no familiarity with but were regaled by the stories. Some morbidly curious while others regarded their former King with jealousy at being able to see the beasts.

And there they were. Three bat-shaped shadows heralded by yet more roars, soaring high in the sky - they were small, but grew in size as a flap of their wings sent them diving. All watched with awe aside from Maegor and Lady Jocylen, who had seen them before, and Brandon Snow, who still liked to boast how he could have killed them with just his weirwood bow and arrow.

Something he was smart enough not to bring up to any dragonrider.

Eventually, the three massive dragons swooped down upon the ancient keep. Guards about the battlements and servants and lords alike flinching involuntarily as a bronzed beast - Vhagar - flew low overhead. They circled, Vhagar in front, the great bulk of Balerion the Black Dread behind, and the small, sleek form of Arrax bringing up the rear. No one doubted their King again at this sight, the folly of all that opposed the dragons self-evident in the face of these creatures.

Atop them were the dragonriders - Lord Torrhen riding astride the Black Dread as a mere passenger - crowns gracing the brows of two of them. The Targaryen King and Queen Making their entrance. One far grander than any could ever perform.

Wings beating fast and kicking up clouds of air and snow, Balerion and Vhagar landed upon the snowy ground with a rumble, hooting and snapping their jaws in the air. Arrax, being smaller, hovered overhead for a moment before landing far more gently - Princess Rhaenys eager to show her riding skills. It was then the gathered were able to catch a closer look at their monarchs - most were only familiar with Prince Maegor, and he dressed like a Stark most of the time.

The King and Queen clad in all black but with a red sash and cloak befitting their house. Infamous the world over with their distinctive twin dragon and ruby encrusted hilt's respectively, Blackfyre and Dark Sister were sheathed on their respective owner's hip. King Aegon wore his beard shaved and hair closely cropped, while Visenya's flaxen silver locks were tied in a severe braid - fierce and powerful dragons like their mounts.

Quite the contrast was Princess Rhaenys. Hair left free in the northern style, her frame was enclosed by a white coat. A less threatening figure - the future Lady of Winterfell couldn't be much else.

Plopping upon the snowfall with the dexterity of a much younger man, King Aegon I Targaryen wasn't too arrogant not to help Lord Torrhen Stark ease his way down Balerion's spines. "Not a young man anymore, Lord Torrhen?" he jested.

Still shaking from the acrobatics of their landing, Torrhen nearly collapsed as he hit the ground - knees wobbling. "I think I'll stick to horses for the time being, your Grace."

"You still have a trip back to the capitol."

"Fuck me." The King snorted with amusement.

Satisfied Torrhen wouldn't faint or puke his guts out, Aegon fought to shiver from the suddenly discovered icy chill as he walked to where Visenya scrambled down Vhagar's smaller spines. The green dragon regarded him with familiarity, and he sent a teeth-chattering smile her way. "Easy does it, Vis," he murmured only loud enough for her to hear.

"I can do it myself," she shot back. Yes she could, but there weren't many times the King could with propriety grab the beautiful Queen Visenya's rear end as he often did while they were alone. Availing himself to the opportunity - even including a little pinch for good luck - when she reached the ground a scowl shot his way. "Letcher."

Aegon shrugged. "I would apologize… if I was actually sorry."

Wry smirk slowly forming on her face, Visenya leaned in for a peck on the lips - the fire in her eyes indicating she wanted more.

"Muna… kepa." They pulled apart as a slender, irritated figure crossed her arms. "Can we please not do that?"

Visenya laughed while the King rolled his eyes. "Alright, Rhae. Come on." He found Balerion's massive head in his way, amber eyes locked on him. "Hey boy." Aegon whispered in High Valyrian as he stroked his scales. "Go rest with your sister and daughter. We'll be fine among the wolves." The Black Dread growled and with a massive beat of his wings ascended into the sky. Hooting, Vhagar and Arrax weren't far behind, leaving just the three dragonriders in the middle of the massive courtyard.

Lord Torrhen had already greeted his wife, who ignored propriety to embrace him tightly and deliver a proper marital kiss. "Welcome back, husband," she whispered in his ear. "Make this quick… I need you alone."

Brow raising at Jocylen's words, her sultry bite of the lower lip made him smile. "Good tidings come to those who wait," he responded, turning to lead the Stark household to bend the knee before their monarchs. "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours."

Tightening his cloak about him, Aegon extended his hand. "Rise." Hundreds of servants and guards stood again, many looking out in wonder at the dragons as they still circled above. The King took Jocelyn's hands in his. "Lady Stark, you're as radiant as always."

"It is a pleasure having you and your family here, your Grace. More strong women are always welcome," she replied, greeting Visenya with kisses on the cheek.

"I have a feeling that the women here can take care of themselves, well enough," replied Visenya with a grin. She always liked Northmen - they were far more egalitarian than the Andal courtiers that still gave her queer gazes when she governed alongside her husband or wore Dark Sister strapped to her belt as she did today. "And you already know Princess Rhaenys, my daughter?"

Jocelyn had been in the North for a year after five years at court, so she was familiar. "Dear Princess, you have grown into a magnificent dragonrider." Rhaenys beamed at the praise.

Several yards away, Brandon stared at the Princess with an almost slack jaw. Barely able to recover his composure even as Maegor nudged him. "Is that… is that really your sister?"

Maegor glanced sidelong at his friend with a neutral expression. "In the flesh. The future Lady of Winterfell… lest you still wish to bow out."

Brandon gulped. "Perhaps she could still hate the sight of me?" Suddenly her eyes found Brandon's, and she seemed to have a hitch in her breath before she smiled shyly. Resuming her confident posture of a Targaryen dragonrider.

"I don't think you have to worry about that." Before Maegor could continue reassuring his friend, his mother appeared in front of him. "Muna."

Queen Visenya was renown for her fierceness, much as the dragon she rode. But like Vhagar, such ferocity didn't extend to her hatchlings. "My son…" She drew him in for a tight hug, which Maegor reciprocated. "Gods, it's good to see you again."

"It's been too long, muna." He sighed into the embrace, feeling the comfort only his mother could give him.

"Anytime is too long." A persistent nuzzling of her side broke the embrace. "There you are Sȳndor. Yes, I missed you too." Maegor's furry companion had taken to his family quite well - she loved them and they her, especially when she begged for pets and scratches like a pup.

"My boy." Aegon clasped his son firmly on the shoulder. "You grow more into a man every time I see you. Just don't let people take you for a direwolf."

Maegor grinned with his father. "Believe me, no northman lets me forget I am of Valyria." That drew a laugh from his father. "I'm sure we can resume this at the feast, but may I properly greet my sister?"

Aegon nodded. "Of course, of course. Vis, let's get settled before the ass-kissing begins." All around them, many Lords of the North awaited their moments of greeting and discussion with the King and Queen. Not something either of them particularly enjoyed, but such was the burden of ruling.

No sooner did Lord and Lady Stark escort the monarchs towards the keep did the slender figure of the Princess run into Maegor's arms. "Big brother, missed you."

"Same, dear sister… though at least you have Aenys to keep you company." Rhaenys' nose wrinkled. "Problem with our brother?"

"Not him, but that bitch he married." It was no secret that Rhaenys and Alyssa Velaryon did not get along - was the open secret of court. "I vastly prefer your company, and hope the northern ladies I deal with will be more forthright."

Pursing his lips, Maegor gestured to his friend. "While I could inform you of that, perhaps it would better come from Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell." Brandon shot him a look of ire, but clammed up with an uncharacteristic shyness as Rhaenys approached him.

"Lord Brandon." She may not have shown it, but Rhaenys was just as shy at meeting her betrothed - her handsome betrothed… "We meet at last."

"Aye, suppose we do." Rhaenys was much more reminiscent of her late aunt than her mother. Slender and shapely, the strength of her figure was hidden by a more gentle demeanor and pleasant features - that and the silver hair spilling around the white coat she wore made her look like a winter goddess. "I am pleased to meet you, and hope your stay will be comfortable."

"I hope so too, considering I am to stay here permanently." That made him blush harder, while Rhaenys giggled. When does my sister unironically giggle? "My brother says you are the man to see about life in the north. Tell me, is there some place in this keep that is warmer than here?"

A smile formed on his face. "Follow me, Princess."

Maegor was heartened as Rhae slipped her hand in the crook of his arm. We're definitely going to be brothers for real. Turned out, ice and fire weren't such a bad combination.

"This is boring."

Looking up from her book on the adventures of Gaemon Targaryen prior to the Doom of Valyria - illustrations included - Rhaena blinked at her cousin Larissa Velaryon. "Why? This is the best time of the day." Just after her courtly lessons with Lady Hightower and right before her scholarly lessons with Septon Murmison, the Princess adored just relaxing in a room with one of her many books. "You even get to read the stories of Nymeria and her thousand ships… that's a favorite of mine."

Larissa, while owning the same fair features of Old Valyria, was the exact opposite of her aunt's daughter. Groaning and falling back against the pillows of Rhaena's bed, she yearned for adventure. Always ready to run and frolic and seek out attention. "Don't you have anything fun to do? Seven hells, I'd even enjoy playing with your brother over this."

"As I said, Larissa, Egg is at his lessons and so will I need to be before the sun leaves the top of the sky. Just relax and enjoy yourself."

"There is no enjoyment in relaxing." Another groan was quickly followed by a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "I have an idea…"

Rhaena knew her cousin well enough to know where this would go. "I don't end up liking what happens when you say 'I have an idea.'" It usually ended up with her banished to her room without her dinner… or covered in grime and forced to endure her nursemaids scrubbing her off as if she were her infant brother Viserys.

But nothing stopped Larissa. "No… this isn't like last time." Ending up lost in the middle of the city's blacksmith district after stealing two palfreys from the stables hadn't been Rhaena's idea of fun. "You said the sun is at the top of the sky?"

"Yes…" Rhaena remarked with unease.

"Well, I've noticed that Quicksilver always lands on the cliffs not far from here to nap for a few hours. We should go see him and pet him."

The Princess' eyes widened. "No, cousin… father and mother say never to approach the dragons without them." It had been one of their first rules said - while Aegon often tried to break them with the enthusiastic cooperation of her Aunt Rhaenys, Rhaena never broke it once. Even though she loved the winged creatures. "We can't."

"Don't be such a fuddy-duddy." Already discarding her book, Larissa hopped to her feet. "I've never gotten near a dragon before, and if Quicksilver gets mad then I have you."

"I know nothing about caring for a dragon." Her grandmother wanted to give her an egg, but Alyssa vetoed it. I'm too young and too dainty to handle a dragon yet… She parroted her mother's words in her mind.

"Fuddy-duddy!" With a laugh, Larissa ran out of the room into the hallway.

Heart pounding, Rhaena was hot on her heels. I can't believe I'm doing this. She loved her cousin… she was her closest friend not of the animal kingdom, and much of what she experienced of the wider world came from the Velaryon spitfire. Even if she does stuff like this...

"Rhaena!" She skidded to a halt, hearing the irritated tone of her mother. Oh no… I knew this would happen. "What are you doing, wandering about?" From the hallway leading to her parents' solar walked Alyssa Velaryon, frown on her face and arms crossed. "You're supposed to be at your studies… Larissa too."

"My little seamare break the rules, I am shocked," laughed Lord Daemon. Rhaena watched her uncle walk out behind her mother, muted Valyrian features and sea-green eyes much more jovial than Alyssa's. "Need your aunt have a Kingsguard assigned to you so that you behave?" It was only half-serious, teasing grin on his face.

Running to him, Larissa hugged his waist. "Sorry, poppa." She looked up at him with innocent eyes and a loving smile. "We just wanted to see Quicksilver on the cliff. I swear, we weren't gonna be gone long."

"Rhaena… you know better not to get close to your father's dragon without him present," Alyssa scolded.

She looked down at her feet, biting her lip. "Sorry, mother," Rhaena murmured almost inaudibly. Never could she act as manipulative as Larissa in order to get out of trouble.

"Easy on the poor thing, sister," uncle Daemon interjected. "I'm sure his Grace will accede once their studies are over… in fact, let's ask him now."

"Brother," said her mother, but when her uncle set his mind to something he never let anyone break him off it. Such took him on a single longship to the Summer Isles when he was merely five and ten, and such applied now. Rhaena heard her mother huff behind her and knew she wouldn't be in a good mood for a while.

Bursting back into the Crown Prince's solar with a flourish, Daemon presented little Rhaena for her father. "Look who we found running around the corridors."

Aenys smiled at seeing his daughter. "Rhaena." He rose and walked over to hug her. "You mustn't run in the corridors, but I'm welcome to your presence." She hugged him back.

"So this is the sweet Princess I have heard so much about?" Rhaena's eyes fell on a comely man in septon robes… very gaudy septon robes inlaid with silver swirls. "The first of your brood you have allowed me the grace to see, my Prince." He smiled warmly, but Rhaena noticed the warmth did not reach his eyes. Cold greens, watching her almost… hatefully?

Apparently, her father was oblivious of this. "Nonsense, Hugor, you shall meet them all by the end of your stay, just as I hope you shall join Murmison in blessing my new babe." Joy radiating from his expression as it was always wont to do, Aenys led Rhaena to where the man was standing. "Sweetling, this is Hugor Flowers, Vice-Lord Archsepton of the Most Devout." She remembered a bit of her studies from Murmison touching on this… the third highest official in the Faith, only behind the High Septon and Lord Archsepton. A powerful man indeed.

Hugor nodded to the Princess. "Pleased to meet your acquaintance, young Princess." He reached out, as if to request her hand.

Rhaena didn't like this man and his hateful gaze… whatever his kind words or deferent expression. Unable to say anything with risk of displeasing her parents, she merely hugged at her father's robes - closing her eyes and praying for this to end.

Aenys had a sense to chuckle, though it was heartening to him. "Forgive me, Vice-Lord Archsepton. My little one is quite shy with new people." Not a lie.

Her mother was far less tolerant. "It is unacceptable." Alyssa tapped Rhaena's leg with her foot. "Accept the request of his Holiness."

"It is quite alright…"

"No, do it Rhaena." Hesitantly, Rhaena drew herself away from her father's side and presented her hand, to which Hugor dropped a soft kiss as per custom. His lips were cold as ice that made her shiver.

As if sensing her discomfort, Larissa darted forward. "Father… may we go back to our studies now? I wanna finish so uncle Aenys can take us to Quicksilver." She spared a worried glance at Rhaena, to which the Princess appreciated from her first true friend.

Lord Daemon nodded. "Aye, best be doing that. Keep a seat open for me, Ally," he addressed her mother, shepherding the two girls away.

"Just make sure they stay with Murmison," Rhaena heard her mother call out. It didn't really bother her… anything to get away from the man with the hateful eyes.

Why does he hate me? In her youthful mind, Rhaena couldn't begin to understand.

Chapter Text

She was lost, deliriously subsumed in a swirl of passion and pleasure… quite willingly, to be honest. "Oh Egg… kessa, kessa…"

"Beautiful," came a quite husky, svelte reply in her ear. "Take me, take all of me, my dragon," her husband whispered in High Valyrian.

Nails clawing frantically on the planes of his back, Visenya choked down a scream - feeling his hips shift, angle changing to thrust deeper inside her. She rolled her hips to hasten the process. How is it still so amazing? Playful banter as they dressed for the day not ten minutes before grew caustic, growling insults leading to their current position. Visenya pinned to the wall of their Winterfell guest chambers, Aegon pounding into her like his life depended on it.

A position they hadn't done in a while, to which the Queen discovered she missed greatly. The melding of their skin, his still powerful strength squeezing her between himself and the wall, the delicious new angle… Visenya felt another scream bubble up.

"Seven Hells!" Aegon cursed as Visenya bit him - sinking her teeth into the meat of his shoulder. "Fuck… you're a hungry dragon."

"Mmmmhrph…" she moaned into his skin, not letting go. Sucking hard to ground herself from the explosive pleasure burning in her core.

Muscles straining, Egg did his best to fuck her into the wall. "Let go, big sister."

Mouth detaching with a pop - leaving a dark red mark on his skin - Visenya's head fell back. "No." Rhaenys often just gave in, letting Egg dominate her completely as they coupled. Hips bucking into his thrusts, Visenya was made of sterner stuff. Her husband had to work for it… even if his words of their relation made her quake with desire.

He had the stubbornness of a dragon to match hers. "Let go," he growled.

"No." She suddenly bit her lip, holding back a warbling scream.

Burst of energy overwhelming him, Aegon took her madly. "Let. Go." Words rasped in her ear, they had the desired effect.

Head falling back, Visenya's grip slackened. Melding bonelessly into her strong husband as she finally let him take her. Take her completely and utterly. "Kessa, kessa…" she kept moaning. "Take your Queen, little brother... make her scream." Only him… only ever him…

"Vis…"

Lips crashed together just as they erupted their shared climax.

Trembling, Visenya held her husband as she smiled languidly. "Are you sure you're not a man of ten and eight again?" she asked, his cock still wedged deliciously inside her.

Aegon chuckled. "I'm sure I'll feel the added years while riding, or sparring." He wasn't the youth he used to be, able to ride Balerion for days on end. No longer. "We should probably dress for the day."

"I thought we already were," Vis smirked, only to wince as Egg pulled out and let her slide to the ground, legs wobbling slightly as she stood her full height. Visenya immediately felt the sharp chill. Reminded again they weren't in King's Landing where the humidity almost required being bare in their chambers, she rushed for the smallclothes and thick woolen dress. "Fuck, how can anyone live in this cold?"

"I can't speak as to that, but it explains how rugged Lord Torrhen is. Only the tough could live here."

"I suppose that's true." Visenya slowly donned the dress, perfectly willing to forgo a handmaiden in order to spend this time with her husband. "At least I had you for warmth," she smiled, voice soft.

He smiled in return - only alone with him could she be soft and Aegon felt honored. "That was wonderful. We should couple standing up more often."

"It was one of the better couplings," Visenya grinned. "Much like our first time… or when we conceived Maegor." The grin widened. "I still can't believe you convinced me to fuck on Vhagar's back."

Aegon huffed. "Good as it was, only now does Vhagar not glare at me for that." No one would imagine these moments as being between the brooding King and ruthless Queen, but it was what it was.

Not much time later, there was no sign of their amorous activities left among the King and Queen - Visenya's dress was a snow white with a red sash and belt that held Dark Sister's scabbard, while Aegon held a black cloak thrown over his thick doublet and wool trousers, Blackfyre nestled underneath. Surrounded by Stark guards and bearing their own swords there needn't not worry about attack, but Ser Robin Darklyn trailed behind just for precaution. "You seem used to the cold, Ser Robin."

"One doesn't ever get used to the cold… just acclimated to it, your Grace," Darkrobin replied with a tiny smile. "Unless you're the Prince."

"He's thrived, I can see," said the proud father.

"Aye. And you need not worry about the Princess. Lord Brandon puts most knights to shame with chivalry." Aegon shared a glance with Visenya - on paper the two were perfect, but that didn't necessarily extend to a decent marriage. Only time would tell.

The private dining hall was quite empty as they entered. Servants and guards bending the knee to their monarchs, only four figures rose from the table. "Your Grace," Lord Torrhen Stark stated, bowing his head, joined by Lady Jocelyn and Brandon Snow.

Maegor, on the other hand, approached his parents. "Kepa." A quick hug. "Muna," a longer hug, with twin kisses on the cheek. Normally he dressed as a northerner, but with his parents and sister arrived he wore reds and blacks again. "We saved a plate for you."

"Thank you, sweetling." Visenya chuckled at his muted groan, taking her seat. "Where is Rhae? And the heir?" They were conspicuously absent.

"Touring the wolfswood," Maegor shrugged. "And meeting the dragons, I believe."

"A good start, no?" Torrhen stated, hopeful.

"Aye, a good start." The whiff of hot, fresh bread and barley porridge made Visenya's mouth water. She and Egg had… exhausted themselves. Without waiting for Egg to sit beside her, she smeared cheese on the roll and began to devour it.

"So, your Grace," began Lady Jocelyn. "How were your sleep accommodations?"

"Quite well, my Lady," Aegon replied, spooning up the porridge. "The mattress is quite comfortable."

Jocelyn nodded. "I can imagine. So was mine." Visenya looked up as she dipped a roll in her porridge to see the Lady of Winterfell smile at her husband, eyes twinkling. Perceptive. Maegor looked to rub the back of his neck, wishing he were anywhere else. "The last of the Lords shall arrive tomorrow for the wedding, your Grace. It is quite well anticipated in the North."

"I concur," Lord Snow added, himself only availing to greens and lean lamb slices. "In fact, most were surprised that the crown was actually keeping their promises."

A silence fell. "Brother…" Torrhen chided, wincing. "Forgive me, your Grace…"

Aegon didn't listen for his apologies. "Son, is this true?"

On the spot, Maegor cleared his throat. "I haven't heard anything personally, but Bran did. From Lord Bolton."

None were unaware of Lord Rogar Bolton - only one and twenty, he was already a legend from battling Dornish raiding parties in the Marches. "And what has Lord Bolton said?"

"That, quote 'northern barbarians' were likely low on the list of persons to placate with a royal betrothal… regardless of how far the direwolf… um… burrowed up father's asshole." Normally unabashed, being around his mighty parents made Maegor a bit… sheepish. Before Brandon Snow, they were the only ones who could ever discipline him.

Blinking, Aegon suddenly laughed. "I like you northmen. Never hold anything back - with those southern cunts, every word is a mask for another. Mummers all."

Brandon snorted in agreement. "I don't know how Torry stands them."

"Not easy, I'll tell you," Torrhen remarked, chewing on a slab of bacon. "Between us, Lord Bolton is right. No one wanted this betrothal going through. Lord Stokeworth wanted Jonos Arryn to placate the Faith, while Aethan Velaryon pushed himself."

"That arrogant cunt would do that," Maegor said, rolling his eyes. "Anyone else?"

Visenya nodded. "Aye, Gawen, your brother, and that septon your brother keeps around greatly lobbied for Rhae to marry the Hightower heir to placate the Faith as well. Over my dead body was my daughter getting shipped to the Starry Sept."

Brow raising, Brandon clapped once. "If you weren't already married to his Grace, I'd ask for your hand, my Queen."

"But she is married to me, Lord Brandon. And I am very much alive." Aegon slowly chewed on a chunk of bread, eyes narrowing.

The bastard of Winterfell didn't back down. "I do fear that I've insulted you. No worries, we can take it out on the sparring court - I've always wished to spar with the mighty Conqueror." He ultimately looked quite eager.

"Careful, Snow," Maegor piped up. "You may get your wish." Even when he was cocky and eager to fight, Maegor never challenged his father. That was asking to get beaten to hell. Only Muna ever challenged him.

"He'll get his challenge before we leave, son," Aegon said calmly, continuing to break his fast. "As for Lord Bolton, Torrhen, I'd advise trying to bind him to you. Perhaps a marriage alliance."

"The days a Bolton would marry a Stark are the days the Wall melts and snow falls in Dorne," Torrhen spat, the animosity between the two houses running deep to this day.

Visenya cooly sipped on her snow chilled water. "Never say never, Torrhen. They said the Sunset Kingdoms would never unite, but here we all are." Such was an item to ponder.

Times were definitely changing.

Campfire crackling and popping as each dripping of melted fat fell from the carcass, Brandon reached forward with his knife. Slicing through the sizzling meat formerly of the white-tailed deer's haunches for a proper portion. "I'm not surprised that you enjoy your meat cooked thoroughly, Princess," he told his companion. "Your brother enjoys it the same way, much as we enjoy teasing him for it."

Letting the large serving of flesh fall atop a tin bowl that served as both a plate, pot, and cup, Rhaenys inhaled the aroma of fresh-roasted venison. "Dragonblood, Lord Stark. Our mounts enjoy their flesh far more cooked than this."

Taught the manners of always serving a lady first, only now did Brandon cut a slab of his own - focusing on the portion furthest away from the fire, and correspondingly cooked only to a warm pink. "Such makes the meat dry… juiceless. Sounds mad in my opinion."

"If I wished for wet food, I'd sup on stew," she replied. Resting in bundles were the rest of the edible parts of the deer as well as the hide, all ready for the cooks in Winterfell to prepare the evening meal for the Starks and Targaryens. Of the portions unfit for human consumption, Blizzard gnawed on it with his powerful jaws. Rhaenys giggled as he licked his maw clean of blood, currently working on the head. In the middle was a puncture where Brandon's arrow punched through. "You are a good shot, Lord Stark."

"Call me Bran, Princess, and yes. One learns to be a good hunter when living in the North."

"Indeed." They ate in silence, simply enjoying the serene atmosphere of the Wolfswood. Rhaenys had been in the Kingswood with her parents and many a knight or Lordling trying to woo her. While the most prevalent memory had been how irritating and disgusting many of them were - interested in only the power they could receive for being the goodson of the King… or a wandering eye quite lecherous cast in her direction marred by rotting teeth or bad manners - she remembered how the Kingswood seemed unlike a proper wilderness. As if it was cultivated… close to humanity. Such wasn't the case here, wild, untamed. Rhaenys loved it.

And it was quickly apparent that Brandon Stark was a man unlike those failed suitors. "How soon could you bear me an heir?"

Rhaenys blinked. "Excuse me?"

Brandon shrugged. "I'm my father's only child, and he's not the type to father bastards - nor am I." He seemed insistent on that point. "With my uncle childless, I made a vow to have plenty of spares so the Stark name would be guaranteed to live on."

Her eyes narrowed. "You are quite insolent... Bran." Gruff and blunt, many of Rhaenys' friends and close circle would have slapped him by now… or found him too boorish to swoon after.

"Why? A marriage is to produce heirs, which I will need. Your mother bore two and her mother bore three, so House Targaryen is fertile - all that's left is your desire to have children, for I'm not tying you down lest you wish to sip moon tea."

"Most of those trying to woo me would prefer sweet nothings or romantic gestures to try and charm me."

"I am no fuckin' eunuch, Princess… nor do I think you wish one for a husband." He scoffed. "From what your brother has told me of those toads, they fuckin' cloak their inner slugs in such fine words and perfumed beards. What you see is what you get with me."

She pursed her lips. "You are a foul-mouthed savage, Brandon Stark." He was nonplussed - Rhaenys figured he had endured much worse insults. A chuckle left her mouth. "I'm sure many said such of my parents, so it isn't quite as much an insult from my lips."

He smiled. "I'm sure anything from your lips wouldn't bother a young lad."

"Oh?" Rhaenys raised a brow. "And you said you didn't like fine words."

"Happens to be the truth, Princess. I can't deny that."

Watching him, Rhaenys couldn't help the little flutter in her heart. Both of them slowly leaning forward… until a loud roar filled the air. She laughed awkwardly. "That's Arrax."

"Is he hunting?" Gods, Brandon hoped not. In the thick underbrush of the woods, animals could blend in easily, making it hard to distinguish them. If that beast thought them some sort of game…

Rhaenys giggled at his trepidation. "And here I thought you were braver than the craven Andal knights," she teased, rather enjoying his ashen look. "Don't be scared, Bran. Arrax is just looking for me."

Bran frowned. "How can you tell?"

"Through our bond." Smiling, she closed her eyes. Land in the clearing, sweetling. "It's the same as you with Blizzard… and believe me, direwolves are just as fierce as dragons can be." Clicking her tongue, Rhaenys watched as the purplish dragon batted his wings, descending into the clearing where Balerion or Vhagar would have struggled to enter without bashing the trees. Sleek and still rather small for a rideable dragon, when he landed it was with a plop rather than a thud. "Hello, my sweet one," she cooed in High Valyrian, walking up without a care in the world and stroking his snout. "Enjoying the cold?" Arrax snorted. "Kessa, me too."

Rooted in his spot, Brandon ruffled Blizzard's fur to calm himself. "What have I gotten myself into, boy?" The direwolf looked up at him with a silly tilt of the head. "No help at all."

Gently rubbing the scales up to his eye, Rhaenys heard Arrax grunt, hot air puffing out his nostrils. "That's my betrothed, kessa." Another snort, a rumbling growl emerging from his throat. "Want to meet him… size him up?" A bob of the head. "Lord Brandon, come here. My sweet son wants to meet you."

Gulping, Bran didn't move. "You sure he's not gonna burn me?"

"Pretty sure."

"Only pretty sure? What if you're wrong?"

Rhaenys looked at him with an innocent smile accentuated by the silver of her hair and cloak - impish charm sparkling in her Valyrian eyes. "Then it was nice knowing you, Brandon Stark."

Tongue lolling out, it was almost as if Blizzard was laughing at him. "Shut it, furball." Sucking in a breath of the cold air, burn on his lungs steeling his resolve, Brandon slowly loped forward - feeling his boots crunch over the few inches of snowfall. "Dragon… Arrax… I mean you nor your rider any harm." That earned a hiss, razor-sharp teeth baring. He flinched.

"Not a good start, future husband," Rhaenys teased.

"Should I cut my losses?"

"If you can't charm this dragon, how do you expect to charm the dragon you're betrothed to?"

He gritted his teeth. I've fought Thenns beyond the fuckin' wall. Even the tallest Thenn couldn't roast him alive on a whim. Bran then looked at Rhaenys' expectant eyes and realized he did wish to impress her. That having this woman as his bride was… something he did wish for. There was an air about her that was simply… irresistible. Made his inner wolf howl. Breathing sharply once more, he forged ahead. Watching the dragon's amber eyes look at him expressionlessly. Bran hoping that Arrax thought him more than a meal.

Want me to roast him? Would be easy - you could say beasts killed him.

Rhaenys chuckled. "No, Arrax. I believe I am growing fond of this wolf."

"Something wrong?"

She looked back at him. "He's getting impatient. Just touch his snout." Good luck, Brandon Stark. If he was roasted, then that would be quite the scandal.

Hand held out, Bran slowly inched forward until the gloved palm finally touched something hard and warm - very very warm. Arrax's maw was about the size of his head and torso, unable to swallow him whole as Balerion could, but the razor sharp teeth and persistent heat that radiated from his nostrils and mouth did create a sense of apprehension as he rubbed along the scales…

With a loud snort, Arrax surged forward and licked his face, covering Brandon in copious amounts of dragon slobber. He enjoyed the laughter that tumbled from his muna's lips. This one isn't like the others. Has a strong heart.

"I'll take your word on it, sweetling."

Wiping the slime from his face - knowing he'd likely have to burn the gloves - Brandon watched as Arrax reared his head. The dragon blinked, jaw lowered slightly and looking at the Targaryen maiden. "I have no clue what to make of this, your Grace."

Stifling another laugh, Rhaenys' cheeks were rosy with mirth, which seemed to mollify Brandon. Seeing him there, he looked even more handsome than before. "Do we have your approval, then?" She asked her son, who bobbed his head, hooting. "It means that this isn't the last I shall know of you, Brandon Stark."

Blinking, once the words registered a tiny grin curled on his face. "Is that so? Well… I'm glad. I feel that the best facets of you, my Princess, are still waiting to be unearthed." He didn't mean it sensually, but from how she blushed, Brandon realized it could be taken as such. His grin widened. "Much, to unearth."

"A bold man, you are." Giving her dragon a knowing look, she walked to him and looped her arms round his neck. "Perhaps such is only proper for a dragon."

"Perhaps so." Staring down at her, Bran leaned forward… only to discover his betrothed closing what remained of their gap.

Lord Commander Corlys Velaryon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps we should wait for his Grace to return before we judge this matter."

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" Lord Corlen Blackwood, Master of Coin, rolled his eyes. "Seeking to stack the deck in favor of a full calling the banners so that your family can receive glory."

"Watch yourself, my Lord," growled Aethan Velaryon, the Master of Ships.

From the head of the table, a gentle, charming voice rang out. "Gathered Lords, let's not squabble." He waved his arms up and down, gesturing for calm. "My father and mother would only rejoice if this matter is solved before they return."

Lightly drumming his fingers atop the arms of the plush chair, Hugor Flowers surmised that now was the time he put the proper pieces into action. In spite of the arrogant glares directed his way, that is - highborns deriding his title lower than that of the High Septon whose seat he occupied… or perhaps it was his bastardy. Fools… to throw away those who may be the proudest followers of our cause. Hugor was devout, but shortsighted he was not.

He endured the arrogance and the seemingly brazen behavior for one reason and one reason only. The chair reserved for his Grace, Aegon I Targaryen, was not occupied by the King but rather by the Crown Prince - Aenys Targaryen. While the ever cunning and clever Alyssa Velaryon sat beside him, belly starting to show the swell of pregnancy, Hugor worried not. She was no Queen Visenya, and he had on good authority to know that she was a devoted visitor of the Sept of Remembrance.

Interjecting in the middle of the spat between the Velaryons and Lord Blackwood, Master of War Osmund Strong, restated the problem. "Your Grace, the whispers from Tyrosh and Lys indicate Sargoso Saan has fortified the Stepstones in such a manner that only a putative campaign would root him out. Calling the banners is the only solution."

"Not necessarily, my King." Grand Maester Gawen had no personal experience with combat, but was a student of history. "You need not call the banners if the Crown directly supports a force to assault the Stepstones. Such was how the Arrogant King achieved his assault and raid on Volantis."

"House Velaryon and the royal fleet would be behind you," Lord Aethan stated.

"We would need years to raise the proper forces for a campaign in the entire Stepstones… who would protect the Realm from Saan's attacks?"

If he was to move, he would have to do it now.

"Allow me to interject, Ser Strong," he spoke up, finally piercing the silence that kept him out of these discussions so far. "I believe I have a solution that will solve multiple problems vexing us."

Aenys seemed to perk up. "Do continue, Archsepton. I would like to hear your proposal."

"It is simple, really." Smiling with his hands folded one on top of the other, he looked quite nonthreatening and trustworthy. "Until the Crown can prepare a proper naval expedition that requires not the calling of the banners, I would be happy to deploy the Faith Militant to patrol the Stormlands and Vale - deter all potential attack from these pirates."

The councilors wore a wide range of expressions, from hostile to guardingly accepting… The Crown Prince on the other hand… "Splendid, splendid idea, Archsepton. Those of the Faith joining hands with house Targaryen to defend the people of Westeros."

"I very much agree with the symbolism, your Grace."

"Does the Starry Sept intend to finance these levies from their own coffers?" asked Colten Blackwood, scowling - given they were the last Riverlords to follow the Old Gods, their relations with the Faith were frosty to say the least.

Hugor sent a serene smile but glaring eyes right back. "We are holy men, Lord Blackwood. There is no profit for us, only the safety of the children of the Seven who are One." It was obvious that the Lord of Raventree Hall didn't believe him, but kept it to himself.

It was Princess Alyssa that challenged Hugor next. "Do you have the authority to consent to such deployment in the absence of the High Septon." Many eyes focused on him, the question on the minds of the majority of the Small Council finally breached by someone with the authority to do so. "Would he support such a move?"

"I am the High Septon's closest confidant and his chosen representative on this council in his absence." The fact he could pressure the passive idiot into anything was left unsaid.

"Does the Stars and Swords have the manpower to conduct such patrols?"

Sighing, Hugor shrugged. "Forgive me, Princess. We would devote ourself to the task without rest, but it is true that our numbers aren't as high as one would need."

Aenys' brows furrowed. The solution was too perfect a save for the Crown's finances to not rely on. "Would any increase in manpower be financed by the Starry Sept?"

"Of course, your Grace."

"Then you have my leave to increase their numbers as much as you see fit."

Hugor's eyes sparkled. "Thank you, my King." He bowed.

Osmund Strong blinked. "Your Grace… the conscription of... ably bodied men may hurt the harvest as badly as calling the banners would."

"Do not worry, your Grace," Hugor answered. "It is an idea that I was toying with for years. On the fringes of our society rest many forgotten persons clogging our cities and orphanages - bastards and orphans rejected by most. Recruiting them to serve their Faith and their King would serve a charitable purpose while also protecting the Realm from danger."

Aenys clapped his hands. "Perfect, it is settled then!" Gods, it felt good to take another problem from his parents' shoulders.

"Muna must be kicking herself," the King heard his son quip as they waited outside the chamber door. "She always hated such feminine pursuits."

Aegon chuckled, patting Maegor on the back. "Your muna…" he thought of an explanation that didn't involve their dead sister-wife - even decades later, the thought of their Rhaenys still caused his heart to ache. And Visenya's, not that she would even admit to him. "There's a thing about women, my son. No matter what personality they are, they always will fuss and fawn over their children at their weddings. Did it with your brother, and now is involved with your sister."

Maegor rolled his eyes. "Good to know."

"You'll come to grips with it when you marry."

Hitting him like a ton of bricks, Maegor rubbed the back of his head. "The council has been discussing it, haven't they? My future marriage?"

Hearing his son suck in a steeling breath, Aegon nodded. "Aye." It did not pleasure him to do so, surprise Maegor with such matters, but as a Prince of the Realm it was a must. Aenys did it, Rhaenys is doing it now, and it seemed to work out well for them. "In spite of your battles and hardships, you've been sheltered in the North, my son. The Seven Kingdoms are still quite fragile in spite of what your brother thinks."

"He always saw the best in people." Both a compliment and a curse, depending on the situation. "And so I'm a tool in order to keep the peace."

"We're Kings and royals, Maegor. With our power, so to comes duty - if we can avoid using dragonfire to keep the peace, the better."

Maegor looked up at him. "Dragons forged our throne."

A hard gaze followed from Aegon. "The dragons didn't protect your aunt, and they failed to subdue Dorne. If you resort to the worst of violence every time, the peace it brings only lasts as long as the fear does. If you have love and respect as well as fear, your rule is unquestioned."

"I know, kepa." Maegor sighed. "I only hope that I have what you and muna do. What Aenys and his wife have." Much as I dislike her, she brings joy to my brother.

Aegon hugged his son. "Gods be good, you will. I intend not to betroth you to someone completely incompatible." A wince left Maegor's lips before he could stop himself - thinking about Ralla, and how he had already found at least affection. Aegon picked up on it and pulled back. "You've found a lover here?"

Biting his lip, Maegor nodded. Proud as he was, no one could withstand a questioning of the Conqueror himself.

"A highborn of the North?" A brow rose when his son shook his head. "Bastards?"

"No, of course not."

"Good." Just as he opened his mouth to continue, the door opened to reveal a beaming Visenya. 'We'll speak of this later,' Aegon mouthed. "Is she ready?"

"So ready," the Queen replied, an uncharacteristic, gleeful giggle leaving her lips. It was slightly off putting to both father and son, more used to their wife and mother respectively cursing and cuffing them upside the forehead. "Come out, Rhae-Rhae."

Eyes widened as the Princess emerged from her quarters. Owing to her lack of extensive skills, Visenya has gone for the simple touch and it worked out quite superbly for the future Lady of Winterfell. Rhaenys's hair fell in a simple braid down her back, just the tiniest hint of rouge applied to her cheeks to accentuate the deep violet of her eyes. A cream-colored woolen dress was covered by a warm white cloak, red sash around the waist and dragon lapel serving as the connections to her house. Round her neck was a necklace of sparkling rubies set in Valyrian steel.

"Does it meet your standards, husband?" Vis asked with a grin.

Tears welled in Egg's eyes as he hugged Rhaenys to his chest. "You're beautiful, daughter. The vision of your mother at our wedding."

"Really, kepa?"

"I would never lie."

Visenya turned to her son. "Maegor, do you have something to inform your sister of?"

He rolled his eyes, grunting. "Bran is likely to keel over at the sight of you."

"Oh brother, that's your way of saying I'm beautiful." A quick hug between siblings - not completely one-sided - was ended as Maegor escorted his mother to the godswood… leaving Aegon and Rhaenys alone. "Is it alright to be nervous, kepa?"

The King smiled awkwardly. "Between the two of us, I voided my stomach twice before wedding your munas." His mortification served to ease her tension. "I'm certain that the young Stark lad cares for you."

"Arrax accepted him."

"Then there's nothing more to be said." Extending the loop of his arm, Rhaenys took it.

The wedding itself was performed without a hitch. In the soft glow of the many lanterns, light danced along the blood-red leaves of the weirwood tree as Aegon led his daughter towards the head. Lord Torrhen waited there at the foot of the heart tree, the young heir right beside him in a thick brown cloak. Bran's breath hitched at the sight of his bride, and she at the sight of him. Pure blood of the first men meeting the blood of Old Valyria, the most opposite of beings. From how warmth spread as they took each others hands, perhaps such was the most glorious of unions. Ice and Fire.

Torrhen looked up at the sky, seeing the Northern lights dancing in the dark, clear, moonless night. He beamed, meeting the eyes of his wife and the royal couple. For the lights to appear at a wedding was the most auspicious of signs to begin. "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"

"I, Rhaenys of House Targaryen, a woman grown and true of birth. I come to be wed in the presence of the gods." She didn't miss a word.

"And who comes to give her?"

"I, Aegon of House Targaryen," the young bear said proudly, removing his hand from the crook of her arm. "King of Westeros and father of the bride." He gingerly kissed Rhaenys on the temple and left her to the dominion of House Stark, taking his place by Visenya's side.

"And who comes to wed her in the sight of the Gods?"

Gulping, Brandon felt Rhaenys squeeze his hand. "I, Brandon of House Stark, heir to Winterfell."

"Rhaenys of House Targaryen, do you take this man?"

Looking at her husband, she smiled hesitantly. "I take this man."

"Brandon of House Stark, do you take this woman?" He reminded Torrhen of his cousin Lyanara Mormont's husband, afraid his bride would skin him alive if he said one wrong thing. We Starks are strong, but dragons are stronger.

But Brandon kept his fortitude to the pride of his father. "I take this woman," he breathed softly, never taking his eyes away from her. Stepping forward, Jocelyn Stark brought a strip of silk emblazoned with grey direwolves, tying it around their wrists. "In the sight of Gods and men, I hereby bind these two souls together for eternity."

Cupping Rhae's cheek, Brandon leaned forward and pressed their lips together, sealing the union. At the edge of the godswood, Blizzard and Sȳndor howled at the moon. In the distance, Balerion, Vhagar, and Arrax roared into the night. A more fitting serenade existed not.

The celebration soon shifted from the quiet serenity of the godswood to the smoky, loud great hall. Ale and wine flowed, servants carrying platters of chicken pies, whole-roasted boar and auroch ribs, steaming grain and potato stews, crusty bread, fresh berries, and sweet pastries. Available even to the smallfolk, Torrhen spared no expense to herald the future Lady of Winterfell. From the lowliest servant to the King and Queen of Westeros, all joined in the feasting, dancing, and merriment. Even dour Maegor, dragging Ralla to the dance floor with ale on his lips.

While Visenya enjoyed seeing her son so happy - though nothing could compare to her daughter, who was having the time of her life - she looked to her side and the smile fell to a frown. "Brooding, at our daughter's wedding?"

Aegon chewed at a leg of chicken, juices dripping onto the plate of bread. "Apparently Maegor's lover is a wildling."

"He told you he has a lover?"

"Yes."

Slightly surprised, Visenya shrugged. "So what? He's a handsome young man."

"This could complicate matters for the woman he ultimately marries."

"You're still on about this? I say we let him into one of Aenys' parties and let the cyvasse pieces play out as they may." Maegor would find someone proper out of the many maidens that would swoon over him.

The King frowned. "That's the type of woman that he'd find. It would not help our position."

Snorting, Visenya turned back to her slab of boar. None of this mattered with Egg, Rhae, and I. We were meant for each other.

That got her thinking… perhaps the best bride for a Targaryen was another Targaryen?

"Just down this hall, my Lady," giggled a rather drunk Brandon Snow… for the first time since Rhaenys had arrived not the dour taskmaster that Maegor described. Five tankards of ale could do that to a person. "The Lady of Winterfell!"

"Lady of Winterfell!" the various Lords and lordlings that hoisted her on their shoulders and carried her from the great hall cheered out. All were in various states of inebriation and having a merry time manhandling the silver-haired princess and tugging at the straps of her dress.

But none went farther as many bedding ceremonies were wont to do. "Easy… she's still the Princess." Darkrobin followed with his hand on the hilt of his blade. Tasked by the King to protect his daughter's virtue to the marriage bed that night, he kept his eyes peeled. "Still that hand on the Princess, Lord Umber."

"Princess!" Lord Hagon Umber chortled, one meaty arm holding up Rhaenys while the other brought a mug of ale to his lips. The froth covered his beard, making him look like an ice giant. "The rider of dragons, soon ridden by a wolf!" Many cheered at his bawdy claims, while Rhaenys blushed with mortification.

That a similar feminine whoop echoed out well behind them mollified Rhaenys somewhat. Her betrothed was getting it just as good from the gathered ladies of the North, and if the Ladies Mormont - his cousins - were any indication… Enjoy this, dear wolf of mine. Her grin was the same grin of her mother when her father the King was frustrated at something.

"Ere we are." Swaying, Brandon Snow managed on two tries to get the door to the marital chambers opened. "Our fun ends and hers begins." A hiccup punctuated the jape. Enduring jeers and smacks on the ass from the reveling guests, before she knew it Rhaenys was deposited on the flood with the door slammed shut behind her.

Left momentarily alone in the chambers that would be hers.

Taking advantage, she looked about the chambers, studying it with a keen gaze. It was slightly smaller than her chambers in the Aegonfort - two of them could fit into the massive rooms in Aenys' manse. Walls thick, a roaring hearth was joined by a brazier to heat it nicely. Rhaenys enjoyed the warmth as she shucked off her cloak. The bed was quite large… putting a tiny smile on her face. What to do with that…

A looking glass perched on an ironwood devan in the corner. Rhaenys leaned down to get a good look at the damage. Her hair was frazzled and dress rumpled, but the braids still held and big a part was ripped or untied. Darkrobin did his job.

The Princess suddenly turned as a chorus of feminine giggles filled the quiet bedchamber. With a plop, an equally rumpled Brandon Stark was dropped in… this time on his ass. "Ride him hard, goodcousin!" Larra Reed hooted before the door shut completely.

And just like that, they were alone.

Brandon rubbed the back of his neck, eyes taking her in. "Wife."

Rhaenys bit her lip. "Husband." Still a stranger, but her husband nonetheless. And that meant… "Shall we…" She began to move to the bed.

"Wait." His words stilled her. "Let's share a toast first - of our own accord, without the drunkards."

That made her giggle. "Northmen do enjoy their spirits." It was then that Rhaenys noticed a glass flagon of wine that Bran poured two goblets from. A tart Tarth white… my favorite. "Are your countrymen all like this?"

"Given the prevalence of blizzards and ice, I'm surprised we're not always deep in our cups." He smiled at his jape, but he seemed too eager to ease the tension. Brandon was nervous too. Nevertheless, he handed her a goblet. "To our marriage."

She raised it along with him. "To our marriage." The wine was smooth down her gullet, warming Rhaenys quite pleasantly. It was welcome, given the tension still existed. She sighed. "Forgiveness, Brandon." Rhaenys pulled at her braids, freeing the hair to spill across her shoulders and upper back. "I wish for this to go well, but we barely know each other."

His mouth dried at seeing the silver-locks framing her face like some kind of snow angel - it made it hard for Brandon to talk, so he sipped his wine. As a northman he preferred ale, but it was enough to wet his tongue. "It is my understanding that few marriages are of that nature… and didn't you tell me that those knights you've known for longer weren't marriageable prospects?"

Rhaenys shuddered. "Oh no. I only met you days before and you are still a better choice than they." An awkward laugh filled the room, both of them finishing their wine. "We have a lifetime to get to know each other, no?"

He shrugged. "Aye, a lifetime. One that can explode into passion as your parents or mine, one that settles into comfort and ease as that of far more, or one that enters resentment either quiet or loud as those who are selected based on the consideration of their houses rather than their hearts." Brandon was rambling, heart pounding beneath his chest. This gorgeous creature was actually his wife, and even as the heir to the largest Kingdom in the Realm couldn't calm the worries that filled him. "I suppose what happens tonight will give a leg up to one of those eventualities, considering that you are likely a maiden and therefore…" What? You say that? What the fuck is wrong with you… ah, fuck it.

Merely listening at that point, Rhaenys let her goblet fall upon the floor as Brandon suddenly pulled her to him - crashing their lips together. She gasped at the sudden contact, her husband's taking advantage and plunged his tongue in. Her eyes were wide and body stiff, but it didn't last long. Warm and gentle if insistent, slowly Rhaenys felt her muscles relax, her lids fluttering shut. Arms looped around his waist while her tongue started to dance with his.

It wasn't quite a dream, but close to it.

But Brandon wasn't done. Hands frantic as his need strained his breeches, the heir to Winterfell pushed her to the bed. His touch tugging at the ties and straps of her dress, the skin brushed against her nipples underneath… sending a shock through her system. Rhaenys' eyes dilated, purples darkening to near black as the lust afflicting him claimed her as well. As they tumbled on the bed, her fingers pulled at his clothes just as frantically - neither one of them once breaking their hungry kiss.

Before too long - though it seemed an eternity to the young couple - both were bare to each other. "You're beautiful." Brandon stared into her eyes, the words simply coming out. "So beautiful."

Breathing hard, Rhaenys stretched her body out, grinding their cores together - moaning as her wetness rubbed against his hardness. "You are handsome, as well." Meeting his greys, no dashing, perfumed lordling or tourney knight could compare to her rugged wolf.

Is this love? Perhaps not, but the first stirrings of it.

Brandon searched her eyes for any hesitation. He found none. "Are you ready?"

She closed her eyes before nodding. "I'm ready. No going back from this."

"I know…" He positioned at her entrance.

"I can't wait." Their lips met just as he pushed inside, consummating the pact of ice and fire.

Chapter Text

Crossing her arms, Princess Alyssa Targaryen's sea-green eyes were dark with irritation. Standing in the middle of their dressing chamber, she glared at her husband, currently picking out the proper scented oil to rub into his hair. "Are you just going to ignore me, husband?"

"I don't see why you are so perturbed, my dearest?" Pouring small drops of the chosen concoction imported from Myr on his hands, he rubbed it into his silver locks. "It's just my brother."

"That's exactly the point. You refused to inform me of this until an hour ago… and you had a servant tell me."

"Well of course, I was quite busy with Murmison and Ser Damon at the Sept of Remembrance," Aenys said without anger - Alyssa could count on her fingers the times she'd seen him truly angry or upset. "I am a very busy man you know, being the heir to my father's throne and all."

Alyssa sighed, she couldn't deny him that. "Aye, I know, but you still should've told me at least yesterday that we were to sup alone with your brother." The last almost spat out, but she refrained. Alyssa Velaryon Targaryen was no trollop, uncouth and crass.

He began checking his perfectly-groomed mustache for any errant hair out of place. Contrary to court rumor, Aenys wasn't vain. Alyssa knew he didn't truly have a selfish bone in his body… he simply wished to please and part of that was looking the perfect Targaryen Prince. It was endearing… except in certain times. "And what is wrong with supping with my brother? I haven't seen him in years."

Another sigh. The royals had returned the night before from Winterfell - Rhaenys was not among them, but Maegor was and she was not happy about it. "You're the heir," she finally said. "Not he, and yet he always took the torch."

Chuckling, Aenys turned and took his wife into his embrace. "No need to be jealous for me. My brother and I… we compliment each other. He the warrior, myself the cultured ruler. When I sit on the throne, he'll loyally serve and provide my reign with the steel it needs."

"I do not doubt that he is loyal." She hated lying to her husband, but the real reason she disliked his brother was… not proper to voice out. Try as she was to be kind to everyone, seeking approval and adoration all around her, for the life of her Alyssa couldn't do such with Maegor, not after… No. Without thinking, she cupped the slight swell in her abdomen of the growing babe… one she wouldn't let Maegor's brutishness and wild ferocity corrupt as it did himself.

The door opened to reveal the young Jeyne Westerling, one of Alyssa's ladies in waiting. "Your Graces, Prince Maegor is waiting in the foyer."

Aenys broke into a wide smile. "Perfection! Let us go to him!" Alyssa rolled her eyes, steeling herself for what would be an arduous night.

Sure enough, waiting in the antechamber of the manse was the towering form of Prince Maegor, who immediately wrapped two strong arms round his brother and lifted him in the air. "Gods, you're even more of a dandy than I remember!" Maegor boomed, squeezing Aenys affectionately.

The movements that brought the brothers together masked the true looks of the younger Prince, but Alyssa could piece together her memories with the parts of him visible. His time in the North had been kind to Maegor, filling him out in the proper places and slimming him down in others. He had taken to shave his beard and crop his silver hair close to his scalp, and it suited the strength in his swagger and build. Alyssa knew just how powerful he was, and the feelings it brought out in her were quickly extinguished before it troubled her.

"It's good to see you too, brother." Aenys clapped Maegor on the back once set down, face almost splitting open from how wide he smiled. The relationship between the brothers always baffled Alyssa… Maegor out of his glower and Aenys almost boastful, but there was no denying they were close. Being raised together from the cradle, not a surprise. "I hope you'll have some fun for once."

"The North is plenty fun."

"I know what that means, charming the Wintertown maidens… or the Wildling maidens?" He would never make such a suggestive jape with anyone but Maegor.

Before they knew it, the younger brother had enys in a headlock, ruffling his hair with a fist. "You're more a maiden than they, Aenys."

"Are you quite done?"

Finding Alyssa's scowl, Maegor let his brother go, the rambunctiousness of his youth leaving him and the brooding scowl returning. "Goodsister. You look well, very healthy with my niece or nephew."

"Thank you, goodbrother." She eyed him… distastefully - which Aenys didn't notice. He had quite selective vision… or was unabashedly optimistic. Maegor's eyes were happy, yet guarded. Don't fool me, goodbrother. I know the true you. The hostility was returned, though he hid it. "Have you concluded acting like a child? I would like to entertain two princes of the Realm."

Still have a stick up your ass? "I missed my brother, much as we have little in common." Southern ladies truly bored him after the earthy northern wenches, but his goodsister was something else. A strong woman, but a different sort of strength. One he hated in anyone… crafty and sneaky. "But I do wish to catch up…

He was cut off as Alyssa screamed, backing up as two guards came forward to protect her. "What in seven hells is that?!"

Having wandered back from where she was sniffing an indoor garden, Sȳndor trotted next to her master - towering at his stomach height. "Sȳndor, sit." Maegor smiled sheepishly, offering silent apology to his brother, who looked equally startled. "This is my direwolf… a gift from my hosts. She surprisingly took to me."

Calmed down, Alyssa laughed. "I know I teased you about not having a dragon, goodbrother, but I never thought you trying to patch the inadequacy by obtaining a replacement."

This made him scowl. "She is no replacement, and you will show her respect." The direwolf's ears pulled back, yellow eyes menacing as they took in Alyssa.

"That's enough," Aenys interjected. "Such is fascinating though, brother. I do wish to know this story."

"But this beast must be kept in the central gardens. I won't have it in my dining chambers."

Sighing, Maegor whispered a command in Valyrian. "I'll be fine with that, but I must also ask where are my niece and nephew. Last time I held Rhaena, she was but a babe and you were pregnant with her younger brother."

Before Aenys could answer, Alyssa spoke up. "They are at their nighttime lessons. Perhaps another time?"

"I would like to see them."

Always ready to please, Aenys nudged Maegor with his palm. "After we sup, I'll take you to them. Let's not let the food get cold!" Only too cheery, but both loved him.

Turned out, Aenys had toned down his usual zeal for a garish party whenever something truly happened that was worth celebrating. His beloved younger brother returning counted, but the meal was simple fair. Braised pork roast with potatoes and carrots, a grain soup and bread off to the side with plenty of Arbor gold to wash it all down. Maegor had had simpler fares, but the fare was easy on the palate nonetheless.

"So how is Rhae?" Aenys finally asked. "Is she happy?"

"She seemed happy," Maegor replied. "It didn't look like she was putting on a front. I'm sure I could tell if she was."

He nodded, nevertheless still curious and worried. "Your friend, Brandon. He's a kind soul, correct? Not like that brute that trained you in the North?"

"Brandon Snow trained both of us, and he was harder on Bran due to the blood relation, honestly." He shrugged. "They seemed captivated with each other, and yes, he's the best man I know."

"Praise the Seven," Aenys smiled. "Hopefully we can count on many Stark nephews before long."

"Half-Targaryen, half-Stark, quite novel in my opinion," Alyssa remarked, daintily cutting a slice of pork. "What would they bond to, a dragon or a direwolf?"

Searching her for ill intent, Maegor was mollified that she was simply curious. "Perhaps either, or perhaps both?"

"A highborn that holds the symbol of ice and the symbol of fire? Gods, he would be destined to rule over all," Aenys said, chuckling. "Murmison should be able to show a prophecy to see if it would happen."

"Old Loren Lannister or half the Riverlands would probably keel over in their seats at the picture of a dragonriding Stark," Alyssa added. "I heard from Jeyne that the Lord of Casterly Rock is not happy that his Grace consummated the Pact of Ice and Fire with Lord Torrhen. Few actually expected it to happen."

Aenys furrowed his brows. "Father never makes a promise that he intends to break. That is uncouth and dishonorable."

"While I avoided dealing with it while I did, I am not here a day before politics rears its ugly head." Things were simpler in the North, if no less cutthroat - they were just more forthright about it. "You can tell me something, brother."

"Anything," Aenys smiled.

"Kepa alluded to this, but am I here solely to obtain a bride?" His eyes narrowed.

Aenys smuttered into his goblet, while Alyssa smirked. "Aye, that's exactly what this is."

The Prince cursed under his breath. "Just perfect… I don't need this right now."

"Oh? Have a sweetheart in mind?"

He scowled. "No one that would make a proper bride, care for her though I do." Ultimately, there was no escaping this. "I wish they had talked to me earlier about this directly."

"Mother and father love you, brother," Aenys said. "They want a good match for you, but they need to make you a match… believe me, they do."

"Why? I haven't exactly been hotly in demand or I wouldn have been recalled from the North quite a while ago."

"Look." Alyssa leaned forward, hands folded together. "The consummation of the Pact of Ice and Fire did anger some - more if you consider my marriage to Aenys. None of our children are of marriageable age, so you are needed to wed an Andal maiden and calm tensions."

It made sense - it was perverse, but he couldn't deny the logic. "Anyone in particular I must try and get to know?" If it goes wrong, I can always bring Ralla from Winterfell to share my bed.

"Lord Royce has a daughter, as does Edmyn Tully. I'm sure Loren will suggest someone, while anyone from the Reach would work out in terms of alliances. It's selfish for you not to think of your family, and I'm sure their Grace's will select someone that is both advantageous and palatable to you. They are sentimental that way."

"Yes, yes they are." That was little reassurance, and the delicious food tasted like sawdust for the rest of the meal.

"Take that, Black Harren!" Dragon figurine aloft, Prince Aegon Targaryen brought it down in a steep dive right atop the wooden assembly representing Harrenhal. "Boom! Boom!" With a sweep of his hand he collapsed the hall of a hundred hearths, along with the walls. "Victory to the Targaryens!"

"That's not how it happened, brother." Rhaena pulled off the wall where she was forced to wait, since 'Grandmother Visenya wasn't part of the defeat of Black Harren.' "The towers of Harrenhal were melted, not destroyed."

Aegon, the seven nameday-old with his hand on his hips, glowered. "Says who?" he spat at his older sister.

"Says all the histories… and grandfather himself."

Her younger brother wasn't moved. "Stop be a fuddy-duddy like grandfather's men."

Rhaena's cheeks flushed. "I'm not a fuddy duddy!"

"Are too. I'll play with Vis… he's funner than you." Turning his back, Aegon ignored her - the two loved each other to death, but there were times where he just couldn't take criticism. When their parents did it, he couldn't say anything, but Rhaena was different. She huffed and stormed out of the nursery, having much to say but being unwilling to actually say them.

Sighing, Rhaena leaned against the lip of the pointed-arch window - an angled huff blew a strand of silver hair from her forehead. Perched on the high bluffs of the hill, she could see down into the bustling city, teeming with life even at night. Down among the citizens, the subjects of house Targaryen, living their lives amongst each other. Why can't it be that easy? To live among them, with friends and those that truly enjoyed her company?

Larissa wasn't there, taken by her father to Evenfall Hall to seek suitors for her hand. Of all the young girls her mother paraded before her, she had been the only one Rhaena felt confident enough to speak with, largely due to the familial relation. All others… closing her eyes, the Princess was close to tears in frustration and loneliness. Why couldn't she make friends? Why did she simply seem as an outcast among them. Unable to penetrate their own cliques and established bonds? I am a Princess!

But hide behind her mother's skirts and father's robes she did.

It wasn't as if she had her siblings to count on. Rhaena loved them, truly she did, but Aegon let the comparisons all made of him being their grandsire's splitting image go to his head sometimes. Viserys was too young and wild, and even if her mother birthed a girl she'd be far too young to be a proper companion.

Looking up, she saw a hummingbird flutter onto the windowsill… followed by another. Green feathers resplendent in the sun, she smiled softly, holding out a finger. "At least I have you, little ones," Rhaena cooed as the birds perched on her finger. At least among the animal kingdom she could count many as her friends.

Suddenly, a shadow caused the hummingbirds to dash off into the gardens.

"Where are you going?" Rhaena called out, only to turn and yelp - startled. There, waiting in the middle of the manse's corridor, was a large black… thing. Almost like a wolf, but far, far bigger than even the biggest wolf or dog Rhaena had ever seen in her eight moons upon the earth. But she was not afraid, only curious. "Hello. Who might you be?"

The wolf, fur black as a moonless sky, cocked its head. Two yellow eyes peered at her, ears up and alert.

To most, this beast the size of a pony would lead them to scream and make a run for it, but Rhaena was different. She had been around enough dogs to know when one was dangerous and this one was docile… and in truth she was fascinated. Dragons she knew, but this beast was one she didn't. "I'm Princess Rhaena Targaryen, you?" The wolf barked, which made her giggle. "I don't speak wolf, but that's fine. May I touch your fur?" Slowly, she reached out her hand.

Stepping forward, the black wolf sniffed the hand with her snout before licking the fingers… then bounding up and nuzzling her entire furry head against the girl's body. She looked like a pup, and smelled similar to her master.

The giggles poured out of Rhaena as she was almost forced to the floor by the suddenly affectionate beast. "I knew you were a big softie." Again and again her fingers tickled and scratched along the furry skin, drawing another bark before the wolf began licking her face. "Stop, that tickles…" That did force Rhaena to the floor, to which the wolf laid upon the stone tiles as well, both locked in an embrace.

"Well, I see you've made a fast friend." Upon hearing the authoritative - if kind - voice of a stranger, Rhaena tensed. Instinctively, she buried her face into the wolf's black fur, eyes closed and hoping for the stranger to go away. "So who is… ah, I see. You like making my life interesting, Sȳndor?" The wolf barked in response.

Feeling the furry tail wagging against her legs, Rhaena opened her eyes. Canines only did that to those they liked, so if this precious wolf liked the stranger… Slowly, she raised her head from the fur and gazed upon the man with the voice through the haphazard locks of hair fallen over her forehead.

First to register was the smile, a kind one. Second was the silver-hair, the same color as her father's but close-cropped like her dear grandsire. He was tall and broad-shouldered like the King, but much younger like most of her guards. A powerful warrior that none trifled with. "You must be little Rhaena."

"Princess…" she squeaked. At his blink, she almost dove back into the wolf's fur. "Princess Rhaena." Her mother taught her to always be mindful of formalities, but her shyness made it almost apologetic.

The man took it in stride. "Forgive me, Princess Rhaena. But I hope I can be more informal with my dear niece."

"Niece…?" Her eyes widened. "Uncle Maegor?" Gods, this was her uncle? She had heard about him and his exploits, but he was practically what she imagined her grandsire was during his prime. Rhaena stared up at him in awe.

Maegor laughed merrily. "I gathered you wouldn't remember my face, given you were bout wee big when I last saw you." He gestured his arms to be about a cubit apart. "I can see you met my direwolf."

That confused Rhaena. "Direwolf?" She looked at the beast, whose tongue lolled out in the silliest of expressions. "But you're my uncle… not a Stark."

"Smart girl," she heard him murmur. "I know, but Sȳndor took to me anyway. Right girl?" She barked, enjoying their joint attention as he ruffled her fur.

"Maegor!" Rhaena gulped at hearing her mother. "I thought I told you to tie that monster in the courtyard…" A scream carried Alyssa right to Rhaena's side, snatching her away. "Rhaena! Back away from that monster."

Rhaena blushed in embarrassment. Somehow she realized she wanted to make the best impression on her famous uncle, only for her mother to ruin the moment. "Mother… I'm fine…"

That didn't stop Alyssa from clucking all over her. "You seem unharmed… thank the Seven. Gods, what were you thinking? Its teeth are razor sharp!"

Rolling his eyes, Maegor willed for Sȳndor not to growl at the Crown Princess. "If Sȳndor were a threat then there is nothing anyone could do, goodsister."

"That's not funny, Maegor." Alyssa's glare could melt Valyrian steel.

"Believe me, she's fine. Sȳndor's treating her better than she ever treated me when I first bonded with her. My niece has a gift with animals… just wait till she gets her dragon."

Rhaena's eyes widened. Me, a dragonrider like grandmother? She started to get excited at the thought.

But Alyssa scoffed, ending that dream. "You don't even have a dragon. Butt out of my daughter's affairs." She heard Maegor sigh, shrugging. "Time to sleep, Rhaena."

"Yes, mother." As she was led away, she looked back to see her uncle watching her, hand stroking the direwolf's fur. He met her eyes… and winked. Rhaena turned the corner and he was out of sight.

Not before he managed to see the small smile on her face.

Rolling his shoulders underneath the ceremonial red velvet cloak strewn over him, Maegor wished he was back with Ralla, or sparring with the Kingsguard, or hunting with Sȳndor… or at least sitting down. The tight boots bit at his feet, while the official outfit of a Westerosi princeling made him feel like a peacock rather than the dragon he was. "You must act the person you are, my son," echoed the wise words of his father. "Your brother will need a warrior, but he will also need a peacemaker and sturdy voice in his council. You must live politics as well as war."

Visenya's sentiments were much less lofty. A thump of his shoulder with a growl that she better not hear that he pawn his duties off on another courtier. Truth be told, his mother scared him more than even Brandon Snow. His former teacher and current mentor would have been offended but Maegor always felt Brandon's flippant view of the Targaryen Queen as just sort of mad.

"My Lord." Maegor dipped his head in respect as Lord Edmyn Tully fell to one knee. "You may rise."

Signature red hair greyed with age, the Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands still looked spineless and insecure. "Thank you, my Prince." Off to the right were Daeron and Gargon Qoherys, the latter's bruises from the now famous run in with the King having healed, but not the bitterness it spawned in the brutish giant. Tully's displeasure seemed quite obvious since most found displeasure in Gargon, but Maegor detected something deeper in it. They were always weaker than many of their bannermen. "I am grateful that their Graces extended their hospitality to me for this most important occasion."

Summoning a servant with a tray of bread and pewter bowl of salt, Maegor still didn't know why the Lords Paramount were being summoned. He felt it had to do with him, but he wouldn't speculate. "Of course, and we offer you guest right as befitting of a host."

Edmyn tore off a chunk of the bread and dipped it in the salt. His lips scrunched a bit, too much salt upon the bread as it hit his tongue, drawing amusement from the Targaryen loyalist courtiers. Maegor was forced to bite back his smirk until the Lord made his exit, followed by Lord Daeron and Corlen Blackwood. He didn't fail to notice how they talked almost down to him. Father and mother better worry about potential power plays in the Riverlands. Who knew if Edmyn would try and assert his dominance, or one of the others try and usurp his position?

Gods, if only he could sit down. The irony of a man that trudged all over the lands north of the Wall being killed by standing wasn't lost on Maegor, but that didn't make it any less true. Protocol was protocol however, and stand he must. No second son could sit on the Iron Throne, it was an affront and challenge to Aenys' legitimacy and Maegor wouldn't do that to his brother. So he grinned and beared it.

In all fairness, perhaps it would be more tolerable had his mind not twisted into knots over the matter of his niece. Rhaena… She was the spitting image of his muna, if without the power and certainty of purpose. Alyssa shelters the poor girl, that bitch. It was truly a damn shame.

"She's my delicate little flower," his brother had said. "I can't let her be chewed up and spat out by the brutes of the world." Maegor loved him, but when he spoke in such a manner the younger Prince wanted to fling him in a pile of horse dung as he had done once when they were younger.

A dragon deserves to fly free. To fight and be strong. Rhaena had it in her - she approached Sȳndor without a lick of fear. She just needs that little push to break her shell. But how?

"I admire your patience with that little shit." Maegor was pulled from his musings by his uncle, who smacked his remaining hand upon his shoulder. "I would've split his head open with my warhammer."

Maegor rolled his eyes at his uncle Orys. "No you wouldn't. Aunt Argella would have your stones." With some, crude and bold was how you spoke to them. Orys Baratheon was one of those people and Maegor didn't hold back.

Laughing, the older Lord Paramount and bastard Targaryen appreciated it. "True, but I almost did split his head open back before Black Harren was a soot stain on the walls of his keep. Everyone thinks he was so bold and brave by leading the other Riverlands houses in declaring for your father, but the worm did it so that Corlen Blackwood or Humfrey Bracken wouldn't beat him to the punch."

"Hmmm, I did not know that."

"We like to downplay it to keep the peace, and Rhaenys found it hilarious when we dropped old Quenton right on his lap." While he laughed uproariously, when it died a look of sorrow crossed his lips and eyes. "Forgive me, but I still miss her."

Maegor nodded, a sad smile on his lips. "I never knew her, but I hope she would have loved me." From what many said, the only thing the two of them would share was the Targaryen temper.

Orys crushed his nephew in a one-handed hug - he shrugged off a fake hand for the one he lost in the Dornish Wars for the most part. "She would've. She'd have made it her personal mission to make you have fun and frivolity. That's what she did for both your parents, much as they would rather brood and fight." The thought was both amusing and sweet… and blocked out by the trumpets of the herald. "Oh fuck, the Hightowers."

"The Hightowers?"

"This is gonna be a fuckin' joy." Orys' sarcasm was obvious, if confusing to Maegor. I suppose I'll see why soon.

While Edmyn Tully had three houses more powerful than he in his own domain, Lord Theo Tyrell of Highgarden didn't have that problem. No, his problem was a bit better and worse at the same time. Located at the only great metropolis in Westeros - Oldtown - House Hightower was arguably one of the wealthiest and most powerful in terms of reach and reputation. They ruled the great city, they commanded the most men, and they were the protectors of the Faith of the Seven, whose holiest sites not in the ruins of Old Andalos were in Oldtown itself. This gave them a sort of royalty complex beyond even the former royal families, and in their elaborate dress and large retinue it showed.

With the rainbow cloaks and elaborate armor of the Warrior's Sons joining them, Maegor knew that the High Septon accompanied his nephew the Lord of the Hightower. Now he knew why Uncle Orys had been in such a foul mood.

Nevertheless, Lord Manfred, the High Septon - Gerold being his given name - and a young woman in equally fine attire of the latest fashions all bowed before him. The High Septon staying on his feet while the other two bent the knee. "House Hightower pledges fealty to House Targaryen," Lord Manfred said, not reluctantly but still rotely.

Maegor extended his hand. "Rise, Lord Manfred." Before saying anything else, he ordered forward bread and salt, this time two new loaves to be mindful of the High Septon. "I am glad you have made it my Lord, your High Holiness."

"It is fortuitous, Prince Maegor," said the High Septon, a jovial old man with deep conviction but little fight. "I am only glad to heed the summons of his Grace, but also come time to consecrate Septon Murmison's role in the Sept of Remembrance. Hugor could do it, but he is too low for such an important ceremony."

"Not to mention him being a dirty bastard," Manfred scoffed. "Forgive me uncle, but I don't know what you saw in him."

"I forgive his baseborn origins for his brilliance," the High Septon shot back. "Now where is Murmison?"

Maegor cleared his throat, still processing the obvious divide over Hugor Flowers - Maegor didn't like the man on general principles shared on most Septons, but this merited further inquiry. "I believe he spends most of his free time with my brother, the Crown Prince. I could fetch a litter to carry you to his manse."

"Thank you, Prince Maegor, but perhaps after a nap and a meal."

"My Prince." Maegor shifted attention to Lord Manfred. "I hope for an audience with her Grace, the Queen. You see, I have brought my beautiful daughter Ceryse with me." Proud, he urged the young maiden to step forward. "She is only twenty namedays, but I hope could be a wonderful lady in waiting to Queen Visenya."

All attention on the daughter of Lord Hightower, Maegor studied her. She was striking, a tall, curvy figure with plump lips and light brown hair. Surely a maiden that knights would battle hard to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty. Two green eyes sparkled as they met his, Ceryse smiling invitingly at him.

His trousers suddenly grew tight. "I am certain both my parents with to speak with you in a private audience, so such could be arranged for the afternoon."

"That would be splendid, and thank you." As the Hightowers and their religious guests were guided towards the guest quarters of the Aegonfort, Ceryse and Maegor's glances met one last time. She was quite pretty, sultry even.

A thought occurred to him. Mayhaps she was here not for his mother's benefit, but for his own?

An immense cacophony filled the air - tens of thousands of screaming, writhing bodies packed the central streets of the great city to watch the spectacle. To hear the roars of the victor. For those that held a stake in the great game, such was a chance to cheer and celebrate or to lose oneself in revelry as mitigation for loss depending on which faction one found themselves. For the vast majority, the poor and the enslaved, none cared. They simply wished to enjoy the festivities.

For Volantis had concluded its two-week long election process. Emerging out of a city spellbound by a particularly contested processes that nearly plunged the great city into chaos unparalleled since the Doom, finally there was a victor - a changing of the guard, in fact.

After five decades of peace under the Elephant faction, the warlike Tigers had retaken control not held since the Century of Blood. Backed by the wealthiest and most august families of Volantis, they spared no expense in exulting their victory for the populace. The procession from the Long Bridge was tradition, and the revelers were greeted to the most amazing of sights. Jugglers, fire-spitters, snake charmers, and every sort of musician entertained the crowd. Large War Elephants - undoubtedly a form of appeasement to the defeated faction - and row after row of snarling tigers dazzled adult and children alike, while massive coin expenditures provided free food, free chariot races, and free intimacy from the hundreds of teardrop-tattooed whores to satiate the hungry masses from across the Long Bridge. They loved it and heaped praise on the Tigers.

The Tigers were completely content with this. Every free morsel they ate or cunt they defiled was energy not expended on opposing them… or tearing apart the system limb from limb. Safely passing within the Black Walls to where the only ones that mattered lived, they would need the smallfolk quiet and the slaves docile for what they had planned.

If only Trianna Vhassar could identify what that was.

Within the Black Walls, matters were more formal yet no less festive or debauched. Highborn nobles of the Old Blood of Valyria scarfing down gluttonous portions of fowl, fish, and pastry while leaping upon whatever young maiden or serving girl tickled their fancy - men and women both. Beast shows and fire maeges entertained the guests at the new lead Triarch's manse, while a captive Wyvern from Sothoryos drew great interest.

But for the three triarchs, Trianna included, the festivities were convenient to withdraw to their host's solar to discuss business. To ensure the new order would be imposed and respected. Let's get this over with.

Quiet and with only a large hearth providing light, the simple atmosphere overcame the plush decorations of Catoyn Maegyr's solar. A thin man with piercing eyes and a long nose, he poured three glasses of Dornish red for the three of them. "A toast, comrades. To Volantis and the Old Blood, may they prosper."

"May they prosper," Trianna toasted, drinking the sour liquid. Granddaughter of the original Elephant triarch that held her name and ended the Century of Blood, she held the Valyrian beauty apart from a pair of olive eyes of her Dornish mother. The sole Elephant returned in the elections, it was her duty to keep the city from collapsing into war yet again. "Now, what did you bring us here for, Maegyr. I truly miss being pawed at by your drunken boon companions."

"No doubt, no doubt." Catoyn chuckled. "Given the… unpleasantness of the last two weeks, I hoped we could seek an accord."

She raised an eyebrow. "What unpleasantness?" Neither was dumb enough to deny what transpired. Volentine elections were filled with bribery and corruption, but Catoyn Maegyr undid all past candidates to seek power. The Tigers trod a path of open racism, nationalistic fervor, anti-Westerosi fearmongering, and sheer threatening of the wealthy classes that rigged the 'Valyrian Assembly.' Gangs of Tiger thugs and sellswords roamed the streets to keep Elephant supporters from attending the assembly, and both the slave janissaries and the Fiery Hand - both suspected to be bribed - refused to interfere to restore order. Trianna would have been enraged, if not more curious as to why Catoyn would stoop so low in order for power. Why now? What is his angle? "I just wish for peace and prosperity."

"As do I, but such can only be accomplished by achieving our destiny as the true inheritor of Valyria's glory."

"You'll never get me to support war, Maegyr."

While Catoyn looked affronted, Daario Baldarion scoffed. "We are in no shape to go to war. Not in the manner you think we are suggesting."

"Oh?" Tigers that weren't raging warmongers… odd for her observation.

"Aye." Daario was unlike Catoyn. Thickly-muscled and with ice-blonde hair, he looked a proper dragonlord conqueror… if not for the nose, bulbous and so obviously that of the Norvosi his family were descended from. "We're reliant on sellswords and slave armies, none of which are prepared for combat. They can't even fight off the skirmishes over the disputed lands."

Trianna nodded. "You defeated my former superiors over their failure to subdue Lys and Myr's raids on our commerce - in this I wish to find a solution." With merchant trade suffering from these naval raids, Trianna's control over her faction would solidify if the merchants had unrestricted shipping back. "But how do you propose to do this? Building an army takes time." Their only solution will be military.

Catoyn smirked. A dark, knowing smirk made all the more severe by his massive nose. "If we can't make an army yet, we buy one."

"Sellswords are unreliable."

"Not them, the Unsullied."

This surprised her. "The Good Masters will never part from the Unsullied."

"They will if the price is good enough, and your predecessors kept the coffers full."

"Sellswords and sellsails are one thing, but an Unsullied led force would subjugate the Three Daughters. Westeros won't like it - neither would Braavos or Pentos, but they don't have dragons."

"We have a plan for the Targaryen upstarts," dismissed Daario, waving his hand.

Trianna hoped she hadn't just walked into what would be their doom.

Chapter Text

Opening his eyes, the King of Westeros found himself standing. Stranded in the middle of an empty field… it looked much like Dragonstone, but the ocean wasn't in sight. Just an endless expanse of black, ashy soil.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" Aegon heard nothing but far off echoes, to which he drew Blackfyre from his scabbard. "Show yourselves!"

"That isn't the sword I wished to see, but I do like the battle look about you."

That voice… he would never forget that voice no matter how much time passed. Sword hand dropping, Aegon wheeled around and his breath hitched. "Rhae?"

The image of Rhaenys Targaryen still in her prime smiled at him, eyes sparkling with joy and tears at their reunion - even if but momentary. "Greetings, dear brother-husband." It was then she couldn't wait any longer and leapt into his arms, lips crashing on his. "Gods… I missed this."

"I missed you," Aegon replied, breathless. "It hasn't been the same without you, Rhae."

"I know, but I have been comforted that you and Vis have had each other." She smiled and caressed his neck. "How the two of you admitted your love for each other, I saw it all. I'm proud of the both of you." A tiny smirk curled on her lips. "You couldn't have done it sooner, cause our intimate hours would have been far more pleasurable based on what I've seen."

Aegon groaned. "You were always a lecher, Rhae."

"Both of you loved it." Her smile shifted to one of sadness. "I would give anything for you to stay beside me for eternity, but I can't do that to Vis. She loves and needs you too, for her life is far more stressful than mine." A nod of understanding came from Aegon, his shoulders slumping from an invisible weight upon them. Rhae truly wished for both her siblings to be beside her, but she could wait. She had time. "It's not your time yet, Egg. Your reign must continue."

"I've done what I could to unite the kingdoms. There isn't much else."

"There is… our sons, Egg. Aenys and Maegor, you cannot leave them just yet."

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Rhaenys reached up to cup his cheeks, kissing him softly before resting her forehead against his. "You cannot let any division form between them. Only together - my blood and Vis' blood - will what we built survive."

"I understand…"

"No. You have to promise me, Egg." But before her, he began to fade. "Our time is soon done, please promise me. Promise me…" she begged.

He squeezed her arm. "Aye, I promise." Before they were torn apart, Aegon resumed their kiss, making her moan…

And then he was gone again, the spirit of Rhaenys Targaryen left alone. Wrapping her arms protectively around her, Rhaenys let the tears fall. She knew it wasn't his time, but still missed him…

"Be strong, Egg. Be strong, Vis… do what you need to do, then we can be together again."

Pulling the silken sheet back, Aegon held a small smile on his lips as both of his sons' expressions changed upon seeing the masterpiece before them. "Behold, my sons."

Aenys and Maegor were a study in contrasts. The Crown Prince was dressed in pure finery that suited his more slender frame, silk and cotton waistcoat and outer robes imported from Myr and Tyrosh, inlaid with gold trim and dyed purple. A black sash kept it together, while the robe was lined with red felt - he still kept the Targaryen colors. Maegor on the other hand reveled in the colors of their House, a black cuirass met red trousers and undertunic, blade sheathed at his back completing the far simpler outfit. He even wore his hair short like his father, while Aenys grew it long and lustrous.

As different as brothers could be, they still stood close. A united front, much to Aegon's delight. "You have to promise me, Egg." He remembered his dream, but what did Rhaenys worry about? Aenys loved his brother, and Maegor was absolutely loyal. He didn't need to be incredibly perceptive to see it.

"What is this, father?" Aenys asked, taking in the large model resting atop a stone table.

Maegor peered at it. "It's a keep of some kind, brother. But I have seen no other like it."

Clapping his hands, Aegon stepped in between his sons and clasped their shoulders. "This, my sons, is the future." The keep clearly rested atop a hill. Red sandstone lined the outer walls, with large towers topped with conical roofs stabbed into the air - much as the design of Highgarden, though combining both functionality and style. "A perfect mix of our heritage and our new domain." The inner keep departed radically from the outer design. It resembled Dragonstone, black as night and with tall, imposing walls. Extending out of it towards the far edge, connected by a large colonnade, was a high-vaulted hall inlaid with large windows. "This is the new keep to be built atop this very hill."

Both of his sons looked at him, eyes widened. "You mean to replace the Aegonfort?" Aenys breathed.

"Yes, my son. This… thing may be suited for a military expedition, but it isn't befitting for the inheritors of Old Valyria's power."

Nodding along, Maegor traced the edge. "It is quite impressive, but where are the dragons to roost?"

Aegon waved off the concern. "We'll find a place for them, don't worry." Proud of the design, to which he consulted himself on, the King pointed to the ornately windowed far edge. "This is where the Iron Throne will go. This is where you will rule the Kingdoms from, Aenys, and your heir after you."

"Father, while this is most impressive… this keep has to be bigger than Dragonstone. Bigger than Highgarden…"

"Or Winterfell," Maegor added."

Aenys looked at his brother with an amused expression. "Aye, sure." Winterfell may have been an ancient, august keep, but far too dull and drab. "I find this both awe-inspiring and aesthetically pleasing father, but what of the cost?"

A snort. "I don't intend to build it in a day, Aenys, but the cost is the least of the worries. We have enough coin to see it happen."

"But father, an overly elaborate keep would be a needless antagonization of the other Lords?"

The King narrowed his eyes at his son. "We are Royals now. I am disgusted with those that claim we live in squalor while Lord Hightower or Lord Tyrell or Lord Lannister live in true glory. We need a keep deserving of our new station - Lords of Dragonstone we are not anymore, my sons."

Clearing his throat, the younger son interjected. "Father, I believe that what my brother means is that we risk looking like Black Harren if we devote too much time and coin to this project to the exclusion of all others." While a different man - or woman - could be insulted at his weighing in, Aenys smiled at his brother. The man truly held no guile.

"A worthy concern, Maegor. Such is why I intend to build it in stages… as well as recoup a favor from the Starry Sept. We built the Sept of Remembrance and refurbished their domains in Oldtown out of our own pocket. Time for them to recompense."

Aenys beamed. "I am sure Murmison would gladly loan the same glass-blowers that created the colored window displays for the Sept."

The doors opened at that moment to reveal two Kingsguards… flanking a tall woman in a red-black gown. "I see you're showing off your little project, husband." Visenya gave each of her sons a kiss on the cheek before pecking Aegon's lips. "Truth be told, I think our daughter only went willingly to Winterfell so that she need not be bothered with him harping about it."

"It wasn't that often," Aegon replied, scowling.

"Only morning, noon, and night," Visenya laughed, rubbing his hand. "Now, I believe you are late for your daily spar, husband. There are many knights and martially-inclined Lords that I think need a demonstration of your youth and vigor."

He couldn't argue with that. "Alright, let's go."

Maegor moved to follow his father, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Turning, he faced the smiling face of his mother. "Muna?"

"Egg," Visenya called out to her husband. "Start off with Ser Robin. I need to borrow our son for the moment."

Nodding, Aegon waved his hand. "Take all the time you need, my love." He took Visenya's hand in his, kissing the back of it sweetly. "I'll see you soon, Maegor. Do watch over your mother."

"I will, kepa." He patted his blade. As his father left the corridor towards the sparring courtyard, Visenya looped her hand in his arm. "So, what is it you wish to speak to me about, muna?"

"You've grown considerably, my son. Matured greatly." They walked along the corridor, moving towards the battlements of the inner keep. "No longer do I see the same strains of anger or entitlement you held in your childhood. The North and the Starks made you into a man and I cannot be prouder."

Bowing his head, Maegor couldn't help but puff out ever so slightly at his mother's praise. "When you struggle to survive north of the wall, the taste for combat quickly becomes a sour taste. I have my duties, but tourneys and melees no longer hold appeal to me."

Visenya nods. "While many a marriage or knighthood has been forged through victories at tourneys, such isn't a concern for a Prince, is it?" She reached up, cupping his cheek. "And I think I have found the right betrothal for you." Visenya stifled a laugh when his eyes widened in a resigned horror. "No no, she isn't someone you do not know, and due to her age you'll have enough time to truly come to terms with it… and to get to know her better."

Gulping, Maegor looked out to the outer courtyard, to the palisade and the city spread out beyond. "Whom shall I marry, then?"

"Your niece, Rhaena."

Scurrying in on what was clearly her first day in the role, the serving girl blushed madly at seeing the great King Aegon seated in his private table - dressed down in a tunic and trousers, his still powerful physique obvious to all. "Your dinner, your Grace," she curtseyed as other servants placed other platters upon the table.

A smile on his handsome face, Aegon nodded. "Thank you, my dear." Her blush grew darker, curtseying again before departing. Leaning back with an amused smile, it fell as soon as the King's gaze landed on his wife beside him. "Vis?"

"Must you do that?" she replied, crossing her arms.

"Do what?" He shrugged, smirk barely suppressed on his face. "I have nary a clue."

Visenya rolled her eyes before slugging him in the shoulder, hard. "Being your handsome, charming self. If I have to threaten yet another woman who makes an offer to be the 'King's Mistress' I'll smack your face next time." The Queen was very protective of what was hers. Dorne endured her wroth when Rhaenys was taken from her, and Aegon had endured her fury when a flirtatious highborn maiden pushed her into jealousy… though he hadn't minded at all her reaction when he was concerned. Best couplings of my life.

On in years they might have been, Aegon imagined that Visenya would have jumped him where he sat had it not been for… "No, I can see it, your Grace." Torrhen Stark's shit eating grin was, on the other hand, quite irritating to the King. "You do still possess that Valyrian charm that sends maidens into a fit. Perhaps her Grace should lock you into your chambers on Dragonstone so this doesn't happen again?" He grabbed a chicken leg from one of the platters and bit into it, grinning all the same.

A smile curled on Visenya's lips as well. "That actually seems a proper suggestion, Lord Hand. Do you think so, dear husband?" While Rhaenys had a rather convincing innocent expression, Visenya's was almost eternally devious.

Smirk wiped off into a frown, Aegon grumbled and reached for a carving knife - slicing off a slab of ham that he ate with a fresh roll, still hot. "Let's get back to it, then."

Taking her own roll and dipping it in an auroch stew she fancied, Visenya snickered at her husband's signature brooding reasserted itself. "Alright, Lord Torrhen. Let us spare the King of our double envelopment upon him.

The matters of the day concluded, the King and Queen still held quite a lot on their plate only for their own eyes - and that of the Hand of the King. As such, a working supper was the remedy, something that was quite common for Aegon and Visenya. "Taking the kingdoms was the easy part," mumbled the King after an hour, long since the leftover meal went cold. "Keeping them is reliving Wailing Willows daily."

Torrhen pursed his lips - while he didn't regret the decision to bend the knee as it was the right decision, he needn't be reminded of it. "There are some regions that are in less of a flux than others. Lord Tyrell for example, if anyone's loyal he'd be."

"He owes his entire domain to us," huffed Visenya. "If he wasn't loyal then I'd be surprised, though it isn't out of love." She was a quick study of people. Rhaenys had been, and in the interceding years Visenya had to take up such duties for the good of the Realm. "Without our support then the Hightowers would gobble him up."

"Manfred Hightower is such a plotter, though he's more a tourney knight than a warlike one." Aegon had bested him in one such tourney early in their reign - before Dorne. There was a mutual respect. "His brother the High Septon is even more soft, it's the other one that troubles me."

The Hand knew whom his sovereign was speaking of. "Hugor Flowers, the bastard of Mern Gardener. He's been a quick rise through the ranks of the Faith. Was part of the Most Devout younger than any septon in centuries, quite a favorite in court among the ladies… and your son."

"Yes… I've heard of Aenys' acceptance of the expansion of the Faith Militant. A… tolerable solution to the raids on the Stormlands."

"He was sponsored for higher position by Sharra Arryn, though." Torrhen knew the former Queen of the Vale was not the sort of person to be trifled with. Unlike the weak and pleasure-seeking Lord Ronnel, Torrhen could see through her airs… and her second son Jonos was exactly like her. "We need to preempt his rising any higher. High Septon Gerold is getting on in years."

"Archsepton Tolland is an agreeable man," Aegon observed. "He could be groomed as a potential successor to Gerold."

Visenya shook her head. "I doubt the Starry Sept would heed our counsel. They're still smarting over Hightower's predecessor allowing us free reign during the wars." She could see it in their eyes… the hate. The disgust at their union. It took everything for the Queen not to have Vhagar burn them all.

"Perhaps another Lord… one that is loyal but of the Faith. Argella Baratheon perhaps? Her father still is well regarded in Oldtown for his defeat of the Volentines during the end of the Century of Blood."

Glancing at his wife, she nodded. "Aye, make it happen, Lord Hand."

Torrhen bowed. "As you wish, my King."

Several matters were discussed after, namely royal charters for new mining operations for Lord Reyne of Castamere, concerns over further Dornish infiltrations orchestrated by the notorious Wyl of Wyl that were straining the resources of the marcher lords of the Reach and Stormlands, and the current feud between Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood over the set of hills known as the Teats. As to the latter, the King was tempted to just award it to Daemon Qoherys as a pox on both of them, but Torrhen talked him down to just split it down the middle - wouldn't please anyone, but didn't look as favoritism. The royal charters for Lord Reyne were granted in order to serve as a counterweight against House Lannister, while Wyl of Wyl drew out some… hard feelings from the King and Queen.

"Set a bounty for him," Aegon growled. "I don't care how high, I want his head."

"I wouldn't advise on that, your Grace," Torrhen replied, his desire to avoid rash decisions but knowing how the man that chopped off their half-brother's hand would not bring out the best in his monarchs.

"If it's finances we're worried about," Visenya said, eerily calm, "then just tell me where to find him and I'll fly Vhagar there personally."

Torrhen met the Queen's gaze. "Dorne and the crown are finally at peace. We cannot afford war there, for it could tear the Kingdoms apart."

Visenya admitted he had a point. "We can't just do nothing."

"Perhaps deploying the Faith Militant to the border," suggested Aegon. "If the High Septon and Hugor Flowers wishes to expand, then let them do something for the Realm while they're at it." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's late, Lord Hand, and we're tired. You have our leave to go."

Nodding, Torrhen rose and bowed. "I am at your command, your Grace, and many thanks for listening to my counsel." Truth be told, the call of a warm bed and Jocelyn snuggled against him was more tempting at the moment than further discussion - that could wait till tomorrow.

Alone at last, Visenya sighed. Her shoulders slumped, eyelids fluttering shut. "Gods… it wasn't supposed to be this way." Leaning forward, she propped her head up with her palms, elbows resting on the table. "You, Rhaenys and I were to unite the Seven Kingdoms underneath our banner, a new Valyrian Empire to herald a new era of greatness."

Heartbroken at his strong wife's dejection, Aegon moved his chair next to Vis and wrapped his arms around her. "Battleplans do not survive contact with the enemy. We knew the risks of trying to subdue the proud Lords of Westeros. In some matters, we held providence. The First Men could have put up far more of a fight against us, but here we are with one as Hand and future grandchildren half-Stark."

Looking up to him, her violet eyes were dim. Sunken in. "Can we trust him? Lord Torrhen?"

"Why do you ask that? He's loyally served us and his heir is our goodson."

Visenya smiled sadly. "Oh Egg… you've always been the most forthright and noble of us and I love you for it, but few in this world are of your attitude." She had learned it the moment a knight sworn under the chivalric code of the Andal Warrior tried to rape her in the corridors of the Hightower - he had gotten Dark Sister shoved into his throat, but served as an important lesson. "All of these Lords have sworn to us and the Starry Sept anointed us as their sovereign, but we still face their duplicity."

Aegon knit his brows. "So what you're saying is that we can only trust ourselves? Not even Lord Torrhen?"

"I trust him more than others… considerably more than others, but we cannot pull wool over our eyes. Only when House Stark is ruled by one of our blood can we consider them of our family."

"I understand." He kissed Vis' neck, smiling as she relaxed in his arms. "So our sons, daughter, grandchildren, our Velaryon cousins, Orys, and Daeron Qoherys of those we can implicitly trust. For the mostly loyal, House Stark, House Celtigar, House Blackwood?"

"And House Tyrell, if by necessity rather than choice. Perhaps House Royce." She frowned. "No other. They are all potential threats unless proven otherwise, which is why I do not wish to betroth Maegor to someone to seek peace or accord."

Blinking, Aegon knew she had picked someone for their son. He could tell. "I feel that is something you've wished to tell me for a while, my love."

She chuckled. "You know me so well, husband." Visenya cupped his cheek. "I think Rhaena would be perfect for him… when she comes of age of course."

"That's not the way things are done in Westeros. They will look down on any marriage not done for political gain… let alone one of 'incest.'"

"Those that complain about the latter can take their anger to Balerion and Vhagar. Of the former, I believe we need to entrench ourselves. Marshal our strength and protect our blood against those that wish revenge for our victories in our youth." She leaned in and kissed him. "Please tell me you agree, my love."

Aegon sighed. "I haven't endured all of what I have not to know that your instincts are the right ones." She smiled brightly and kissed him again.

Rhaena was confused.

Well… more than confused. One moment she had been stuck in her boring lessons with Septon Murmison and the next, once her mother and father had departed on their duties for the day, her uncle showed up and removed her from the manse. No one was willing to stand against Maegor Targaryen, especially with a sword slung over his back and direwolf at his side. Rhaena had stood there, befuddled with a look of innocent confusion. What was happening? What was her uncle doing?

And now here she was, seated in front of him atop his horse as they trotted alone towards unknown places. Beside them jogged the immense black wolf, plenty for their protection against any troublemakers in the city, not that there weren't any. No, Rhaena wasn't afraid.

She was simply confused.

"Are you comfortable, dear niece?" Rhaena heard from behind her.

In spite of the sudden situation she was in, her uncle's voice calmed her. She knew she was safe with him. "I'm fine, uncle… just where are we going?"

He ruffled her silver locks. "Somewhere that I believe you need to go."

"Will I be back before mother and father come back?"

"I assume so. This shan't take too long." There was a silence, only interspersed by the occasional cry of support from the smallfolk. Maegor had a hood draped over his head, but Rhaena's silver hair was uncovered. Uneducated as they were, they weren't stupid. "Don't worry, they won't hurt you. Our House is loved here."

She blinked. "Really?" Rhaena could count the times she'd been outside the grounds of the manse or the Aegonfort not in a wheelhouse on one hand. The city seemed to her like a dangerous place. "Mother says there are dangers."

"There can be, but not in this part of the city. Those that would do us harm live closer to the Sept of Remembrance."

"The faith support us," Rhaena replied, confused again. She heard her uncle sigh.

"Nevermind, perhaps you'll learn when you're older and can understand." Pursing his lips, Maegor thought of something she had said. "Rhaena, have you been taught High Valyrian?"

Blinking, Rhaena looked up to the curious gaze of her uncle. "Is that the strange language grandmother and grandfather often speak? Mother says it's not important."

Maegor muttered something unintelligible under his breath, mindful of the innocent soul seated in front of him. The girl who would be his bride upon coming of age… Fuck, my bride. It was quite surreal, slightly terrifying - but it drew his protective side out, especially as it seemed that his goodsister was intent on raising her to be a septa. "You are of dragonblood," he ended up saying. "You should learn High Valyrian."

"Would you teach me, uncle?" Her eyes were wide and innocent.

He sighed. "I could. You could also always go to your grandmother. She'd drop everything to teach you the ways of our House." Visenya did that with him when he was young and in truth, it was the happiest time of his life aside from swordplay with his father. "You can start by calling your parents by their proper Valyrian titles - muna and kepa. Mother and father."

"Moo...na and… kep-pa…" she began, finding it slipping off the tongue rather fluidly. "Muna and kepa."

"That's it. I'm proud of you." Rhaena didn't know why, but the praise of her uncle made her heart warm. "Ah, we're almost there."

Looking up, the Princess noticed the Aegonfort looming above them ominously from the highest point in the three hills of King's Landing. "We're going to grandmother and grandfather?"

"No, to the cliffs. I believe there is someone that you have to meet." The lack of learning High Valyrian was but a new symptom in what he saw to be the deficiency in his brother's raising of his children. Maegor loved his brother, his childhood companion and beloved elder, but he couldn't turn a blind eye to his shortcomings - how everything in him was a front to please whoever stood before him at the moment. Rhaena's shyness is an affront to our family, and it is time that someone address it. Maegor felt this since meeting her weeks before, but from what his mother told him the day before he now felt it his duty to ensure she embrace their house's words.

The dragons made their roost on the cliffs behind the Aegonfort. No one approached unless of Targaryen blood, which was why Maegor's way was not stopped by guards as he turned the corner of one of the cliffs. In the distance, the large scaled forms came to view. He smiled. Both dragons were well remembered from his childhood, kepa and muna never denying him the chance to see them, touch them, ride with them in the heavens.

Distracted by the sparkling waves of Blackwater Bay, Rhaena didn't turn to look at the dragons till they were quite close… and there was no denying the existence or size of the royal mounts. At once her eyes widened and body trembled in fear. "Uncle… that's… that's… that's the Black Dread." Her eyes were locked on Balerion, spread long across the grass in slumber.

"Aye, that is." He chucked her shoulder. "You're not frightened, are you? Aenys has taken you to see Quicksilver, no?"

Her trembling only increased as Balerion stirred, yawning and exposing his razor sharp teeth the size of a human arm. "Quicksilver isn't as big… Quicksilver…" Didn't burn Harrenhal… In front of her was the legendary beast that forged the Iron Throne and united the kingdoms through fire and blood. It was more than a little intimidating, and Rhaena was susceptible.

Pulling on the reins, Maegor halted his horse. "You are a Targaryen, dear niece. You are fire and blood, no need to be afraid before any dragon not ridden by a foe." Swinging out of his saddle, Maegor reached up and lifted the frozen Rhaena from where she sat, causing her to tense. "Don't be afraid, little dragon," he murmured.

"Please uncle… I can't help being scared," she replied quietly, shrinking into his side as Balerion awoke, neck reeling high as if stretching the kinks from his bones and muscles. A gesture he had often seen his kepa do whenever he awoke from a nap. The bond between dragon and dragonrider. Maegor knew not the feeling, so he couldn't be sure.

Kneeling, he place a hand on Rhaena's cheek. "It's alright to be scared of the unknown, dear niece. I've been afraid plenty of times."

She was shocked at that. "You have?"

"Aye, plenty of times. But you have the blood of Aenar Targaryen, Daenys the Dreamer, of the conquerors Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. You are strong in your very blood. Targaryens obey neither man nor god, and you need to embrace your fire as the future heir of this throne."

Hearing her uncle, hearing his words of her strength and fire - feelings she had never felt before - Rhaena was hesitant. He said one thing, the dark pit in her stomach churning and screaming said another. But a furry snout poking at her side drew her attention. Sȳndor whined softly, her eyes boring into her soul as she continued to nudge her towards the great dragon. Rhaena swallowed, feeling cold in spite of the tepid temperature of the day. "Will you be by my side, uncle?"

He smiled. "I'll never stray."

Sleep shaken from his system, Balerion shook his neck, eager to spread his wings and break his fast among the shoals of fish and pods of dolphins that swarmed Blackwater Bay. But his senses made him look down, only to fill him with a contented joy. Blood of my blood. He would know the scent of his rider's son even among a mob of millions.

Maegor chuckled, approaching the great dragon. Aye, I'm here. It's been quite a while, my friend. Before he sailed for the North in his last time in King's Landing, Aegon took him for a dragonride astride Balerion. A happy moment between father and son that he never ceased to cherish. Forgive me for not visiting sooner. I've been… quite busy. Balerion tilted his head, as if questioning. No need, you know how kepa can scold for not doing one's duty.

A snort left the dragon's large snout. No need to tell me, little brother. His amber eyes shifted to the little girl waiting by the furry creature. You brought a hatchling? Yours?"

Shaking his head, Maegor smirked. "No, brother, this is my niece. Aenys' daughter Rhaena." Rhaena heard the Black Dread snort again, as if annoyed. "No, do not speak of him like that," Maegor replied, as if understanding the dragon. Much as her father… no, her kepa spoke to Quicksilver. "I wanted to bring her to meet you, to find her inner fire." No snorts, but rather Balerion dipping his head to right in front of her uncle. Maegor reached out and stroked his snout, leading to a growl… almost a purr.

"Uncle?" she asked.

Rubbing up and down the warm scales, Maegor looked back. "Come on, it's alright."

Weak, like her father.

Stop it.

Hesitantly, Rhaena took a few steps forward - urged to walk quicker by the black direwolf, though Sȳndor calmed her with sweet nuzzles and licks of her hand. Silver hair whipping in the wind, she buried her hand in the fur of her uncle's wolf, letting it ground her. I can hug a direwolf, sharp teeth at all. This is grandfather's dragon… grandfather's dragon… grandfather's dragon…

Out of nowhere, Rhaena yelped as Maegor hefted her into his arms. Even at eight namedays she was small for her age, but Maegor could handle her without effort on his part, strong as she was. In them, she felt safe, even as she came eye to eye with the Black Dread. "Uncle… what should I do?"

"Stroke his nose scales. He likes that."

"But he's too warm." Warm was an understatement, his breath was scorching - almost like a dozen roaring hearths.

"You have the blood of the dragon, trust me."

Biting her lip, Rhaena's eyes stared into one of Balerion's, hand up but hesitant… until a sudden urge welling from deep within her closed the gap and pressed her palm against the scales.

It was smooth. It was warm… not burning but an almost comforting warmth - like a bath or a fuzzy blanket. She started to smile softly. "I'm… I'm doing it, uncle."

"You are, dear niece."

Hmmm… she is fire. Just like muna.

Rhaena's jaw dropped. "You… I can hear you."

I see not why. You are a dragon as she is. Balerion seemed to lean into her touch. Your uncle is right. You should embrace it… perhaps you'll have a dragon of your own.

Time slowed for Rhaena. The wind mattered not, the chatter of the city did not matter… only the warmth of her grandfather's mount.

And the strong arms of her uncle as he protected her.

Drumming his fingers on the table, a bored, brooding King Aegon soon felt a slender yet strong feminine hand cover his. "Nervous my love? Or just bored?"

He looked up to see Visenya's smile. "Mostly the latter, though irritated as well. You know how I hate these things." Around them, the sounds of feasting filled the circular dining hall with the shouts of lordly revelry. With the King and Queen at the head and the delegation of the Faith across from them, the other Lords and delegations were each given their own table. Lord Torrhen had one, as did Ronnel and Sharra Arryn. The Hightowers and Qoheryses rated their own distinct from the Tyrells and Tullys respectively to the ire of the other houses. Each, however, brought a young maiden with them fitting according to all Westerosi traditions as a proper bride for Maegor, and so kept silent. "Auctioning their own daughters just rubs me off the wrong way."

"Such is good, for you should only prefer that I rub you off." Aegon looked at her quizzically, to which Visenya gave an impish smile. "I am his, and he is mine according to the vow, correct?"

"That sounds like something Rhae would say." A smile tinged his lips.

"She and I are sisters, are we not? We are very much alike." Her grin widened as he leaned down to kiss her.

It was quick, but filled with promise. "Let us just end this and flee to our chambers, wife. I hunger for you."

Her eyes glazed over. "After this… then you shall have the chance to remind me of our wedding night." He nodded, smiling as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. She shivered. Gods, perhaps I can't wait that long. Searching for an out, she found it in their children. "Ae… Aenys seems to be enjoying himself."

The Crown Prince had half a dozen crowded about his table, laughing as they engaged in animated discussion. "Aye, he's always been the life of every feast as his muna was." Aegon frowned as he watched Maegor. "Our other son on the other hand…"

"He was always more like you or I. Quiet or reserved less taken out of his shell, and only then by one he trusts."

"His brother should include him."

"Mayhaps he dislikes his brother's company?" Septons, tourney knights, and pampered Lords… he wouldn't be caught dead with such types unless needed. Aegon rolled his shoulders. "Let's get it over with." Almost instantaneously upon standing, the hall quieted down as the revelers scurried to their seats. "Greetings Lords and Ladies of the Realm. Thank you for making the journey to King's Landing as our guests, and we also thank you for your patience."

"You are most welcome, your Grace," the High Septon announced, the only man at the feast with enough clout to address Aegon with any sort of equal footing. "What is the pressing matter of the realm that you wish to discuss with the Lords Paramount that necesitate my presence?"

Inhaling, Aegon forced a placid look on his face. "As you are well aware, my daughter the Princess Rhaenys has married the son and heir of Lord Stark, my Hand." He gestured to Torrhen, who nodded in respect. "Given that my heir, Crown Prince Aenys, is already wed to the Princess Alyssa formerly of House Velaryon, only my second son remains unwed." He looked at Maegor and offered a comforting smile. The Prince looked half-brooding, half-wishing for death. "I have gathered you here tonight to find a proper betrothal for him worthy of his station."

While Lord Stark sat out since the family held no female heir to offer - and they were already bound in marriage to the crown, House Velaryon sitting out for the same reason - a free for all began as the various families tried to shout over each other for the prospect of a royal betrothal. A half dozen maidens cast the Prince flirtatious or seductive looks to try and catch his attention and favor.

All but four. Visenya caught it, the Hightowers, Lannisters, Arryns, and the Faith keeping silent. Planning something… perhaps they had united around someone. Whatever it was, the Queen didn't like it and rose. "Honored Lords Paramount, I would like to make my suggestion for the Prince's betrothed." There was a hushed silence - the Queen's word was usually law, and if she came to a conclusion there was no doubt it was likely to come true. She turned to her son and his wife. "My son, gooddaughter, I ask you leave for the hand of Princess Rhaena for Prince Maegor."

One could hear a pin drop in the hall. Most seemed stunned, some were approving, the Faith began to whisper among themselves, while Archsepton Hugor leaned forward in interest. What is in your mind, Archsepton? But the worst reaction seemed from the parents. Aenys was completely stupefied, jaw dropped as if not ever expecting this. While Alyssa's was similar at first, anger soon replaced. "No."

Visenya blinked. "Excuse me?"

With everyone around her, Alyssa gulped but stood. "Apologies, your Grace, but such a betrothal is inappropriate. My daughter is but eight namedays."

"Girls younger than that have been betrothed before," huffed Lord Tyrell. If not his own daughter, then supporting the Queen's choice would serve him well. "What should your girl be any different?"

"Because she is a Princess and blood of the dragon," Alyssa hissed back.

Visenya rolled her eyes. "I assure you that any wedding wouldn't occur until she comes of age. But such a betrothal would serve to preserve the blood of House Targaryen."

"And yet you married your daughter to a Stark." Alyssa saw what was going on - Visenya sought to put her son as King by using her own daughter. Her brutish, vile son and she wouldn't have it. "I believe this is impudent and against the best interests of the crown."

"Do not tell me about best interests, gooddaughter."

"Your Grace… if I may?" Archsepton Hugor rose, his handsome features and rather plain robes made him look dashing and intelligent - a commanding figure in a position oft worn by either lazy fools or raving zealots. "It is the duty of our oaths to help bring amity to all under the Seven, and I believe I would be the perfect person to prevent discord within the royal house."

Looking at Visenya, Aegon turned back to the High Septon. "Does he have your leave to speak, Your Holiness?"

"Aye," High Septon Gerold responded. "He does, as I happen to agree with his suggestion."

Free to speak, Hugor continued. "His Holiness' niece, Lady Ceryse Hightower, is but one year elder to Prince Maegor and is well educated in both the learned arts and that of court life. As the daughter of the Lord of Hightower, she is of the most august blood and station."

Alyssa saw her chance. "I agree. Lady Ceryse is a perfect match, and can marry the Prince now."

Sensing Maegor silent, as if not knowing what to say, Aegon looked over at his elder son. "My Prince, I ask as your King and as your father. Are you willing to betroth your daughter to your brother?"

Truly the most conflicted of them all, Aenys looked out to everyone. His mother's eyes bored on him, his wife's too, pulling him in different directions. What should he do? The Prince merely wished to please his friends, his family, and his subjects. What sort of ruler could he be if he brought them misery or anger? But his own daughter… "I… she is too young for this. I was young like her when I married, and it was hard for me." Such was true, though Alyssa and he fell for each other. "I do not believe she is ready."

Aegon sighed. "Alright." How could he go against his own son? This… was not foreseen, but what harm could there be in Lady Ceryse. "Subject to my official decision, Lord Hightower, I accept your offer of betrothal."

"Then it is proclaimed then!" Lord Hightower rose from his table and walked to where Maegor sat. "Goodson! A toast to you and my daughter, may your marriage be true and fruitful."

Maegor, his eyes flickering between Lord Hightower, his parents, and the Lady Ceryse, felt his mouth open with nary a word leaving. There was just so little he could say, little he could comprehend, that he was relieved when Aenys stepped beside him. Pulling him from his chair and raising his hand high. "To my brother and goodsister! May their marriage be true and fruitful!"

All around the tables, the various Lords and Ladies held their glasses high in toast, the merriment and feasting soon returning. For why not? The matter had been dealt with, and the Prince was blessed with a strong match befitting his station. Many Lords present would have slit their mother's throat in order for a betrothal with the lovely Ceryse Hightower. For those that were loyal to House Targaryen, this only solidified the hold of the crown. For those with… alternate loyalties, their will had been achieved as well.

Herself quite happy, the aforementioned highborn maiden crossed the well of the hall. She had no reason not to be happy - all her life Ceryse knew she was to marry for the glory and advancement of House Hightower. A fat old Lord or dull young knight was the face of her future for the longest time, but now Ceryse had the most eligible man in the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Maegor Targaryen. Powerful, wealthy, the best of blood.

And absolutely gorgeous - otherworldly so. Approaching him where he spoke to his equally handsome brother, Ceryse bit her lip at how lucky she had ended up. Gods, his muscles… She would enjoy being his Princess.

Aenys noticed her first. "My Lady," he acknowledged.

Ceryse curtseyed. "Your Grace." She curtseyed to Maegor, this time with a sultry smile. "Your Grace."

"Oh pish," Aenys chortled. "You two are betrothed now. No need to be so formal." He grinned, smacking Maegor on the back. "Shall I leave you two alone?"

"Brother…"

Chuckling, Ceryse shook her head. "No, now is far too… open to discuss what I wish to discuss with my betrothed." She met Maegor's eyes, violets finding green. "Only that I am quite eager to marry you, my Prince." With that she curtseyed once more and headed back to the Hightower retinue.

Maegor could only stare back, watching her retreating form. Gods help him if he wasn't a bit eager to marry this beautiful girl as well.

It was a good match, and there was definitely a connection. "What are you thinking, brother?" When Maegor glanced at Aenys, the Crown Prince grinned. "Has the wild one's heart finally been trapped?"

He snickered in spite of himself. "Perhaps, brother. Perhaps."

Elsewhere, the King pushed his way through the door to the hallway. "Visenya!" Waving his Kingsguard away, he bounded down the corridor and turned the corner, finding her storming towards their bedchamber. "Visenya, wait!"

Racing after her, just as he was about to touch her shoulder Visenya swiveled around. Aegon stopped in his tracks. This woman had been in battles, killed many larger and stronger knights. Burned half of Dorne to the ground atop Vhagar. But never had he seen the amount of pure hate and anger in her eyes, almost black with it. "Do not touch me," she ground out.

"Vis… I'm sorry… but…"

She held up a hand. "No excuses… Just get out of my sight." She left Aegon standing there, heartbreak on his face as she stormed off.

Chapter Text

Wheelhouse rolling to a halt, Princess Rhaena Targaryen was glad to exit onto the cobblestones of the great plaza before the Sept of Remembrance. Guards in both Targaryen black and the colorful swirls of the Warrior's Sons stood in two lines, clearing a path for the dignitaries heading into the sept. Beyond, a loud cacophony of sounds filled the air of the beautiful winter's day. She wanted to cover her ears, but forced herself to act dignified.

"Egg, do not tug at your doublet." Her mother insisted, and unlike her brothers she complied.

"Momma." Viserys tugged at the hem of Alyssa's dress, an aquamarine color not unlike her eyes. "I's 'ungry."

"You just ate before we left the manse," Rhaena replied, annoyed.

Her littlest brother - at least for now - pouted. "I's still 'ungry."

Ruffling his hair, the Crown Prince beamed down at his boy, all while he rested his hand on Alyssa's growing belly. "We'll give you a pastry if you keep quiet through the ceremony, alright?"

All Viserys seemed to hear was 'pastry,' so he smiled and jumped up and down. Rhaena rolled her eyes… only to fall on the large crowd. She had seen the people of King's Landing while with her uncle, but these were different. Unfamiliar. "Muna?" She asked as they began to walk towards to the open Ironwood doors of the Sept. Alyssa didn't notice, so Rhaena tried again. "Muna?"

Not used to being spoken to in Valyrian, it took a few moments for Alyssa to notice. "Daughter? What is it?"

"Who are they? The quiet ones with the stars on their shirts?" At the van was a massive man, probably at least seven feet tall and resting a large axe over his shoulder. The Targaryen guards gave him a wide berth, but the Warrior's Sons weren't fazed.

"Oh." Alyssa chuckled. "Those are the Poor Fellows, devoted followers of the Faith as the Warrior's Sons are."

The massive man glanced down at Rhaena and grinned, baring his teeth. Rhaena hid a shudder… While they may have been here to show their support for her uncle - or at least for her uncle's bride - she had a very bad feeling about them. Dragon's instincts as her grandmother may have said.

Designed on a grandiose scale, the large statues inlaid in the various alcoves of the Sept of Remembrance stared down at Rhaena as she ascended the steps. They looked grand, but to her they were as foreboding as the Faith Militant - somehow moreso. 'You do not belong here,' they seemed to say to her, stern faces judgemental as the granddaughter of a brother-sister marriage entered their domain. Rhaena had never felt this before…

You are a dragon as she is… You should embrace it…

Packed from the altar to the edge of the well, the grand vestibule was capped by the massive dome above them - its inner surface covered in beautiful murals and frescoes of the Seven who are One. Gold leaf covered the walls, ivory and marble finishings topping statues of various saints and heroes such as Artys Arryn or Merle I Gardener, the first Gardener King to convert to the Faith. Incense burned from braziers, leaving an almost hazy atmosphere broken by the sunlight streaming from high-placed windows. Rhaena had to admit its beauty. Why do they get such beauty while grandfather and grandmother live in the drab Aegonfort? While Aegon gawked at such majesty much as their father, Rhaena merely huffed in annoyance.

Eventually, they reached the front row of pews. "My son." King Aegon embraced her kepa. "I was worried you would be tardy."

"Nonsense. I would be remiss if I miss my brother's wedding." Aenys eased Alyssa to her seat between him and Egg, while hefting Viserys onto the pew before sitting down.

"My dear," Aegon kissed Rhaena's forehead. "You will need to sit beside your grandmother."

Rhaena looked to find Visenya seated in the second column of pews. "Grandfather? You're not seated together?"

A look of pain crossed over the King. "I'm afraid not, sweetling. But please keep her company."

Sighing, Rhaena did as bidded. "Grandmother, may I?"

Stern and unyielding, Visenya's expression lightened upon seeing her granddaughter. "Rhaena… of course." She kissed the girl's cheek. "Thank you for sitting with me."

"Grandfather asked me and I was happy to." That killed Visenya's smile, the Queen mumbling something in High Valyrian. Whatever she said, it can't be good.

Before Rhaena could inquire further, the High Septon - he seemed jolly enough even while dressed in the gaudiest of robes, almost painted in gold leaf - cleared his throat. "Presenting, Prince Maegor of House Targaryen." From the rear of the sept came her uncle. Rhaena's eyes widened at his appearance. He always had a formidable look, but in full dress armor and a red-black cloak he exuded both ferocity and power.

He is most definitely a dragon.

"A dream, is he not?" murmured Larissa Velaryon, her friend being directly behind her by chance. Rhaena waved her off. "Look, it's Lady Hightower." Rhaena creened her head around, getting a glimpse for the first time of her uncle's bride.

Lord Manfred Hightower escorting his daughter in full armor as well, Lady Ceryse was undeniably beautiful. The dress - far from the normal greens of her house - was an almost robin's egg blue. So light to be near ice. Diamonds and rubies glittered about necklaces and bracelets that only added to the near precious air about her. Long brown hair was done in upknots, exposing a long neck and a circlet of flowers accentuating her green eyes.

She looked perfect, and Rhaena could see the stares of… almost hunger from many guests, of both sexes, but she could only wrinkle her nose.

Lady Hightower doesn't deserve my uncle.

Rhaena didn't know what bid the thought, or why she felt it, but she knew it was true all the same.

Not that she or anyone had the power to reverse it, so quiet she sat.

"Your Graces, Lords and Ladies. The ceremony before the sight of their most Holy Seven shall begin." High Septon Gerold cleared his throat, gesturing to two septons bearing cloaks. "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Wordlessly, Ceryse turned, a bright smile on her face as Maegor removed the cloak of her House and replaced it with a red-black cloak emblazoned with the Targaryen three-headed dragon. The same as the seal woven into the fabric of Rhaena's dress. It seemed wasted on someone so… delicate. Grandmother was fierce, as was aunt Rhaenys and even her mother in her own way. Can I be fierce? Rhaena bit her lip, feeling inadequate.

"My lords, my ladies," the High Septon began anew. "We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." The couple joined hands, Septon Murmison producing a ribbon and tied a knot around their joined hands. "Let it be known that Prince Maegor of House Targaryen and Lady Ceryse of House Hightower are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

Visenya mumbled something else under her breath. Another act of disapproval, Rhaena figured. Is this why she and grandfather are sullen towards each other?

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity." Looking at his niece, the High Septon puffed up with pride and happiness for the dear girl. "Look upon each other and say the words."

Turning at the High Septon's command, the two of them stared into each other's eyes - Ceryse beaming broadly while even Maegor's stern visage cracked a smile. They spoke simultaneously. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger..."

"I am hers…"

"I am his…"

"And she is mine…"

"And he is mine…"

"From this day, until the end of my days."

Maegor reached up to cup his new bride's cheek. "With this kiss, I pledge my love."

Beginning with the King, then the Queen - though she was still scowling - and the Crown Prince, soon the entire hall of Lords, foreign dignitaries, and other officials were standing and applauding the newly-wedded couple. Rhaena sighed and clapped with all… deserve him Ceryse may not, but her uncle looked happy. And that made her happy.

Turning to whisper something to Larissa. Something caught her eye… something normally overlooked, but she was perceptive.

Alone among the guards, the Warrior's Sons that predominated the room removed to lift their visors. They clapped, but refused her uncle even that shred of added respect.

Minstrels ending their smooth rendition of Two Hearts That Beat as One, Maegor ground to a halt, kissing his bride's hand as she curtseyed for him. "You are quite the dancer, my Prince," she noted.

"I am a Prince as much as a warrior, of course I would know such a skill."

She bit her lip. "I can't wait till I… show you my skills." Kissing his cheek, she smiled innocently. "It seems your mother, the Queen wishes to dance with you. I shall leave you to that and speak with my family." She was going to enjoy lording her husband with her cousins.

Staring at the supple rear end accentuated by the dress, Maegor was reflecting on the lusty minx he married as Visenya tapped his shoulder. "Eyes over here, son." Another tune, this one Northern and rumored to have been composed by Bael the Bard himself, started as Lord Torrhen and Lady Jocelyn took to the floor alongside them. "May I have this dance?"

"Of course, muna." Their hands in position, the two of them glided about the dance floor. "You know kepa didn't mean to go against you."

"Don't."

"But…"

"Don't son. Your kepa and I's relationship doesn't need to be your concern, especially on your wedding night." Visenya sighed. "I worry for you, my son. I love you, and I…" She had a bad feeling about the marriage. Ceryse… she seemed infatuated with Maegor, but that family. It can't end well. She could feel it, but wouldn't sabotage it. "I just think you would have had a better bride in Rhaena once she came of age."

"Rhaena is my dear niece, and I do worry for how Aenys raises her, but this is the hand I was dealt and I am excited for it." He twirled his mother around as the tempo changed. "Please do forgive, kepa. He loves you."

"You're too kind for your own good, regardless of what the scum say about you." As the song ended, she kissed his forehead. "Forgive me, but I must be off."

"Where are you going?"

"To Dragonstone." Visenya glared at her husband, violet eyes filled with loathing - Aegon at least had the courtesy to wince. "I can't be close to him anymore. Apologies, my son. I wish your marriage the best." Her own Kingsguards following her, Queen Visenya made her way out of the great hall, inspiring all sorts of whispers behind her back.

An hour passed, followed by platters of boar, arouch, honey-glazed whole roasted piglets, and fresh bread washed down with whole tankards of ale. Maegor danced with many more, from his new goodmother to a quite tense and quiet song with Alyssa. Many toasts were made in his honor, from the genuine ones from Daeron Qoherys, Lord Torrhen, and his brother, ones heaped with formalistic politeness from Ser Damon Morrigen and old Loren Lannister, to the incomprehensible one from his drunk uncle Orys, aunt Argella covering her face in embarrassment. Maegor was fine with it, enjoying the attention. Catching a glint in his bride's eye, one Maegor had oft seen from Ralla before luring him behind a tent and jumping his bones… "Forgive me my Lords, brother." He stood, most of the feast halting at the groom's actions. "I believe it is time for Princess Ceryse and I to retire for the night."

A whistle echoed through the hall. "Bedding!" boomed Gargon Qoherys. "Best part of the weddin!" He rose, unsteady on his feet from the five goblets of wine he downed prior. "Maidens to the Prince. Mates, let's get the Princess… Aghhh!"

The man seemed seven feet tall and built like a boulder, but one punch from a quite angry Dragon Prince sent him sprawling. "There will be no bedding," he bellowed, "and even if there was one I wouldn't let your drunken paws on my wife!" A fist followed to the head, knocking the Valyrian highborn to the ground. "Looks like he's left the feast."

Daeron Qoherys stood, motioning for several other Riverlords to follow him - to the amusement of the King, Edmyn Tully among them. "Lord Daeron, Lord Edmyn, please remove Ser Gargon to his room. He needs to convalesce."

"At once, your Grace." Daeron looked miserable, and Edmyn did as well… for differing reasons. Corlen Blackwood and Edmund Darry just seemed to find the whole thing hilarious.

"Well, that's got it done." Aegon stifled a chuckle, raising his goblet. "My son, go be with your new bride tonight. We shan't disturb you."

Maegor smiled genuinely at his father. "Thank you, kepa."

The two of them now in front of each other, the King disregarded propriety and gave Maegor a tight hug. "Forgive me, my son. There will be a task required of you, but enjoy your night. We'll speak of it on the morrow."

"Alright." Nodding at his father, Maegor made his way to the Hightower entourage, taking the hand of his bride. "Lord Manfred, I am grateful for your service to the crown, but I believe Ceryse is now under the protection of House Targaryen." Grinning at him, the oaken-haired beauty wrapped her fingers around the loop of his arm. "I bid you goodnight."

Lord Manfred and Archsepton Hugor smiled politely, but the High Septon boomed laughter at the witty jape. "Go, my Prince. Sire a Prince tonight."

"Oh, uncle. I believe we shall," replied Ceryse, feeling bold and quite happy as Maegor's hand rested on the small of her back. Why shouldn't she? She was living the dream of every maiden. My husband is much handsomer than the Crown Prince. The Velaryon bitch can have him. "Tonight, a son shall be quickened."

"Huzzah!" cheered the guests, most deep in their cups.

Leading her out, Maegor leaned into his bride's ear. "Eager, aren't we?" While most of the maidens in court seemed to embody the shy, coquettish fake innocence from the legends of Jonquil and Florian, Ceryse was resolute as well as beautiful. "Most ladies of court would die of humiliation from such a statement."

She gazed back at him with a lusty gaze. "Well, I am not most ladies at court." She leaned in as well, lips hovering over the shell of his ear. "Everyone speaks of you as a powerful dragon warrior…" Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the Prince's black direwolf trotting after them, tongue lolled out. "With the skills of a wolf as well." Ceryse saw Lord Torrhen spar with the King - if his heir was as rugged and comely, Princess Rhaenys was a lucky woman. "Given you were so subdued in taking me to the bedchamber, I wonder if everyone heard wrong."

Growling, Maegor coaxed a squeal from his bride as he lifted her up in his arms. "Just wait, you'll see how much of a dragon I am."

Ceryse shuddered in pleasure. "Lead the way, my Prince." Without delay, she crashed their lips together.

Syndor turned her torso around, averting her gaze at the scene.

Meanwhile, the feast was progressing back on pace. Servants refilled platters and goblets, the various Lords and knights so deep in their cups that hands wandered and girls giggled from well-placed gropes. "I better retire for the night. Brother, Hugor, I shall wait at dawn for prayers in the sept."

"Of course, your eminence." The two of them were left alone at their table. "Congratulations, Manfred. You have actually broken the Valyrian insular marriages with your dear daughter."

Manfred shrugged. "She's quite beautiful, it wasn't hard given the political needs of the dragonspawn." He raised an eyebrow. "And the rest?"

Hugor smiled softly. "Your brother speaks often about how the Mother entrusted women with the protection of human virtue, but it turns out the fairer sex can be quite tartish if left to their own devices." He leaned back in his seat. "Amazing what absolution for a future's worth of promiscuity can convince a maid to do."

His eyes fell on the King, seated alone. Truly, truly amazing.

"The price is a million gold dragons," Princess Deria Martell of Sunspear insisted, eyes narrowing at the envoy of the new Triarchal regime of Volantis. "These are not pirates or Dothraki Khals raiding the upper Rhoyne. The Three Daughters are powerful, so therefore I cannot commit Dornish spears without proper compensation."

The balding nobleman ran a hand through his thinning hair. He insisted on the finery of a Valyrian highborn, even though the various silks and cotton garments were causing the portly envoy to sweat significantly. "Such is a price too excessive for the Triarch."

Deria shrugged. "Very well. I am sure your Black Guardsmen and the Unsullied can handle the fight on your own." She began to walk away…

"Stop." Deria smirked. "One million gold dragons, but the Spears should be in Volantis harbor by the end of the next five moons."

"Of course. I shall call them presently."

As the envoy left, Deria picked up a date from the bowl resting on her desk and popped it in her mouth, twirling a lock of her still ink-black hair. Gods, it was a chore to deal with the pompous pretend-Valyrians from across the Narrow Sea - if Dorne, still scarred from the Dragon's Wroth, didn't need the money to finish the rebuilding of the hellscapes left by Balerion and Vhagar, she wouldn't be bothered.

"It wouldn't hurt to have more allies, my love."

Even proud as she was, the Princess of Dorne had to acknowledge that her latest lover - Anders Sand of Yronwood, a brave and muscular knight twenty-five years her junior - made sense. The fact that it was in the afterglow of their lovemaking in front of the waterfall of Sunspear's gardens had caught her at a weak moment.

But it was one million gold dragons to reseed the fertile fields of the Torrentine, not to mention granting the new generation of her bannermen with necessary combat experience. Never again would they let the dragons run roughshod over their land.

Sighing, Deria pulled up the skirts of her thin dress. Her feet ached unbearably, and without Anders to work his magic upon her soles, she'd have to massage the joints and bones herself. This must have been grandmother's life, slowly withering away as the stresses of ruling destroy her. In over eighty years of life, wars with Argilac the Arrogant and the Dragon's Wroth only worsened it entirely. Sunspear managed to escape the torch and burn of the Targaryens but Deria doubted the 'Yellow Toad' ever dwelled there. Far too unsafe.

"Gods, please allow my death before I reach such an age." A life of gout, unable to speak or sit up in bed without help… Deria would rather the sweet release of passing before such ignominy. Young Moros was in the prime of his life and holder of boundless ambition, a proper ruler for Dorne as those of the Targaryen Conquest died off - replaced by those without the skill or experience to hold together the patchwork of formerly warring kingdoms to their north.

Now only to secure a strong kingdom for her son to inherit.

Deria looked up to see Anders, drawing a smile on her lips. But his signature smirk was gone, instead straight and professional. "My Princess, Lord Wyl presents himself as you requested."

Her brows furrowed before recognition crossed her face. "Ah, yes. Please see him in, and do not depart as of yet. I shall need to… speak with you afterwards."

"Of course, Princess." His blue eyes sparkled with lust, setting her aflame.

Lord Malcolm Wyl of Wyl, the Butcher of Old Oak and the mutilator of the King's brother Orys Baratheon, was a person known by all in Dorne. A folk hero to many, in spite of the various acts he inflicted on men and women alike for his pleasure - other Dornish prior to the wars that focused his actions outward. Even with a mane of grey hair and varicose veins branching out from his knee-high boots that belied his advancing age, he still cut a menacing figure. "My Princess," he bowed.

"Thank you for coming to Sunspear, Lord Malcolm," Deria remarked, motioning for him to sit and trying not to shudder in disgust from his… aura of malevolence. "I trust that you were unmolested in your journey to Oldtown."

Shrugging, the tiniest of grins danced on his face. "There are those that think themselves smart, that they can dwell in the same plain as the big boys." Wyl had numerous bounties on his head from the Marcher Lords as well as the Oakhearts, but he seemed to laugh at the agreed border of the Torrentine, Wyl, and Red Mountains. He spent more time in the Reach than he did in Dorne. "The Hightowers are not those people… there are a few in the Faith that are, but an enemy of House Targaryen is a friend of theirs."

That drew Deria's attention. "The Faith?" She wasn't the most devout, but many of her senior bannermen were and that necessitated paying attention. "An alliance they seek?"

"No, but there need be few reasons for them to be antagonized by us. I sense certain avenues of mutual understanding in the future." He plucked a date off her desk, popping it in his mouth. "But I doubt you wished to discuss religion with me, Princess."

"Indeed not." Deria leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Cease all incursions into the Reach."

Lord Malcolm blinked. "Princess?"

"The Hightowers have married into the Targaryen royal house. We cannot afford to antagonize them openly." She quirked an eyebrow. "I trust that you understand what I ask of you."

He nodded. "Of course." There was no intent to end the raids, only the means of them. Plausible deniability that couldn't be traced back to House Martell. He stood and bowed, but before he left, Wyl turned. "If it may please, Princess, I have heard whispers from Oldtown that present matters important to the Aegonfort."

Deria raised her eyebrow. "Go on, Lord Malcolm."

"Our friend Sargasso Saan has drawn the ire of the dragons - it appears his raids upon my good friend Orys Baratheon," his sandy brown eyes sparkled as he said that. "Have angered them enough to send Aethan Velaryon's royal fleet to do battle with them… and Prince Maegor is joining them."

That was news to Deria. "I have heard of his strength in fighting North of the Wall against the wildlings."

"Wildlings aren't warriors of great repute, so I wouldn't gauge Prince Maegor's martial ability based on such. The Lysene pirate kings are different, though."

"I trust our contacts that you placed with Lord Saan are still in place. See that they keep eyes upon the Prince. Unlike his elder brother, there is still a potential threat in that one."

Malcolm nodded. "And the she-dragon?"

Deria blinked. "Princess Rhaenys." She waved it off. "Let her rule that frozen tundra. Even with a dragon the North will turn inward in the face of any threat."

"But, Princess…"

"Save our agents for more pressing threats, Lord Malcolm."

Wyl wrinkled his nose. "As you wish… your will is my command, Princess." As he left, his mind whirred with activity. It was a good thing that the North was far out of her ability to monitor without him.

"Uncle!" Rhaena ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist as her sleeveless dress swished against the wooden floor. "I'm so happy you came!" He wore a black cuirass with a red cloak about his shoulders and hefted a large sack slung over his shoulder, but she was merely happy to see him. "Can we go see the dragons again? We could bring Egg and Vis!" She was sure Balerion would love them as he loved her.

Ruffling her hair, Maegor felt a sense of melancholy looking at his niece. This was the first time he truly saw her face light up. Hopefully this will make that light permanent. "I'm sorry, Rhaena, but I can't."

"Please?" Rhaena looked up at him with a pout. "Please, please, please?"

That adorable pout nearly made him cave. How could he deny this little dragon anything… but Maegor Targaryen was built with stern stuff. "Apologies, niece, but your muna doesn't know I'm here." He placed a finger to his lips and winked.

Rhaena giggled - gods help her, she almost felt giddy at the thought of defying her mother. It was… a strange feeling. "Does fa... kepa know you're here?" She stopped herself, using the Valyrian word like her uncle taught her.

"He knows I'm bidding you farewell, but doesn't know how," another wink, which drew out another giggle.

But Rhaena stopped midway… Bid farewell… A look of confusion was replaced with one of recognition, followed by sorrow. "You have to go somewhere." It wasn't a question.

"Aye." Maegor nodded. "Not to the North, this time. To sea with your other uncle…" he was cut off as Rhaena threw her arms around him again, squeezing tightly. "Gods… you're strong for a little girl."

"Don't leave, uncle," she cried. "Did I do something wrong?"

He kissed her hair. "No, my dear, this has nothing to do with you." Other matters do. But Maegor was not going to burden her with such things. "Pirates are threatening uncle Orys' kingdom, so your uncle and I are going to stop them."

"So you could die." Somehow the thought brought her physical pain.

"Hey, look at me, sweetling." When the red-rimmed eyes looked up at him, Maegor cupped the cheeks. "I don't intend on dying. The world still has much to see of me, but I will be gone for a long time. One regret is that I won't see you come of age into a proper dragon like your grandmother." He would regret many things, but he need not burden her with the marital pain of being separated from his newly-wedded bride so soon after their wedding.

Rhaena bit her lip. "But you won't be here. Who will take me to the dragons, or teach me Valyrian? Grandmother?"

"Um…" How could he tell her of the spat between the King and Queen? How Visenya mounted Vhagar and flew off to Dragonstone… because of he and Rhaena. "Grandfather and grandmother will, I promise, but I brought you something that will help." He unslung the sack, setting it on her bed. "Sit beside me and close your eyes."

"Uncle…"

He pressed his thumb on her cheek. "Trust me."

She nodded. "I trust you." Eyes closing, Rhaena sat there counting in her mind, imagination wandering as to what her uncle could possibly give her out of the blue. A sword… a weapon of some kind? Her mother would kill… Something large fell in her lap… large and warm. Rhaena ran her hands over it - it felt almost scaled, but smooth like stone. "Uncle?"

"You may open them." He folded his arms, waiting for the reaction.

Eyes fluttering open, Rhaena found herself looking at an egg. A large egg… but one distinctive. "A dragon egg, uncle?"

"Aye, one from Vhagar's clutch kept in your grandmother's solar." Visenya insisted they go to her children and grandchildren, and Arrax had hatched from one egg that Rhaenys claimed - but none of the eggs felt right for Maegor and Alyssa refused to let her children even claim one until they were older. "Usually they're placed in a babe's crib after they're born, but…" he trailed off. "Rhaena? Sweetling."

She wasn't paying attention. Rhaena sat upon her bed, eyes glazed over as she slowly stroked the egg. In truth, she had never laid witness on a dragon egg in her life - but there was no denying it for what it was, or how beautiful it was. The scales were pale blue, not the same as an early morning sky but rather like the sapphires inlaid in the necklaces her mother or Lady Stark often wore. Silver swirls and streaks ran through it, the color of her own hair. "Breathtaking," Rhaena murmured.

Maegor blinked, not expecting such an instant connection. "Do you feel something, niece?"

Pressing her cheek against the sapphire scales, it felt wonderfully warm. Much like Balerion's snout, but even more soothing. Wonderful…

Muna…

Rhaena blinked. "Did you say something?" It wasn't her uncle's voice.

Hold me, muna… I'll hatch soon…

"Are you… you're talking to me!" Her smile could have brightened the darkest room.

Chuckling, Maegor kissed her forehead. "Looks like we've found your bond, little dragon." He stood, only to kneel in front of her. "Remember, niece. Your dragon is your responsibility. You must care for her as if your muna would you. Understand?"

"Yes, uncle. I do… when will it hatch?"

"When the time is right, Rhaena." He chucked her chin. "A dragon is not a slave, nor a pet. They are the wisest, most intelligent creatures, much like direwolves but with much more power. Not only are you their mother or sister, but you also are their partner. Their equal, and you must always show them respect."

"I will, uncle. I'll make you proud." Setting the egg down on the bed, she hugged him again. "I love you."

Maegor hugged her back, hoping it would be as satisfying a feeling when he had his own children with Ceryse. "I love you too, niece." He motioned for her to pick up the egg. "You'll want to keep the egg warm in the hearth, or else it won't hatch."

Without delay, Rhaena scooped the egg in her arms, carrying it to the roaring hearth in her chambers. Protect me, muna.

Only if you protect me when the time comes.

Never will I desert you. Placing the egg in its new cradle, not once did the flames harm her skin.

Chapter Text

"Ha!" Sargasso Saan laughed, a deep belly laugh over his ample gut. "Those dragons dare fuck with me? Me?!" More laughs, his armor jostling and clinking as he guffawed. Dressed for batt;e in the best Dornish plate, it was styled in pure finery. Jewels affixed to the steel and blade, while his tunic and trousers were of the most expensive silks. "They'll never be able to take my keep."

"Of course, sire," replied his… Westerosi would call him a castillan, as he gazed out with a spyglass. The fortification was situated in a cove in the disputed lands overlooking the Straits of Lys, some of the most trafficked shipping lanes on earth. Cliffs and rocky crags made it a perfect natural barrier, further fortified by captured Volentine slave ships filled with laborers. Spiked palisades and thick walls of rock funnelled any attacker into a choke point track… the only approach by land.

Wealthier than most monarchs with the loot of a dozen nations in his vaults, Sargasso intended for this to be the capital of his new Empire in the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands, and not even the Targaryens of Westeros would dislodge him. "They could never capture this place! The highest walls and the best archers and siege engines defend my riches!" The Targaryen forces had captured some island forts and outposts in the Stepstones, but now that they landed on the Essosi mainland he could crush them… or so he liked to boast.

Saan hadn't become the pirate king of these parts through modesty.

"I wonder how many old King Aegon would send?" The great conqueror of the Sunset Kingdoms of Westeros, he was old and decrepit with his Queen. "He's too old to face me, and one son is a prissy weakling while the other rots in the frozen wastelands!'

"Your Grace, Prince Maegor does lead our enemies."

A raised eyebrow. "Does he ride a dragon?"

"No, your Grace."

"Ha!" How deranged was King Aegon? "Regardless, with all the siege engines we have they'll need at least ten dragons! No… fifty dragons!" He smacked his breastplate. "They'll need an army of dragons!"

Irritated by his King's bombast, the castilian hoped to return to a warm bed and a young slave girl when he saw movement. "Enemy approaching!"

Saan blinked. "Targaryens?"

"I think so."

"How many, ten thousand?"

"No."

"Five thousand?"

"Much less, your Grace."

"Three thousand, two… for fucking sake, just tell me!"

"One rider, your Grace."

He thought he didn't hear correctly. "What?!" Grabbing the spyglass, the pirate king looked out at the dirt track and saw what his bannerman had seen. A single rider, the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his breastplate. Clutching a longsword in his hands, atop his head was a helm of reared dragon wings and ambling beside him was a massive beast the size of a small horse - black as night. "Is that Prince…"

An ear-splitting roar boomed over the landscape, as from the jagged rocks of the cove swooped a dragon colored the purest Valyrian shade of violet. Riding atop it was a sleek, feminine form, waves of silver tresses whipping behind her she wore the sigil of House Stark across her cuirass, but this warrior was pure Targaryen.

"Your Grace!" Where there had been one rider, now there were hundreds of banners ranging from the seahorse of House Velaryon, the red, blue, and green lines of House Strong, to the merman of House Manderly. As the mighty Dragon Prince leveled his sword straight at the pirate fortress, a series of hornblows announced the charge.

Saan could care less. "Kill the dragon! Bring down the beast!" If the Dornish could kill Queen Rhaenys on a lucky shot, his well-trained siege engineers could.

Ballistae and scorpions rolling into place, the winded winches released their payloads with loud thwacks. But Princess Rhaenys Stark of Winterfell was ready for them. Hanging on tightly to Arrax's saddle, the dragon dove under the bolts and boulders, hugging the sea's surface under their sights.

"Archers!" Saan started to sweat from fear, his earlier boasting forgotten. "Loose! Loose!" But it was too late. Roaring, Arrax thundered up with a beat of his wings, unleashing a torrent of dragonfire upon the first set of battlements. Saan collapsed behind the parapet, but most of the archers weren't as lucky. Immolated by Rhaenys' dragon, who proceeded to blast the various palisades apart, clearing the way for the charging cavalry.

"Come on, brother!" she screamed, gesturing with her arm for good measure. "You're clear! Forward!" An arrow shot past her head, so close she could feel the shockwave. Arrax, soves!" Beating his wings, the violet dragon surged into the air. Letting out a breath, Rhaenys rested a hand on her belly. Gods, little pup… That was too close, unconscionably close.

Never could she afford to do that again.

Her handiwork spoke for itself. Maegor's steed was the first to leap over the smoldering remains of the first wall, Syndor right after in a black blur. Spinning his sword, the Prince looked as a Valyrian demon to the backwards and superstitious pirates. Two men fell victim quite early, Maegor slicing across their chests and shoulders. A spearman tried to charge, but the direwolf took him down - teeth slicing through his neck.

The Castilian looked around, gripping his sword in fear. Saan was nowhere to be seen, and the men were falling back as more and more horsemen poured through the gaping maw in their defenses. Anytime now the dragon could return and he contemplated surrender.

"No Mercy!" bellowed the Targaryen Prince. He had been knocked off his horse, but felled a scrawny man with a punch to the temple. "Kill them all!"

No… no hope… He had to escape…

He suddenly lurched, a sword stabbing into his gut and a fist to the chest. "Where is Saan?!" Brandon Stark bellowed, holding a dagger to the castilian's neck. "Where is that pig?!"

Disemboweling a frizzy-bearded pirate, Maegor allowed more of Aethan Velaryon's men to stream past him, pikes and swords leveled. "Bran!" he bellowed, removing his helm to wipe the sweat that matted his hair. Fuck, it's hot. "Hurry the fuck up!"

"Brother," Bran shot back. "He's not here."

"What?"

"He's not here!" He watched Maegor walk over to him. "Fled out a second entrance through a series of caves in the rock."

Maegor scowled darkly. "This one told you?"

"Yeah, he's supposedly the second in command…"

With one swing of his sword, Maegor beheaded the hapless prisoner. "No mercy! Fire and blood!" He bellowed.

"FIRE AND BLOOD!"

Upon bearing witness to her beautiful face and sparkling eyes, Aegon sighed in happiness. "Rhae." After three moons of an empty bed, of surreal dreams where Rhaenys was an ethereal presence that he could never reach, she was real and standing before him. "I missed you…"

In hindsight, Aegon should have noticed the scowl on his late wife's face, the tense shoulders and crossed arms. His senses were dulling in his old age - or perhaps it was his marital troubles. Thus, he only realized something amiss when Rhaenys landed a right hook on his jaw, staggering him.

"You fucking asshole!" Rhaenys snarled, punching him again. "How could you! Our own sister!"

"Rhae…" Egg could never hit her, merely using his arms to shield his head. She merely started to punch his sides, agony stabbing through him. "Please, let me explain…"

Her anger couldn't be tempered. "I trusted you! I thought you would protect our children and our sister!" Face red with rage, it was evident that even the flirty, musical Queen held the dragon's temper. "How could you do this? Allow our family to destroy itself?!" Mind clouded with fury, her foot shot out towards his crotch…

Only for Aegon to catch it mid-kick. "I know you're angry with me," he hissed. "But don't do that."

She glowered. "You deserve it," Rhaenys hissed back. Gods, not even when he attacked Harrenhal so recklessly was she this enraged at him. "Why did you do it? Why did you betray our wife so?!" Every day she saw the both of them crawl into bed alone - watching them in their sorrow. Visenya even fell to tears many of those nights, and it broke her heart.

Letting go of her leg, Aegon sighed. Almost trembling as the pain of the last three moons thundered back into his mind. "It's complicated, Rhae." Her gaze did not lose its sternness. "I couldn't fight our own son." His voice cracked, vulnerable in the face of his beloved.

Rhaenys' expression softened, regarding her brother-husband. He was obviously ripped apart inside over this. "It's not entirely your fault, Egg." That bitch her boy married had the most blame in this regard - much as she did give Aenys happiness, there could have been many maidens to do that. Familial unity came first, which was why she greatly approved of Brandon Stark for their daughter. "Come here." Regardless of her anger, Rhae melted into his embrace just as he did into hers.

"Thank you." Egg kissed her brow, which led to a kiss to her cheek, and then their lips met in a sensual, comforting kiss. "There was no choice, I couldn't go against our son's own wishes. She was his daughter, regardless of who persuaded him it was his choice.

"I know… I know." Motioning to a boulder in the middle of the grassy knoll, they took a seat beside each other - her head in the crook of his neck and his resting against her head. "But Visenya trusted you, and you did betray her. She had a reason to wish for Rhaena to marry our son."

"There is no doubt about that." Egg prayed every day that Ceryse Hightower could bring Maegor happiness, given his weakness. "She's my rock, Rhae. I couldn't do any of this without her…"

"And she couldn't do any of her duties without you. I've never seen her as vulnerable as when she is with you. For Visenya, that is greatly refreshing." Looking up, she kissed him sweetly. "You need to make this right."

His expression was worn. "All of my ravens have been returned unopened. She wishes not to talk to me."

Rhaenys sighed. "She does."

"She doesn't show it."

A snort. "When have you ever known her to open up without urging?" She had him there. "Go to her."

"What?"

"Do I have to draw you a map? Hop on Balerion and fly to Dragonstone and do not let her force you off the island." Catching his hesitation, feeling their connection start to fade, Rhaenys grabbed him by the straps of his cuirass. "What are you, Egg?"

Blinking, it took a moment for him to understand. "I am a dragon."

"Only another dragon can understand another dragon." She cupped his cheek, smiling gently. "Be her dragon, Egg." Before it all faded away, they kissed desperately. Prayers both on their lips that the Targaryens wouldn't ever be alone again.

"If you'll excuse me, my wife needs another goblet." Leading Ceryse Targaryen away from the chattering highborns of Volantis, Maegor's polite smile morphed into a scowl. "Gods, I wanted to gut the lot of them."

Ceryse giggled, half for show and half legitimate mirth. "I have no doubt you could, husband." All around them, the great hall of the Triarch's Palace was filled with at least three hundred guests. Food was scarfed down, wine and rum were guzzled by the casketfull, and any sort of conversation was engaged in when persons weren't mesmerized by beast shows or the fire jugglers. "The Triarchs seek to impress us, so keep up your best behavior."

"I make no promises," he scowled back. Ceryse merely chuckled, clutching his arm tightly. She hated it too, but did get a pleasure from showing off her strapping husband.

"Ah, there they are!" Turning her head, Ceryse could see a handsome man in gold-trimmed Volentene robes waving them to come over. "Catoyn Maegyr, the Chief Triarch of Volantis…" she whispered to Maegor as they walked over to him. "First Tiger to rule the city since the Century of Blood."

"He'll be a joy then," Maegor snorted.

"Be polite, husband," she whispered back, though she agreed completely. He was in a conversation with her goodsister and goodbrother, so at least they'd have backup in dealing with his nonsense - a beautiful woman of Valyrian features also was part of the group, someone Ceryse didn't recognize on sight.

Catoyn sized up her husband with a jovial laugh and a clasp of the shoulders. "Prince Maegor, you and your sister are heroes for ridding the disputed lands of Sargasso Saan's corpulent frame."

Maegor smiled politely. "We haven't caught him yet, and the Stepstones prove to be a nuisance to even our best ships. Regrettable, but we'll find him."

"My brother and I have a little wager going on about that," Rhaenys smirked, cuffing Maegor on the shoulder.

"Oh?" Catoyn seemed quite interested, while the Valyrian woman put a quite impressive facade of paying attention. Few would notice it, but Ceryse had been in enough feasts of Reach lords to know how to spot the insincere. "I feel there's a good story here."

"There most certainly is. See, whomever actually captures Saan will get to kill him… Maegor with his blade or I with dragonfire. Since Arrax is mine and my dear older brother is still riderless," both she and Brandon shared a chuckle at Maegor's expense. "I believe I am favored."

The triarch laughed. "No doubt you are, Princess."

Glancing down at Ceryse, Maegor looked as if he were going to kill himself from a combination of boredom and irritation. A thought piqued her interest. "Forgive me, triarch," she spoke up, "But given Princess Rhaenys' condition, there will be one moon at least where my husband will be the sole hunter for the so-called 'King' Saan." All eyes fell on Rhaenys' extensively pregnant stomach - swelled with the future heir to House Stark.

Shrugging, Rhaenys had to concede the round of words to her goodsister. "I cannot fault her logic. Better make the best of your reprieve, brother."

"I will."

"So, Princess." It was the woman that spoke up now. "How far along are you?"

"Six moons," Rhaenys replied. "A son, or so my husband says."

Brandon wrapped an arm around his wife, kissing her cheek. "The heart tree is never wrong, love. While I understand an Andal not contemplating magic, someone of the dragon's blood should." He looked at the woman. "Do you agree, Triarch Vhassar?"

Vhassar… Trianna Vhassar, the standard-bearer of the Elephants, Volantis' peace faction. Now Ceryse could place the face. "There is much people do not know about the world, Lord Stark. Often such turns to hostility… or lustful greed." Her eyes darted for a split second to Catoyn - only Ceryse saw it happen. "But such agonizing thoughts should be tempered with the good things in life. I heard that Crown Prince Aenys has a new child?"

Rhaenys lit up. "Yes, my new nephew, Prince Jaehaerys."

"Another dragonrider in the world, resurrecting the greatness of Valyria." Catoyn raised his goblet. "A toast to Prince Jaeherys." Ceryse and Maegor were only too happy to join.

Door shut behind them, Ceryse allowed herself to slump. "Thank the Seven above it's over." Groaning, she kicked off the wood and leather footwear that bothered her so. "Now my feet can breathe."

She could hear her husband's chuckle from behind her. "One would think a daughter of the Hightower would enjoy such feasts and dances? After all, the Reach is oft the butt of every jape for their gaudiness."

Ceryse rolled her eyes. "Most may enjoy such things, but not I. Instead, I find them tiresome." She shook off her silk wrap, letting it fall to the floor and expose her bare shoulders. "Paraded about by my father and uncle, forced to greet every brutish knight deep in their cups?" Cersei shuddered for effect.

Two arms wrapped around her waist, accentuated nicely in the tight, airy style of Volantis. "You seemed to enjoy tonight, from what I observed."

"Mayhaps…" A purr left her lips as his hands ghosted over her covered breasts. "Mayhaps it was who accompanied me that improved my mood." Dour, strong, and quite ruthless when need be, Ceryse was shocked to find that Prince Maegor Targaryen had a softer side. A tiny reservoir of light-hearted japes and passionate words and gestures that could make any lady weak in the knees. He does not have any lady… only I, lucky lucky me.

"And why is that?" he asked, kissing her neck.

Unable to contain her smile, or her lust, Ceryse turned in his arms and kissed her husband. Looping her hands around his neck and then weaving her fingers in his silver hair. Gods, how she loved his hair. Perfectly contrasting with her features, beautiful but not of the near-godly beauty of her husband. My dragon prince. They broke apart for air, and she smirked. "I think you know the answer, Prince Maegor." The kiss greedily resumed.

Tongue dancing with his, she felt him pushing her towards their opulent bed - only the best befitting one with the actual blood of the dragon. Unbuttoning the clasps of his doublet with deft skill, soon she could pull it off his torso. It forced their kiss to break, but by the Seven his chest was gorgeous. Thickly muscled, it had to have been sculpted by the warrior himself. "Husband, please."

With one move, he ripped her dress off, shoving her to the bed. Ceryse yelped, only to moan as Maegor climbed atop her and took a nipple in his mouth... Her hands tugged on his breeches. "Persistent, aren't we?"

"I want you now," she replied, clearly stoking the flames of desire ever hotter inside Maegor as he growled. Raising his hips to let Ceryse slide the breeches off and leave him as naked as her, then pouncing. Pinning her hands above her head and crashing their lips together, Maegor's length poking at her hip."Oh, Maegor," she moaned, soaking for him.

"My Princess." Pinning her one-handed, he brushed her chestnut hair aside to suckle on her neck. "Do you want me?"

"Yes! Gods yes! Please…" She moaned loudly as Maegor wasted no time in pushing inside her. Yes… this is what I need... Having her husband inside her again, claiming her for House Targaryen. Just the thought made her cunt clench around his cock.

"Fuck, Cherry," Maegor mumbled his pet name for her as their lips melded again, kissing desperately. He rocked inside her quickly but lovingly, feeling her tight walls constrict around him. She was so wet, so desirous.

The sensations made Ceryse see constellations of stars. "Oh, oh, oh." She wouldn't last long. Of this it was obvious. She kept her hands in his hair, keeping their mouths connected. Her walls spasmed. Oh gods...

Her climax triggered his, Ceryse feeling his seed empty into her. They kissed through their high, riding out their pleasure wrapped together. Letting out a groan, Maegor rolled them over.

"I love you," she panted into his ear, lost in the aftershocks of their pleasure.

And Ceryse heard his soft words, almost inaudible - only she could hear them. "And I, you."

Her heart soared, clinging to him tightly, pressing kisses to his neck and chest. "I pray your seed quickens inside me… for a son with your hair and eyes." She dreamed of it, of a handsome Valyrian Prince of her own womb.

Gods be good… grant me such a gift...

Gripping the spines tightly, Visenya braced herself for the jolt that would come as Vhagar swept down towards the Dragonstone cliffs overlooking the beach. The two of them were experts at this by now and it showed as Vhagar beat her wings, the bronze dragon coming in for a graceful landing. But Visenya wasn't as young as she used to be, and each jostle was felt far more than when she and her siblings brought Westeros under their control. Wincing, she nevertheless managed to climb down Vhagar's shoulders to the ground.

Boots stepping onto the grass, she was soon greeted by the dragon's snout - green eyes soulful and expecting touches. "And we always said Meraxes was a cuddle whore," Visenya chuckled, unable to deny her loyal mount a snout rub. Enjoying how she purred at the simple touch from a being hundreds of times smaller - Vhagar had to be as big as Balerion was in her youth. "We're both getting too old for this."

The dragon growled, pulling back with her green eyes staring down sardonically. Speak for yourself, muna.

Visenya sighed. "Fine, you're in the prime of your life and I'm getting too old." With that, Vhagar leaned back down, resting her head upon the ground with a twinkle in her eyes. "Cheeky fuck, you are, girl."

And yet you still ride me. The two of them simply rested there, Vhagar with her wings folded and neck extended on the ground while Visenya leaned upon her head, still rubbing the hot scales. Muna… can you go back to kepa?

Head jerking to look Vhagar in the eye, a scowl curled on her lips. "I'd rather fly to Mossovy than speak to that… that… craven bastard again."

Her words seemed to bring sorrow to her dragon. I know you miss him, and you hurt without him by your side. To an outside observer, it seemed as if the dragon was growling softly. But through the bond of dragon and dragonrider, Visenya heard it loud and clear. Was what he did that grievous to you?

Biting her lip, Visenya looked away. "Not to me… to our son."

The hatchling seemed happy last I felt.

"He is young, inexperienced in these things. I see problems he cannot, as does Egg… he should've stood with me…" Fists clenching, she wrenched away. "Goodnight, Vhagar." Visenya stormed off to the castle, a foul moon clouding over her… itself hiding a deep sadness.

Vhagar whined, able to feel such sadness off her rider. Goodnight, muna.

Dark Sister clipped to her belt, the servants bowed but avoided eye contact with their Queen. They had grown up with her in most cases, loved her as only those absolutely loyal to the Conqueors could… but they knew to keep a wide berth when she was in such a mood. If not for their sake, then for hers.

Visenya wouldn't wish to be bothered when her mind roiled with anger and pain. Only one person alive could truly calm her… gods be with the King and Queen, they would pray, hoping for a miracle.

Storming in her room, Visenya let her shoulders relax. Hands going to her hair to rip the ties that bound them into her riding braid. She had let go of her pique at Vhagar long ago, but the wall needed to be kept until the safety of her chambers. Our chambers… No one needed to see the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms cry herself to sleep every night. To curl on the bed and curse the cold sheets for yet another lonely evening. Hair loose, she began to loosen the wool and leather coat she rode in.

"You were gone much longer than expected."

Tensing, Visenya spun around and had Dark Sister halfway out its scabbard before she recognized the voice. "You." A voice she hadn't heard in three moons… and realized that even in her still simmering ire that she missed as deeply as a starving man would bread.

Seated on a stool in the darkest corner of the room, Aegon sighed and let the trinket he had been fiddling with fall to the tabletop. "I knew you loved to fly at twilight… so you could see the sun set." He rose, eyes trained on her beautiful face - drinking in the sight after time interminable. "I preferred the day, Rhaenys preferred the night, but dawn and dusk were your times."

She crossed her arms. "I suppose that means you timed your arrival for when I was gone."

He nodded. "Landed Balerion on the Dragonmont so you wouldn't see him."

"There was no need. I still like him."

"Vis…"

Unable to control herself, Visenya reached out to slap him - getting him across the cheek… right on the scar from their spar long ago. "Don't call me that, as if I'm expected to moon over you and leap into your arms." Gods, did she want to, but her anger began to surface as if it were fresh. "Not after what you did."

Cheek still stinging from the slap, Aegon's eyes narrowed. "I know you're angry…"

Visenya slapped him again, trembling with rage. "Anger doesn't begin to describe what I feel, you… you… you…" Close to screaming, her palm shot out again…

Only for Aegon to grab it mid-slap, squeezing the wrist hard. "Do not do that," he growled, violet eyes dark with anger… and something else.

The Dragon Queen wasn't one to back down. "Let go of me," she hissed. Her other hand moved to sock him in the jaw, but he grabbed it as well. "Unhand me, you wretch!"

All of a sudden, Aegon had her pinned to the wall - not gentle at all. "No." For a moment, Visenya felt a current of fear course through her. His eyes were almost black, face red with his own anger. Would he strike her? Was he going to…

Such thoughts ended when Aegon crashed his lips against hers. Not a normal kiss… not even one of the greatest passion. This was savage, akin to Balerion unleashing his dragonflame upon Black Harren. Tongue invading, plundering with a wild abandon.

Visenya, initially tense, was unable to resist it. She moaned filthily, but her anger still boiled. A knee crashed into his thigh, forcing him back. "How dare you!" she screamed. A fist hooked into his side… but it was like taking on one of the famed Ironborn berserkers, plied with intoxicating substances that made them ignorant of all pain. Aegon grabbed her and tossed her on the bed none too gently. Before she could scramble up, he had her pinned. Arms, legs… and hips. "Get off!"

"NO!" he roared, stunning her momentarily. Visenya had heard such a tone in battle… in every scream of rage and pain as he set Dorne alight, but never to her. "You are my Queen!" Hair frizzled, eyes wild, he sucked hard on her neck, undoubtedly leaving marks to join the bruises her wrists and hips likely had. "MY QUEEN!" Aegon bit her shoulder, hands practically flaying her blouse and trousers apart. "MINE!"

The anger burned brightly in Visenya… but so did the lust. Gods, the lust… Her fingers grabbed his head, nearly tearing out clumps of it to get his mouth on hers again. This time she was ready, meeting his savagery with her own, Harrenhal turning into the Field of Fire where they equally immolated their enemies. She tore out the tie of his trousers, waiting till Egg kicked them away before ripping off his shirt. His cock was already like steel.

"You are never to leave!" Aegon, feeling her fingers dig hard into his back and drawing blood, flipped her. Earning a yelp of surprise. "NEVER AGAIN, DO YOU UNDERSTAND!" Three moons of torture, of the worst sort of lonliness poured out, but he stilled just as his tip poked at her entrance. Visenya was sopping, but if she wished not to…

He waits for me… After all they endured, after this anger from both of them, Egg still waited for her consent. Visenya gave her answer, reaching back and yanking on the back of his neck - nails digging into the meaty flesh as they resumed a savage kiss.

Permission granted.

Aegon felt her scream into his mouth, the King not waiting for anything before he started to set a bruising pace. All other sounds were drowned out by her cries, his grunts, their skin slapping together like a rapid clap. One hand like a vice on her hip, leaving a dark red splotch for a bruise, Aegon grabbed onto her breasts with the other. He squeezed and mauled them as they bounced and shook in tempo with his rough thrusts into her body.

"My Queen!" he yelled again, pinching her nipple tightly. "You're my fucking Queen!"

"Fuck you!" she snarled, unwilling to be the first that broke. Visenya was half-determined to not give him the satisfaction, while the other half was close to her eyes rolling back from the sheer pleasure of it all. It had been so long… and even then it was likely the best coupling she had ever had since their wedding night. "I'm not yours to fuck at will!"

Responding, Aegon pressed her head down, hand pinning the back of her neck. "Say it! Say you're my Queen!" he commanded, speeding up the snap of his hips against her. Forcing her to rock forward into the mattress every time he hit home.

"No!" she screamed back, though the new angle made her cunt spasm, clenching tighter.

"Say it!"

"No!"

There was no stopping him. "SAY IT!"

"Aahhhhh!" It was too much. Too good… "FUCK, I'M YOUR QUEEN!" There was no denying it. Aegon was here, pounding Visenya so deliciously, a perfect fit for her tight cunt. Her body truly had been made to be fucked by him. "I'M FALLING, BROTHER!" she screamed.

"Shatter, sister! Shatter!" The command was the last Egg could snarl out before his vision went white and he fell over the precipice.

Visenya screamed as his cock drove her to a climax the likes of which any woman would be lucky to experience once. She screamed, she thrashed, she clawed at whatever patch of skin she could find on him - all to ground the absolute ecstasy she felt. Visenya milked his cock, drawing his seed like she was dying of thirst. She was… for him.

Just as all the anger, all the tension and energy erupted, suddenly it just went away. They collapsed bonelessly, a tangled mass of sweat, flesh, and their own juices. Groaning, Egg forced himself to grant her room to turn and shimmy till they could stare into each other's eyes. The rage was gone, leaving something empty. "Am I…" Egg coughed, moving to roll off.

A gentle grip of his arms stilled him. "No, stay…" She liked his weight on her, at least for a little while longer. "Egg…"

"Vis…"

And suddenly, all distance was broken. Visenya launched herself into Egg's embrace, clutching him desperately as he fell to their sides - holding her equally as greedily, as if she'd disappear if he even let one inch seperate them. Tears fell without restraint, any patch of skin in reach peppered with hot kisses. "I love you…"

"I love you too…"

"Don't ever leave…"

"Never… you have me…"

Three moons of unrequited love, of forced distance, it simply melted until it soaked them. Two dragons putting aside their feud the way only dragons could do. Fire and blood… fury and love…

Almost two hours later, they were cuddled up together. Three more bouts - a record not held since before Maegor - had left them sore, bruised, and exhausted… but completely sated and content. "I missed my pillow," Visenya purred, her hair fanned out like a halo over his muscular chest.

"I missed my brazier," Egg quipped in return, the two of them sharing a laugh. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too." They had talked in between their passion, pouring out everything that should have been said long ago. Hearing out the opinions of politics and worries about ruling both of them held. "I love you, Egg… I can't live without you."

"You are stronger than anyone I know," was his reply. "Gods… we've both endured the worst sorts of things."

She nodded, kissing his chest. "I know why you did what you did, Egg. We couldn't force this upon our own son, but I worry for Maegor. We've strayed too far from our heritage. Embraced too much of Westeros in the pursuit of peace. The bloodshed ended, but I fear we've crippled ourselves to get it."

He sighed. "I'll admit I haven't indulged in our culture as much as I should… gods, our grandchildren don't even speak High Valyrian."

"Something we must change, if we are to survive." Out of nowhere, she yawned, the exhaustion taking hold of her.

Egg noticed it. "Sleep my love. We have the rest of our lives to plan this."

"Just hold me."

"Always."

"And he gave it to you? Just like that?"

Rhaena preened, enjoying the jealousy in her friend's voice. "Aye. It's all mine."

Sighing dreamily, Samantha Stokeworth clasped her hands together. "A gift from Prince Maegor… oh, how handsome he is."

The more level-headed Larissa Velaryon rolled her eyes, but agreed with the sentiment. "Remember Sammy, what a diamond or a sapphire necklace is to us, a dragon egg is to Targaryens like the Princess here… she was given something priceless."

Samantha practically swooned. "You, lucky, lucky girl." She clasped Rhaena's shoulders and practically squealed with glee. "Rhaena, you've lived what a maiden's dreams are made of."

"Com'on, Sammy. You're embarrassing me…" The departure of Osmund Strong and Aethan Velaryon to fight the Lysene pirates with her uncle had left the Small Council too few in number - not to mention her grandmother's abrupt departure, which left Rhaena melancholic every time she thought about it. Lord Alyn Stokeworth arrived to fill in the gap as her father's friend, bringing along with him his daughter Samantha. As dramatic and… girlish as she was, Rhaena enjoyed her company and the two bonded quickly. "But yes, I lived the dream." All three of them squealed girlishly.

Climbing on the bed, Larissa looked at the egg resting in the hearth. "So… how do you hatch one of those things?"

"Well, girls," someone new said from the doorway. "Sometimes they hatch in the cradle, sometimes they need fire… and sometimes, according to the darkest of Valyrian blood magic, they need fire and a blood sacrifice."

While such would render most girls squeamish, Rhaena cared not for it meant… "Grandmother!" There, standing in her doorway was Queen Visenya Targaryen, resplendent in a black-red dress of leather and lace that hugged her curves while still showing off an air of battle prowess.

She opened her arms. "Come here, sweetling." Rhaena needed no coaxing, and soon the two dragons embraced. Visenya kissed the crown of her head. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, grandmother." All seemed right in Rhaena's world… at least until her uncle returned, then it would be perfect.

Both Larissa and Samantha fell on their knees. "Your Grace."

Visenya smirked. "Rise. Now girls, why don't you go play in the gardens - I need to speak to Rhaena."

While they eyed her with worry at what this could be about, neither girl could disobey the Queen's direct order. "See ya," Larissa said.

"Goodbye, Rhaena," added Samantha, and both were off.

Soon after, the two were seated on the bed. "So does this mean you and grandfather are happy again?"

Sighing, Visenya looked at her granddaughter. "So you know about that?"

"Egg and I heard muna and kepa talk about it… and grandfather's been so sad."

Her heart clenched at the thought of how lonely and hurt her Egg had been, but the past was the past. "Yes, sweetling. Your grandfather and I are happy again." Visenya ruffled Rhaena's hair. "You used to be so quiet… but now it's as if you have a glow about you."

"All uncle Maegor's doing!" Rhaena exclaimed, drawing a curious look from her grandmother. "He gave me a dragon egg!"

Sure enough, there was the egg. One of Vhagar's last clutch from seven years back. Arrax was hatched from it, while two still remained. Of course you'd give her an egg, my son. Sometimes Maegor was too much like her or Rhaenys for his own good. "He must've seen something strong in you to entrust you with such responsibility."

"Balerion said I am a dragon, so I should act like one."

"Balerion said that?" She'd have to probe this… but first thing's first. "Rhaena… I know your kepa and muna have been engaging you with studies of etiquette and academics, but you are not an ordinary young lady… you are a Princess of House Targaryen and potentially a future dragonrider."

She looked at the egg before looking back at Visenya. "I thought uncle Maegor would teach me how to be a dragon, but he went away." The thought brought her a twinge of pain.

As wonderful that would be… "You need a woman teaching you, and with your aunt as Lady Stark, there's only one female dragonrider left to teach you." The implication was obvious.

Squealing, Rhaena leaped into her grandmother's arms - squeezing her tightly. "Thank you, grandmother. Thank you... thank you... thank you!" She sounded excited… more than excited actually, but even a daughter of House Targaryen knew the honor of meriting the infamous Dragon Queen as their teacher.

Chuckling softly, Visenya hugged her granddaughter back… gods, she was so like Rhaenys it was uncanny - even making her a bit misty-eyed. Same excitement, same passion. She herself had always a more detached determination when not driven by fury, but Rhae… she jumped into everything with a laugh and a glint in her eye. As if the task before her was the most joyous thing in the world. Long shy and reclusive, now her Rhaena had emerged from her shell.

All thanks to her son. Visenya beamed with pride in him…

A sudden noise caught her attention. "Rhaena, wait." Her grandaughter's simpers of glee were masking the sound. "Shhh… listen." It was a sound she hadn't heard in years, but one any Targaryen would be remiss to forget.

Furrowing her brows, Rhaena looked up at her grandmother in confusion until she heard it too. A cracking sound, as if a pick being slammed into stone by a mason. It was soft at first, but grew louder - joined by the sputtering of the fire. Her eyes widened in understanding. "The egg!" Instantly, she was running to the hearth, heart beating out of her chest with anticipation.

It took a moment before Visenya put two and two together, her eyes widening as well. "Really? Now?" It was surprising, though not unwelcome at all as she walked towards the hearth and knelt next to her granddaughter. "I'll be damned…"

The egg, in the midst of the flames, had three large cracks spiraling out of one particular point near the crown. With each passing second, the cracks grew and new ones formed along the scales.

With a pop of the flames, a large fleck broke off… allowing one to peer inside the egg itself. "She's here!" Rhaena said, covering her mouth with her hands to contain the joy she was feeling.

"She?"

"I just know, grandmother."

Visenya nodded. It had been the same with Rhaenys and Meraxes - somehow, she just knew that her dragon would be a girl. Turning her attention back to the hearth, the egg was starting to splinter apart. Almost… And out of the now ruined shell burst a tiny creature. No bigger than a cat, she scrambled atop the burning logs, shaking her head as if to acclimate to the light.

Mesmerized, Rhaena's arms slowly moved towards the creature - amongst the flames. In a daze herself, Visenya didn't notice the act until Rhaena had plunged her palms into the fire itself. "No! Rhaena…" But nothing happened, out came the hatchling, her granddaughter unscathed. She is unburnt…

Standing, Rhaena looked down on her dragon hatchling in awe. "Gods… you're even prettier than in my dream. Chirping, as if instinctively knowing that this was her future rider, the dragon climbed with her wingclaws up Rhaena's body. Hauling herself - with a bit of difficulty - atop Rhaena's head. Giggling, the Princess felt like breaking out into dance. "Grandmother, my dragon is here!"

"That she is." Pride swelled inside Visenya's heart. "Do you have a name for her?"

Rhaena gasped. "I get to name her?"

"Of course. You hatched her and are her first bond. Per the laws of the dragonrider, her name is yours to pick."

It didn't take long for Rhaena to choose - first seen in her dreams, born amongst the fire, it was obvious. "Dreamfyre." The pale blue dragon, Dreamfyre, was now crawling back down to Rhaena's chest. She clung to her dress, claws allowing her to hang close to her rider's heart. "I love you already, Dreamfyre."

Dreamfyre cooed, nuzzling Rhaena's neck.

"Who is this person?"

Archsepton Hugor Flowers looked upon Archmaester Goodwyn, Seneschal of the Citadel, with a raised eyebrow. "Someone quite special I found in the most unexpected places."

"He's a blacksmith's bastard." The Archmaester was much like Hugor, young in his position and committed to clearing out the rot of the ancient institution responsible for all the knowledge of the Realm. However, even he had his prejudices.

"Aren't I a bastard?"

The man's wafer-thin moustache riggled as Goodwyn frowned. "That's different, your bloodline is the most august and trueborn on your father's side. There was no earthly reason the Starry Sept wouldn't accept you into the conclave, let alone into the Order. For those of… baser birth, we must be more selective."

Another policy that needs to change if we are to survive. Dragons that dazzle them over a Faith that shuns them and preaches they are evil, sinful monsters? Hugor knew which side he would choose. "Barth meets your standards, and more."

"He is but eleven namedays."

"He is smarter than half the Archmaesters in the Citadel. This is a certainty for me."

Sighing, Goodwyn leaned forward, wringing his hands together. "Regardless of this discussion, the fact of the matter is that Barth is currently part of the seminary…"

"Where he is excelling beyond all other pedagoges," Hugor interrupted.

"Where he is excelling, yes… but that places him under your tutelage, not ours."

Hugor leaned forward as well. "I intend to personally ordain him as a septon even at his youthful age, but his intelligence will prove more use to me - Barth needs a proper education that the seminary cannot provide and only studies with the best the Citadel can offer will provide such for me."

A snort from the Archmaester. "And why should I grant you this favor?"

While Hugor toyed with blackmailing several important Archmaesters, he chose to place such information into reserve for another time - for more… critical favors he would need. This time… "As the confessor for many of those in import, I have access to whispers of those seeking to depose you to claim control of the Citadel."

Goodwyn's eyes widened. Most learned men are horrible at the game. "Tell me."

"No… not until Barth begins his studies."

Grunting, Goodwyn nevertheless nodded. "He can start on the morrow… I'll begin his teaching myself."

Hugor smiled, rising and clasping the man's hands. "May the Seven bless you, Archmaester. You have made the right decision."

"Let us hope, Archsepton. Let us hope."

As Goodwyn made his exit, Ser Damon Morrigan of the Warrior's Sons appeared at the door. "Your Eminence… the High Septon requires your presence in his chambers."

Brow raising, Hugor had a sinking feeling in his gut… but hid it well. Ser Damon was the captain of the Holy Guard, a section of the Warrior's Sons that protected the High Septon himself. The knight angled for the position of Grand-Captain as the Ser Tomas Crakehall was getting on in years, but even his political power in Oldtown was limited. A matter that Hugor filed away for future use. "What does he require?"

"I only bring word of his request… and to ensure compliance. Come with me, Archsepton."

Sighing, he did as bidded, walking down the narrow hallways of the High Septon's palace. The large building was dwarfed by the immense structures of the Citadel, Hightower, and Starry Sept, but such was relative - it dwarfed most mid-sized castles, but was largely falling apart from wear and tear. Gods, he wished to renovate it… as he did most of the Faith's holdings in the Realm, but Hugor as of yet didn't have the power. Soon.

Ser Damon opened the door of the High Septon's chambers, though instead of standing guard outside he followed Hugor in.

The Archsepton knew why the moment he caught the image of High Septon Gerold. His jovial face was contorted in anger, an image that was completely unsuited to him… it didn't make it any less terrifying. "I granted you the greatest of honors, Hugor," he began, voice even but with a tinge of anger. "Sponsored you to rise far above your station, practically designating you as my successor. By the Seven above… I always considered you my son."

Hugor kept calm. "You honor me with such trust and affection, your Holiness."

Only for Gerold to throw a cup at him. "Then why did Damon find correspondence between yourself and Wyl of Wyl!"

He raised his brow. "Such sounds as a pernicious conspiracy to frame me by the enemies of yourself…"

"I recognized your scrawl, Hugor!" Gerold rose, shaking. "Plotting raids in the marches! Coordinating insurrection against their Graces? I've tolerated much of your initiatives but this… treason is beyond the pale!" He took a seat on his bed, laying down. "Ser Damon will ensure you are taken to King's Landing so you may meet the King's Justice. You do not deserve a trial of the Faith. Get him out of my sight!" But Ser Damon didn't move, or budge. "I gave you an order!"

Whether coordinated or independent of each other, both began to approach the High Septon. "Gerold," began Hugor. "You have given me great gifts and I thank you for your kindness to a simple bastard orphan… but your kind are obsolete."

"What is this?!"

"You think a man that has committed treason is above murder?" Suddenly, Ser Damon grabbed the High Septon's waist and legs - Hugor grabbed a pillow and shoved it against Gerold's face, watching him thrash about. "The age of the appeasers and apostates has come to an end, Gerold." The thrashing grew weaker and weaker as time flew past, air slowly being cut off from the struggling High Septon. "No longer will we be disunited… no longer will we be subjects of demons upon the earth…" All movement ceased. "Soon begins the day where we become what we were destined to be."

Both darting back, eyes fell upon the unseeing ones of High Septon Gerold Hightower. His mouth open, but limbs slack. Not a breath passed his lips.

Breathing deeply, Hugor clenched the pillow tightly. His vision grew murky, weighed down by the surreal realization that the High Septon was dead. That he killed the High Septon with his own hands… and that he felt nothing of it. "Ser Damon," he breathed calmly.

"Yes, your Eminence?"

"Check if he's dead."

Armor clinking as he stepped towards the bed, Ser Damon reached down to check Gerold Hightower's pulse. "He's dead, your Eminence."

Letting out a deep, purging sigh from within his lungs, Hugor shook his head as he approached the lifeless corpse of someone so full of life. "It is a tragedy, Ser Morrigan." Gently, Hugor eased the pillow underneath the High Septon's head. "He was so filled with merriment and life, that the bodily stresses of such a life caught up to him. Such is why we exercise and eat sparingly."

"Of course, but I do not think His Holiness held any regrets of how he lived."

Hugor closed the eyes of the Seven's ambassador to the earthly realm, allowing him peace in death… a death that he himself had caused. "I know for certain that he regretted nothing, which makes this all the more tragic, to die in one's sleep of the heart malady." And so the official truth was born. "Call the other guards and maesters. Inform them that we found High Septon Gerold dead after arriving to meet with him for daily prayers."

Ser Damon clicked his heels and bowed. "At once, your Eminence."

As the door closed, Hugor took one last look at the corpse - of the man that treated him as a son for the longest of times. For the life of him, Hugor's mind only went to one thought. And now I owe that zealous idiot Morrigan everything.

Without another word, he sat in the High Septon's plush armchair - working on his expression of grief for when Ser Damon returned with the maesters.

Chapter Text

Feeling the gentle bobbing of the carrack as it sailed through a rather calm morning upon Blackwater Bay, Queen Visenya Targaryen laid upon the bed and reflected on the man she had spent her life with almost from the cradle - the year spent before his birth either one of freedom or one of loneliness and lack of purpose depending on whether she held ire at him. All in all, such a lifetime brought her heart nothing but warmth.

Aegon I Targaryen, King of Westeros and rider of the Black Dread. A name that filled the world with a sense of awe and fear - both oft intertwined and deriving from the same source. Fierce and infamous herself, Visenya both understood the fire and blood her husband possessed and found quite a reservoir of affection and… frankly lust at such a personality.

Only a dragon can truly love another dragon. Their daughter was proving that direwolves, magic themselves, were part of such a statement but Visenya always considered that the exception that proved the rule.

Given such power, such might and terror that the mere name of Aegon I Targaryen elicited from the Wall to distant Astapor, it made the scene before Visenya all the more amusing. "Can you believe this?!" the King raged, though less from anger and more from despair.

"Believe what, dear brother?" Visenya teased, unable to resist stoking the flames.

Planted in front of her vanity, Aegon stared into the looking glass with the biggest wince. "You see this?!" He tugged on a tiny clump of hair. "This is white. Not silver, white!" A quick darting in to comb a loose strand of hair led to nearly half an hour in front of the thing, despairing about his 'greying hair.'

"Oh it's not white, you idiot." Fighting a giggle the whole time, she eased herself off the bed and walked to embrace him from behind. "You still have a full mane of silver hair to go with your health."

"What health, Vis? I'm falling apart." Aegon groaned, covering his head with his hands. "Raven's feet on my eyes, a damned creak in my back and hips whenever I ride Balerion." That unfortunate fact had led to a week's moping - not brooding as he normally did, but actual moping - about Dragonstone drove Visenya and the dragons insane. "And now I'm going white. Face it, Vis, I'm a fucking old man." Even saying it seemed to bring him physical pain.

Sighing, Visenya hugged him harder. She'd be lying if the attitude of his was completely silly. Each twinge or slowdown of her reaction time while sparring or riding Vhagar struck a nerve within her, but she admitted to considering it with more of a level head. "Husband, you need to give yourself a break. We've been rulers for thirty-five years. One and six namedays upon the earth, four and four of those spent as my beloved husband." She nuzzled his neck, feeling the still powerful sinew and muscle of her brother and husband.

Aegon snorted. "Has it really been four and four namedays?" It amazed him. "Sometimes it's just yore that I married you… and others it feels like a lifetime."

"Do you regret it?" Visenya asked, half teasingly. The time where she'd seriously ask that question was long past.

And his answer was always the same. "Not a single second of it." Tilting his head, their lips met sweetly.

Visenya rested their foreheads together after the kiss. "You've lived a full life, Egg. There isn't a reason you shouldn't take easy some of the time rather than chasing your martial youth as Argilac Durrandon did."

"You have a point there," he acceded.

She smirked. "That shocks you?" Before he could respond, Visenya resumed the kiss. Even at one and six, Egg was still the handsomest man alive - objectively too, not just in her eyes. Some men aged horribly. Not her Egg.

As heated as it got, they reluctantly pulled apart. "Oh of the times where that would lead to something," Aegon sighed, smiling.

"Last night wasn't enough for you, lecher?" Visenya shot back, winking. Theirs was still active to the envy of Court. "Besides, there is much to do."

"Had we ridden dragons to the capitol, those things would've been done."

"We'd have just needed to wait for our entourage so there's no difference." Hugging him once more, she made for the door to their cabin. "I trust there won't be any further breakdowns by yourself?"

He rolled his eyes. "I shan't be long. Go check on our granddaughter." Visenya blew him a kiss and slipped out the door...

Only to nearly stumble as she ran into her Lady in Waiting. "Oh," the young girl exclaimed, stumbling back but recovering herself. "Forgive me, your Grace. Allow me to help…"

Visenya merely chuckled, smoothing down the pleats of her red-lined black dress. "I am not an invalid, Tyanna. No need to fuss too much over me. Are you alright?"

Tyanna of Pentos nodded, nevertheless helping to straighten out the Queen's outfit. "I am fine, your Grace. Princess Rhaena merely asked for me to check up on you and his Grace."

"Both of us are fine, and I was going to see her anyways."

The girl was older than Rhaena by about three years, in Visenya's company for two ever since a royal visit to Pentos over trade agreements. Likely the unacknowledged bastard daughter of one of the magistrars of the city, she was found in the highest of circles when catching Visenya's eye. A little digging and one look into Tyanna's Valyrian lavender eyes and the request from the Pentoshi council was granted. Visneya didn't regret the decision one bit, for Tyanna proved invaluable to her over the years.

As she did for Rhaena, surprisingly enough. "She is on the main deck… practicing her swordsplay."

Either swordsplay or dragonriding. Visenya knew her granddaughter. "Time as any to see her."

Aside from those darting about on their duties, the sailors aboard the Dragonfire all milled together, watching the drama unfold. They parted ways for the Queen, who herself crossed her arms and watched with a smirk. "How long have they been at it?"

Lord Commander Corlys Velaryon, resplendent in his plate armor but forgoing a helm and keeping his own silver mane on full display, shrugged. "Bout ten minutes, give or take. She's most certainly your blood, your Grace."

Visenya nodded, seeing Rhaena dodge a blow from her sparring partner - Ser Raymont Baratheon, knight of the Kingsguard and the nephew of the Queen. Built like an ox, much like his father, Raymont didn't hold the same clever streak of his mother Argella even as he took after her in coloring. He was unimaginative, but brave and gallant, a worthy opponent. Hefting his dulled greatsword, Raymont lunged at the Princess…

Only for Rhaena to jerk back with dexterity, spinning her own sparring longsword and slashing at Raymont's legs. She missed as he himself retreated, but the move blunted his momentum. She's learning.

Seeing her covered in sweat, Visenya interrupted before someone truly tired out or was hurt. "Enough, go back to your duties," she called out. The sailors and servants scrambled away. No one refused to heed an order from Visenya Targaryen. Looking at Rhaena, she shook her head. "It was foolish, actually fighting with a sworn brother of the Kingsguard."

Her granddaughter glowered. "I had it under control."

Visenya shook her head. "You remind me of me when I was your age. Reckless and with something to prove… you don't need to prove anything, Rhaena. By the gods, you are already a force to be reckoned with. Allow it to build slowly and naturally."

The glower subsided. "Alright, grandmother."

A smile curved on Visenya's lips. "That was your instructor. As your grandmother, you were amazing." The glow in her sweat-drenched, exhausted expression rivaled the sun in brightness.

Four and ten, anyone that remembered the Princess Rhaena Targaryen of six years prior wouldn't have recognized her. Gone was the shy, scared wisp of a girl. Years of training under Visenya and fostering at Dragonstone once the crumbling Aegonfort grew too dilapidated for the King to live there anymore had transformed her. In her place was a young woman slender yet toned, delicate in beauty but strong of body and mind, friendly and fierce. A perfect blend of both Rhaenys and herself - the Queen was so proud of her.

"Can we continue with a spar, grandmother?" Rhaena was nothing if not eager.

But the Queen shook her head. "No, you must get cleaned up and dressed. When we make landfall you are to see your parents again." Overhead, three dragons shot by - the massive shapes of Balerion and Vhagar, joined by a pale blue dragon only a third of the size. "And no disappearing to ride on Dreamfyre." That drew an eye roll from the Princess. "Save that for tonight."

Sometimes only Visenya could understand Rhaena these days. Just as sometimes only Aegon could understand their own son.

Withdrawing his palm from the head of the helmless knight, the austerely-dressed High Septon gazed down at the kneeling form of Ser Joffrey Doggett. "Good Ser, Knight of the Realm," he began, the sun sparkling off the silver-colored plate armor and rainbow cloak. "Do you accept the mantle of the Father, always to be true? Do you accept the mantle of the Mother, to strive always for the will of the Seven who are One? Do you accept the mantle of the Warrior, for your sword to be the avenging might of the gods' will?"

"I accept them with all humility, by the name of Father, Mother, Smith, Warrior, Maiden, Stranger, and Crone." Ser Joffrey's dirty blonde locks and handlebar moustache blew in the winds off the Sunset Sea… adding to his fierceness. "With only death to extinguish my vow."

High Septon Hugor Flowers bid him to stand. "Rise off your knees, Ser Joffrey of House Doggett, Captain of the Warrior's Sons and Shield of Lannisport."

"Seven Eternal!" In one smooth motion, the five hundred Warrior's Sons of the Lannisport Chapter drew their swords high in the air. Heralding their new Captain with the glory of their august order. Dressed in their cloaks of glittering rainbows and with seven crystal spikes protruding atop their dress helms, the denizens of Lannisport cheered. Tens of thousands were gathered in the square of the Sept of Gerold, built for the glory of the Seven by King Gerold Lannister of the Rock, all to watch the anointing of Joffrey Doggett as the new Shield of he Lannisport faithful.

Clapping his hands, the aged form of Lord Loren Lannister strode forward next to Hugor. He walked with a stoop and a slight limp, but nevertheless carried himself as the King he used to be. "A son of the Westerlands," he began, looking at the son of Lord Kevan Doggett, his loyal bannerman. "May this land prosper with the beneficence of the gods."

"Yes, and I am confident it shall!" announced Hugor, the crowd eating it up with wild cheers. In perfect discipline that moment, the three thousand Poor Fellows standing at attention behind the knights of the Warrior's Sons took their spears and smacked them upon the cobblestones. Echoing a loud thunderclap that showed off their might.

In the presence of his ultimate commander, Ser Joffrey drew his blade, its crystal pommel glittering an aura of color. "My sword is yours to command, your Holiness."

"I am in no need of it now, Ser Joffrey, but be vigilant. Our Faith is peaceful, but rises to arms at the need of the innocent." Again, the Poor Fellow's smacked their spears onto the cobblestones, drowning out the cheering crowd. "By the Grace of the Seven! Go forth and bring their peace upon the world!"

"Seven Eternal!" boomed the throats of the two thousand sworn swords, the Warrior's Sons clicking their bootheels before marching towards their barracks - leading the Poor Fellows alongside them.

The show over with, the crowd began to disperse, House Lannister bannermen sworn to Lord Loren blocking off the adulating faithful from mobbing the High Septon as he made his way to the wheelhouse that would take him back to Casterly Rock. "It seems that their training paid off handsomely, your Holiness."

Hugor nodded absentmindedly, waving to the crowd - driving some of the zealous faithful to tears at the perceived blessings of the Seven's Emissary to the Earth. Some in the Most Devout would speak ill of these people in the most elitist of manners. Not Hugor… he welcomed such devotion, and the boost it gave to his ego. "True, but I'm not surprised. Ser Joffrey is a professional warrior, Barth, and he would run a tight ship with the Lannisport Chapter."

Forehead wrinkling in a frown, Septon Barth - Secretary to the High Septon - looked the reedy, bookish child in spite of his seven and ten namedays allowing him entrance to manhood. "I was referring to the Poor Fellows." No one that truly knew him let looks deceive. He was smart… the smartest and most strategic mind Hugor had seen other than himself.

Such was why the High Septon allowed his young secretary to speak more plainly to him than others. "Oh… right. That too." Two Warrior's Sons of Hugor's personal bodyguard flanked the entrance to the wheelhouse, rainbow-pattern shields at their sides and allowing them entry. "They clean up nicely, don't they?"

"I still remember when they entered the hamlet where my father tended his forge… gave us all fleas with how filthy they were."

"They still likely have fleas, Barth," he smirked. "But your point has validity." Barth placed his hands in his lap, smiling at the soft praise - for Hugor, it was golden.

The years had been both kind and exhausting to the bastard High Septon upon his election by the Most Devout - after the unfortunate funeral service of Gerold Hightower, his predecessor. Too many useless husks to slowly purge out of key positions, too many feelers needing to be sent out for actually trustworthy and competent replacements, and too many zealous fools that couldn't be done away with. He owed too many people too many favors in his rise to power. Hugor hated compromising his plans, but Sharra had taught him the necessity of it.

I must, but like it I cannot.

Among the Faith Militant, the greatest change occurred. For the Warrior's Sons, the inclusion of such key allies as Damon Morrigen meant Hugor could only expand the order thanks to the charter given by Crown Prince Aenys - bringing in the best of warriors such as Ser Joffrey, many of them bastards that flocked to the call of the Seven. But the biggest overhaul was the Poor Fellows. Initially an armed component of the Begging Brothers, with the help of Barth and several sympathetic Lords and knights, they did away with the axes, pitchforks, and scythes of the ineffectual mob and replaced them with a proper fighting force. Well-drilled and well-armed. Many even sported chainmail.

However, there was still much to do. Six years wasted in clearing out the old to make way for the new. Hugor would not waste the next six if he had anything to say about it. "Gods, when will this thing move?"

Move it didn't… not until two other passengers entered. Few could invade the privacy of the High Septon - Loren Lannister and his son and heir Tyrion were among those few. "Mind if I take a seat, your Holiness?" asked Loren, not waiting for permission before lowering himself across from Hugor.

"Don't you have your own wheelhouse, Lord Loren?" Hugor replied, narrowing his eyes.

"We do, but I wish for your esteemed company… your young prodigy here is merely a bonus."

"I do believe, father," piped up Tyrion. "That Barth was the one who selected Ser Joffrey as Captain of the Lannisport Chapter." Unlike Loren's previous heir, there was nothing craven about Ser Tyrion. All the Realm knew of his prowess on the jousting field, in the melee, and between the sheets of a maiden or lady's bed. Although his mother was a Tully, his features and demeanor were all Lannister.

Barth was unresponsive. "I hope Lord Lannister isn't displeased with my choice," he said with a firmness that seemed uncharacteristic of his type.

Tyrion chuckled. "Not at all. I squired for him, the best of warriors. It was smart, though our House is all the lesser for losing him."

"We have our capable knights, your Holiness," Loren interjected after his son. "I do not mean offense, but considering the recent leadership of the Warrior's Sons are a… how do I put this?"

"A bunch of bloviating, arrogant characters with less tact than a rhinoceros?" Barth finished for him. Hugor stifled a laugh.

Loren didn't stifle his laugh. "Took the words right out of me, young Barth. In any case, you are done ill service by these people, especially if your goals… haven't changed in the intervening years."

"We are as the gods made us, Lord Lannister," Barth said. "Strong and weak, good and bad, cruel and kind, heroic and selfish." Both lions raised their eyebrows at the cryptic statement. He was known to speak in intellectual riddles on occasion, to throw people off balance.

"I believe my secretary means to say that we must deal with our allies as they are… and forge new ones of better character." The wheelhouse passing over the uneven streets of the city, Hugor decided to breach what he wished to discuss in the privacy of Casterly Rock. This is a reasonable place. "There is a favor you can grant me, Lord Lannister. One I would rather discuss prior to our journey to King's Landing for the jubilee."

"Oh?"

Hugor folded his hands. "Thousands from across Westeros are flocking to the banners of the Poor Fellows, but they are undisciplined - even my soldiers are untested in the ways of war. Not tourney fighting, but war."

Loren wasn't alive and kicking into his seventh decade by having an addled mind. "You wish for my men to help train the new thousands of Poor Fellows?"

"I want your son to lead the effort, but yes." Both Lannisters looked at each other, digesting what Hugor's offer could mean for them. "You need not decide till after the Jubilee… especially if your efforts to secure a betrothal for Ser Tyrion prove fruitful."

"You shall support our efforts at such, and you have a deal, your Holiness."

"Done."

"Ally…" Rhaena gasped, waist squeezed nearly beyond the point of endurance. "I can't breathe…"

Undeterred, Princess Alysanne Targaryen refused to break her tight embrace. "I'm so happy you're here!" she exclaimed, voice bubbly with gentle excitement. "I missed you."

"I… missed… you too…" Rhaena choked out.

A laugh came from her younger brother Viserys, all of eleven namedays. "Enough, let our sister breathe." He always had a way with words, managing to convince the five nameday old Alysanne to disengage… though she did so with a pout. "Don't mind her… she hasn't a troublesome bone in her body."

Rhaena smirked even as she rubbed her stomach. "Neither did I till Dreamfyre hatched, yet now they brand me a terror."

"I am not one of those, and we both know little Ally has not a malevolent bone in her body," Viserys laughed, the siblings taking each other in a hug. "We did miss you… did you have to wait six moons between now and your last visit?"

"Blame grandfather for that… you know how he prefers Dragonstone to this gaudy place." Rhaena wrinkled her nose at the lavish decorations in her kepa's manse.

Viserys raised an eyebrow. "You used to not mind it much."

No, she didn't… aesthetically it was beautiful, but the gilt and gold that made it so extravagant was just… "A dragonlord needs not these trappings to command respect. We ride dragons for that."

A wide, superior smile emerged from the fourth Royal in the room. "When my egg hatches, I shall bond with the biggest dragon in the world!" Though a mere six name says, Prince Jaehaerys spoke with such imperious pride to rival Sharra Arryn or Theo Tyrell. It was both charming and… quite irritating at times.

"I don't think you'll be riding Balerion any time soon, Jae." Rhaena, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, ruffled Jae's hair - mussing it up. "He's grandfather's."

"Hey!"

Her baby brother's indignant attitude was quite amusing. "Yours shan't outgrow the Black Dread."

"Yes it will." He stomped his foot in insistence. It seemed childish, but there was an element to it that indicated a more permanent part of his personality. I would find him a proper foster if I was muna and kepa. "I will have the bestest dragon."

Rhaena smirked. "Of course you will, Jae-Jae."

He reddened. "Don't call me that, I am a prince!"

But Alysanne giggled. "Jae-Jae... Jae-Jae…" The little Princess skipped off, teasing him without even knowing it… Rhaena doubted she had it in her to tease for amusement.

Jaehaerys wasn't amused. "You better stop that!" He ran after her, the two of them ending up chasing each other through the halls.

Brother and sister shared a chuckle while making their way to sit. "Forgive our brother for his haughtiness. Egg gave him his own egg and Jae's been dreaming of being our uncle every night since - especially after it was confirmed he'd show up for the feast."

A warm flurry in her heart filled Rhaena at the mention of their uncle. "Uncle Maegor's coming here?" Not a day went by she didn't remember his kindness to her… how he gifted her the world twice, first taking her to Balerion and second in giving her Dreamfyre's egg. I wouldn't be a rider without him… "I haven't seen him since after his wedding."

"With all the adventures he's been on, not surprising, though mother's not keen on it."

She furrowed her brows. "Whyever not? He's our uncle."

"Our uncle is a brute, according to our mother that is." Eyes turned to see the newcomer enter the chambers - Prince Aegon Targaryen, eldest son of Crown Prince Aenys and the second in line to the Iron Throne according to him at least. "Dearest sister, forgive me for not greeting you with the others." He embraced his elder sister, kissing her cheek rather affectionately. "I was otherwise preoccupied."

While his kiss elicited merely a sisterly affection in her, their closeness induced Rhaena to sniff him. Her brother reeked of sweat. "Were you sparring?"

Unlike Jaehaerys, who seemed almost eager to show off and preen his feelings of superiority, Aegon was far less blatant about it. He carried himself in a charming manner but with an innate swagger that made him near irresistible to those of court - even at such a young age. "Aye. Ser Gregor says I am a natural at it," he bragged rather casually. "I wished to take a bath for your arrival, but I couldn't bear delaying our reunion."

"Quite." Rhaena was immune to his charms and regarded him as he was - her beloved brother, but sometimes a bit offputting. "Perhaps we should try sparring together. Grandmother says I am improving daily."

"I am sure you are, sister. Grandmother teaches you, after all."

Rhaena waited for him to continue, sensing something dismissive in his tone, but he didn't. She knew what he wished to say, though. 'I'll go easy on you when we do. "There we go, it's settled then." When did you become this way, Egg? They always had been so close, and he a sweet boy, but his occasional selfish outbursts ended… like this. It was disconcerting, but Rhaena put it aside to address something else he said. "But why do you speak of our uncle so?"

His brow rose. "You don't believe our mother?" he asked skeptically. Viserys looked the same to Rhaena… while he enjoyed hearing tales of their uncle from father, grandfather, grandmother, or Aunt Rhaenys, he was always the closest of the royal brood to their mother.

"I believe muna, but uncle Maegor has been nothing but kind to me."

"Ah yes, he gave you Dreamfyre's egg." Aegon laughed gently and patted Rhaena's shoulder. "I believe a conversation father and Murmison the other day had would enlighten you. Apparently, grandmother wished to betroth you and our uncle around that time."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"She did?" Viserys was completely shocked.

"Aye, I wouldn't lie about something our father said." He looked affronted for a moment before the smile returned. "Thank the gods cooler heads prevailed. Aunt Ceryse is a proper alliance to better our house, and it allows you and I to wed."

"Would you really marry Rhae?" Viserys asked Aegon.

Egg shrugged. "It is the way of our family. Our uncle has no children, Ally is too young, and I wouldn't wish to wed any of the wild babes our aunt quickens with the Stark." He and the Starks never got along - never since Brandon Snow made him do pushups till he vomited for letting out the keep's pigs as a prank during a royal progress their father made to Winterfell. Muna was enraged but Aunt Rhaenys thought it so amusing that Kepa refused to make a stink of it.

"You could marry Larissa?"

"Our sister's friend? Not in this lifetime - she's basically a wildling the way she acts."

Rhaena heard none of this, her mind focused on what Egg had revealed. Me… and uncle Maegor? Husband and wife? Eight-nameday her couldn't have understood it, but she was four and ten now. The thought was… quite heavy to digest for the moment.

"Anyways," she heard Aegon say. "Mother told me to escort you to your lessons, brother. Rhaena," he said, pecking her lips and making her jump slightly. "I shall see you at dinner."

Watching her brothers leave, Rhaena sat there - thinking of her uncle. No… it couldn't possibly have worked. He was in love with her aunt Ceryse.

Wasn't he?

"That dirty cunt is up to no good again!" Orys Baratheon slammed his steel fist upon the table, causing a clang to ring out in the cavernous strategy chambers. "He's been quiet for too long, but I know he has a foot in it."

Narrowing his eyes, Prince Maegor Targaryen glanced at his cousins - both Aerion and Davos held the same resentment for their father's mutilation at the hands of Lord Malcolm Wyl, but bore themselves with the reservation of their mother. Argella Baratheon, still the same beauty as she was in her youth, was not one to make any rash decisions. "Forgive me uncle, but do we have any proof of Lord Wyl's involvement?"

Uncle Orys may not have been a dragonrider, but he clearly inherited the same Targaryen fire that Maegor's parents had in spades. "The Marches? Nightsong? Blackhaven? That's just his old stomping grounds, Maegor. Has to be him… toying with me after five long years hoping I let my guard down. Well not anymore…"

"Husband." Argella's voice was soft but firm - decades of marriage to the bastard son of Aerion Targaryen left her perfectly able to temper his more mercurial side. "This is not the time to act stupidly."

"I agree, father," added Davos, always the calmest and most calculating of the Baratheon brood. "There is no gain from aggressive moves without further confirmation of Dornish involvement…"

A groan came from Aerion, the heir of Storm's End. Though black of hair and blue of eye, he carried himself as a true dragonlord. He and Maegor got along swimmingly, but his tendency to ruthlessness reminded the Prince too much of his younger years. "He took our father's hand and butchers our bannermen. I say we infiltrate and slit his throat." Aye, he could have used Lord Snow's tutelage.

Argella glared at her eldest. "Do so and we risk war with Dorne. The Realms are not ready, much as we all would want that." Durrandon by blood, her family's longstanding hate of the Dornish predated the perils of the Dornish War.

"May I make a suggestion?" All eyes turned to Maegor. He may have had a headache and felt the fatigue of the long day darting back and forth with his uncle and cousins about the day to day activities of Storm's End, but the Prince's mind was still sharp on matters of war. Even if Uncle Orys had a vexing tendency to call councils after dinner hours. "There is an abandoned keep here just past the border between Dorne and the Stormlands, Vulture's Roost."

"I've heard of it, cousin," Davos replied. "Been ruined since before Arlan the Conqueror."

Maegor looked him in the eye. "It's located at the mouth of the Wyl, perfect to keep watch on infiltrators without officially encroaching on Dornish soil. Refurbish the keep, give it to one of your favored knightly houses, and have them fortified against any incursions."

Seemingly open to the idea, Orys looked to his wife expectantly. Argella gave nothing away as she thought, but simply nodded. "Aye, it is done!" Orys smacked his nephew on the back. "You have your father's way with armies, nephew."

He smiled softly. "I try, uncle. I try."

About half an hour later, Maegor made his way through the halls of the guest quarter - the howling wind smacked against the outer walls of the great keep, but as they did for Durran Godsgrief the walls held firm. It did leave a draft that wafted through the keep, chilling Maegor to the bone.

Long would he look forward to the warm blankets of his bed… till he ultimately realized what waited for him there. Not a malevolence he needed to do battle against, but something altogether worse.

"Another night in the True North, yer' Grace?" grinned the large man in chainmail armor standing outside his door.

Maegor glared at him, but sighed. "Tis not a jape that draws amusement, Dirk. Just sorrow." Night in the True North… a cold night… no warmth. The implication was obvious from there.

The guard shrugged. "Gotta find amusement where ye' can, dragonprince." Put the man in the best plate armor of the Reach or Stormlands, and he'd still give off the vibe of the Free Folk. They turned eyes when Maegor brought the band from Winterfell to be his sworn swords - oaths they forewent, since it was fighting alongside the Prince that acted as their bond - but he wouldn't change it for the world. They were loyal companions… and more. "Ralla's bed is always warmer than ye southerners are used to… ooh, apologies. Lady Ralla." Dirk snickered at the last.

A half-hearted laugh left Maegor's lips. "Perhaps, my friend. I just hope it does not come to that." He loved Ralla still, but their resumed nights were just a reminder of how far he had fallen. "Goodnight."

"Night, yer' Grace." The wildling remained at his post as Maegor slipped into the guest chambers.

A candle burned dimly beside the bed, a sign that his dear wife remained awake. "Where were you?" Ceryse rested on the bed. She sat up against her pillow with a book in hand, but her green eyes were directed at him instead. Once, they held nothing but warmth - now, a coldness mixed with sorrow.

Of this I cannot blame her. That was the tragedy of it. "With my uncle." Maegor began removing his doublet and boots. "Wyl of Wyl is likely making mischief again."

"Are you sure it wasn't with your whore?"

Maegor looked back at his beautiful, distant wife. "Do not call her that."

Ceryse narrowed her eyes before chuckling - a laugh that held no humor. "What should I call her then? I know you graced her bed the last two nights, so what changed? Was she unable to…" she trailed off, instead looking away. Lip quivering.

Left in only a sleep tunic and loose trousers, Maegor wouldn't argue with her. Wouldn't hurt her more than she already hurt. "I wished to be with my wife tonight, tis all."

"I wish I could believe you."

"Believe what you want." Empathetic that he was, Maegor was just too tired. "Goodnight, and snuff out that candle." He rolled onto his side, back facing her.

She complied promptly, assuming the same position as darkness filled the room.

"Hurry up, Princess," Ser Symond Crayne urged, though making sure for his voice to be soft and non-threatening. No one wished to antagonize Rhaena Targaryen… and why would they? For those of the court of Aegon and Visenya Targaryen, she was undoubtedly the favorite - a mantle once held by her aunt before her - and her grandmother before that. "The ceremony is undoubtedly starting."

"You need not urge me, Ser Symond." The young knight was the newest addition to the Kingsguard, accepted by her kepa and anointed by grandfather. Generally quiet and modest, he was nevertheless a loyal knight - of one of the houses of the Stormlands sworn to her uncle Orys, Rhaena had no doubt. "It was Larissa who couldn't choose which dress to wear."

The Velaryon maiden scowled. "Don't blame me, Rhae - it was Samantha that kept bombarding me with addled nonsense about 'what matches and what doesn't?'" She rolled her eyes.

Samantha Stokeworth blinked, as if shocked she was being blamed. "But we need to look our best for Prince Maegor's arrival."

"It isn't just my uncle that's arriving, Sammy." Rhaena giggled under her breath. "My aunt and her husband are also arriving on Arrax from Winterfell." The whole family needed to be in King's Landing for the Jubilee - thirty-five years since her grandparents had been crowned. Thirty-five years of Targaryen rule over Westeros.

"I know, but Princess Rhaenys comes every year. This is the first time your uncle is coming to court since he left to fight the Lysene Pirates six years ago." A sigh. "The great conqueror returns," she swooned, hand over her heart.

Brow raised, Tyanna eyed Samantha queerly. "Is she always like this? So… dramatic?"

"Yes," replied both Rhaena and Larissa.

Luckily for them, the ceremony hadn't begun yet… though Rhaena couldn't be sure if grandmother and grandfather waited for her or not. Everyone that was everyone in Court was there. Her kepa and muna stood among his friends and their wives. Alyn Stokeworth - Samantha's father - Ronnel Arryn, Murmison, Tybolt Reyne, Aethan Velaryon - Larissa's father - and Myles Smallwood, all of them some of the most noble highborns of the realm and 'lovers of fun' as kepa would often say. Rhaena liked them all, though lately Murmison's fondness for quoting the Seven Pointed Star began to chafe on her.

While Tyanna excused herself to stand behind her grandmother, seated in a black chair directly beside her grandfather upon the Iron Throne, the other girls stayed with Rhaena rather than go to their parents. "You're late," hissed Alyssa, adjusting Jaehaerys' doublet and Alysanne's gown.

"We got here as fast as we could, muna," Rhaena replied. "Apologies." That mollified her, and now standing beside her brother she looked over the rest of court.

Most of the Crownlands lords were there, as was Theo Tyrell. Daeron and Gargon Qoherys were hard to miss, the latter wearing a garish outfit of white and black that looked like the skulls of his sigil. Off to the right were Sharra and Jonos Arryn among the Vale Lords - she was still beautiful in spite of being older than Queen Visenya, while Jonos looked nothing as his tourney-winning brother. Almost cunning in appearance, like a rat or fox.

Beside them was Allard Royce of Runestone, a favorite of Lord Torrhen. With him was a young girl Rhaena's age, hair the color of a raven and with kind eyes. Their gazes met, and the girl smiled at Rhaena. She smiled back, resolved to seek her out at a later date.

Two rather young lords had the look of northerners. Rhaena had to wrack her brain before matching the faces to names… Theomore Manderly and Marlon Umber.

She noticed some absences. "Egg, where are the Lannisters? Or Uncle Orys?"

Aegon huffed. "Uncle Orys is arriving a day behind uncle Maegor, I believe. As for the Lannisters, they were sidetracked by the arrival of High Septon Flowers in Lannisport… or so mother tells me."

"Oh." Her eyes darted to where the delegation of the Faith stood. Archsepton Boniface was there, tall and proud in his robes. Beside him was Ser Damon Morrigen, Grand Captain of the Faith Militant, and Wat Hewer of the Poor Fellows. While Wat just looked bored, the others had hard looks about their faces. Rhaena instinctively mistrusted them, the opposite of her fondness for Murmison.

Her grandmother would approve of her instincts there.

Rounding it up were the most important individuals - her grandmother and grandfather at the dias, joined by the small council of Osmund Strong, Grand Maester Gawen, the gout-hobbled Corlen Blackwood, and Hand of the King Torrhen Stark. "Let it begin," announced the King. "My granddaughter has finally arrived." He winked at Rhaena, who blushed.

Trumpets blaring, Lord Commander Corlys cleared his throat. "Presenting before court, Lord Brandon and Princess Rhaenys of House Stark, heirs to Winterfell - and their children Lord Aegon, Lord Alaric, and Lady Saera."

The black-coated guards pulled open the massive ironwood doors to the great hall - a gift from House Forrester of Ironrath upon the birth of Princess Alysanne - revealing a dozen Northern spearmen. Wearing Stark insignia, they surrounded the young future rulers of the Realm's largest kingdom… cultural attitudes knowing but not fully trusting the southern Targaryen men-at-arms to protect their future lord and his beloved family.

All of the North had practically adopted their Valyrian lady and her children, almost more popular than the older Starks in their eyes.

As for the King and Queen, they failed to hide their beaming smiles as their daughter, goodson, and grandchildren knelt before the Iron Throne. "We swear our undying fealty, your Grace," they said at once.

Sharing a look with Torrhen, matching grins on their faces, Aegon rose from the Iron Throne and walked down the dias. "Rise, daughter." Damn the proprieties of court, he immediately embraced his daughter - the embrace immediately returned. "Gods, it's been too long."

"I agree, kepa," Rhaenys replied, enjoying the comfort of her father's embrace.

"You look like a Stark."

She smirked. "A compliment, given my status." Still possessing the almost otherworldly Valyrian beauty of her mother and aunt, Rhaenys was nevertheless styled as a northerner. Silver hair let down in soft curls about her shoulders, the fancy dresses of the south that she used to wear were eschewed in favor of a thick woolen gown. Grey and white suited her coloring, Rhaenys looking like a snow Princess… the nod to her blood were red and black etchings on the hem of her dress, mimicking dragons spitting flame from their maws.

"Don't hog her, Aegon," came the firm, feminine voice. Mother and daughter practically squealed as they embraced, softly gushing over more… feminine aspects.

Leaving them to their reunion, the King looked over his goodson. "Lord Stark, you have the look of your father about you." Brandon did harken back to when Aegon first met Torrhen that chilly day in the Riverlands, where the King of Winter avoided another field of fire by bending the knee. A friendship and familial alliance born of such inauspicious beginnings. "I see the pups have grown like weeds."

Brandon nodded. "Aye, your Grace. Wee terrors they are."

"Now I wouldn't know anything about that. They get it from their grandmother." That comment drew a glare from the Queen.

Instructed as how to behave, the three dragonwolves as they were known somehow resisted the urge to leap into their grandparents' arms and pepper them with questions. At least Aegon and Saera did. Both of their mother's coloring - five and three namedays respectively, Rhaenys having the dubious honor of three births right after the other - aside from Saera's grey eyes, they held a mischievous fire to match. Four nameday-old Alaric by contrast was as much a Stark as his dark hair, quiet and taciturn. If it weren't for his sparkling violet eyes, no one could tell he was half-Valyrian.

"Your Grace," they bowed, though only the boys did so fluidly. Saera was unsteady and demure with youth, not that people blamed her.

Aegon ruffled his namesake's silver hair just as the heralds blared for the second arrival. "Alright, go to your cousins. We shall continue later." Rhaenys leaned in to kiss him on the cheek while the pups raced to where Aenys' brood waited.

"Rhae-Rhae," Aegon said, hugging his eldest cousin.

"Gods, wolfie," she chuckled. "Do you even have a bit of Stark about you?"

"I have a direwolf," he chirped.

Rhaena smirked. "That'll do," she replied, seeing Ally hug a rather standoffish Alaric while Jaehaerys cuffed him affectionately in the shoulder.

It was quite the boon for relations between the North and the crown that the children were close.

Rhaenys standing next to the seat of her mother, Aegon took his place at the Iron Throne and cleared his throat. "Send…" his voice caught a bit from emotion. He hadn't seen his son in several years. "Send him in."

"Enter the maiden's dream," whispered Larissa to Rhaena.

"Oh stop it."

"I'm serious, my loins are on fire," she continued to quip, to which Rhaena rolled her eyes…

Until the doors opened once more and her breath went away. There, striding in with a fierce purpose, was her uncle Maegor. So long ago was their last meeting, Rhaena's memory had focused less on him and more on the dragon egg - his kind smile and empowering words framing her view of him.

All of it changed now as she was exposed to him in full. "Gods…" Samantha swooned at her other side. "He's so dreamy."

Rhaena couldn't disagree. With thick muscles, a trim waist, clean-shaven face, and the otherworldly beauty of the Valyrians, he looked like one of the pantheon gracing the world with his presence.

Beside him was the black direwolf Syndor - just as gorgeous a beast as Rhaena remembered - and Princess Ceryse, her own comly looks only eclipsed by her husband's. What a lucky woman. For an instant, Rhaena felt a pang of resentment for her. Huh? Gods, what was it with all these confusing emotions?

This was just her uncle.

The uncle that made her the dragon she was always born to be…

"We pledge our undying fealty to you, my King," the two of them stated in unison, kneeling. The direwolf cocked her head at the King and Queen before sitting on her haunches, drawing guffaws from the northmen, Lord Blackwood, and the Royces.

Aegon clapped his hands, chuckling himself. "Rise." They did so. "Welcome home, my son. Gooddaughter. I trust the travel from Storm's End was uneventful."

"It was, your Grace," Maegor replied evenly.

"Perfect. Now I believe dinner is soon to be served in the private dining quarters of the Crown Prince's manse. Court is dismissed." He stood and walked to Visenya, leading her out of the great hall. Familial greetings would wait for more… casual accommodations.

As the exodus of courtiers passed out of the hall, Maegor spotted the rest of his family and headed to them. "Brother," Aenys said, responding to Maegor's outstretched hand by clasping it… and bringing him into a hug. "Welcome home."

Maegor pulled back. "I was unaware that this was Dragonstone, Aenys?" They stared at each other for a moment before chuckling together. "They always say home is where the heart is, so I suppose this is home."

"That's the spirit!" He clapped Maegor on the back.

Smile faltering as his eyes fell upon Alyssa, Maegor merely nodded. "Goodsister."

"Goodbrother," she replied just as chilly, though her eyes momentarily gave him a once over.

Gaze riveted on her uncle, Rhaena felt her heart skip a beat when he was now standing directly in front of him. "By the gods… this can't be... Rhaena?"

She steeled herself, daring to look up into his eyes. They were a different shade of violet than her father or brothers - a bit darker, with more focus and… passion about them. Rhaena felt close to melting. "It is I, uncle Maegor." A sudden confidence passed through her. "Assurances for you, I have allowed the dragon to be awoken inside."

He smiled, equally warm and proud. "For the shortest of intervals, I confused you with your grandmother. A powerful dragonrider, you have become dearest niece." Taking her hand, he placed a kiss upon the skin. "Till dinner, Rhaena."

As her uncle moved on to her brothers and sister - without the watchful eyes of the Targaryen court, Jaehaerys and Alysanne took advantage and jumped on their uncle in a flurry of giggles - Rhaena couldn't help but feel the tingling of the skin on the back of her hand.

Larissa was right… he was a dream to behold. In every way.

Chapter Text

"...and then he announced to me, 'I am Torrhen Stark, King of Winter and the man who could have had all your dragons killed before the sun rose this morning.'"

Almost choking at that, Rhaena looked at the Hand of the King in shock. "Did you truly say that, Lord Torrhen?"

Quite modest for being a northerner, Torrhen nonetheless nodded. "Aye. Made his Grace's eyes nearly bug out of his head - his jaw did gape like a fish, if I recall correctly."

"It wasn't that shocking," Aegon replied, shaking his head as Visenya laughed - tapping his knee affectionately. "I didn't believe him at the time, but his boldness intrigued me."

"Grandfather, I highly doubt anyone could have taken out your dragons," young Prince Aegon stated quite… confidently. "I mean, what advanced weaponry did the North have to accomplish that, Lord Stark?"

Brandon answered for his father. "Just my uncle, a weirwood bow, and stones of Valyrian steel."

"A weirwood bow?"

"Aye, right in the eye."

He chortled. "I find that hard to believe." His grandmother died from a lucky shot to Meraxes' eye, but that was on a Ghiscari built scorpion the size of a large wheelhouse.

Knife slicing through the tender flesh of his auroch steak, Maegor shook his head. "No, I grew up with Brandon Snow. If there was anyone that could do it, it would be him." His nephew looked skeptical, while his niece was riveted to the discussion - had he been paying attention, the Prince would have realized Rhaena was riveted to everything he said or did but Maegor wasn't. Much was on his mind. "In any case, a happy ending was had by all, House Stark allied with House Targaryen."

"And a wonderful alliance for the realm," Rhaenys interjected, raising her goblet. "A toast to our houses, standing together."

"Here here!" Aenys exclaimed, beaming as the toast rounded the table.

The private dining room in Aenys' manse was splendid. High vaulted and with plenty of windows to let in light - or in this case moonlight - it was larger than some great halls that Maegor had known in his travels. His eldest nephew was the youngest person here in the gathering of the Targaryen and Stark families around the table. Fed earlier by the kitchen staff, Viserys and Jaehaerys watched over their little sister and the dragonwolf brood from their chambers while those of age sat to dinner.

It was the first time the whole family had been together since Maegor's wedding, and the tension of that day was nowhere to be found among the King and Queen. Wine and ale flowed freely, while the servants brought in endless courses of the finest foods. Light, creamy soups with the freshest breads were followed by meat courses of grilled auroch, honey-glazed pork, roasted chicken and quail, smoked fish, and oysters - plenty of starchy sides of potatoes, cheese pies, rice, and spinach to add to the flavor. Meals fit for dragons and wolves, all of whom held a hearty appetite.

If the intense spices favored by the Targaryens did leave the Starks befuddled. "I've been married to you for six years and I still have no understanding of why you eat that way." Brandon shook his head as Rhaenys stabbed a Naathi green pepper with cuts of chicken breast and ate it whole.

She looked at him incredulously. "It's delicious."

"I tried one five years ago and I had to bury my tongue in the snow."

"Weakling," Rhaenys chuckled, though her eyes sparkled lovingly at her husband. Maegor found himself right - the two of them were perfect for each other, his sister and his best friend deeply in love.

Visenya noticed it too, grinning happily. "Something you need to learn about dragons, young Brandon. Our blood is hot, so we need more heat and flavor to satiate the tongue."

"That, your Grace, at least makes sense. Not like your son over there and what he does to his beef."

Maegor blinked. "How did I end up in this?"

"Please, you eat your beef cooked all the way through. Not even a bit of pink - that's madness right there."

"Retract that. A dragon doesn't eat his meat raw, right brother?" he asked of Aenys.

The Crown Prince shrugged. "Forgiveness, brother, but when Quicksilver does it then that's normal. When you do it… it's pretty strange."

"I disagree, kepa." All eyes shifted to Rhaena, who for a moment returned to the shy girl she was before at the attention. "Respectfully, of course, but if I were to wish to eat blood I would dine on those blood puddings that the Dothraki are known to enjoy."

There was a pause before the dour Maegor burst out laughing. "Couldn't have put it better myself, niece! Thank the gods one person in this chamber isn't mad."

"No, you're still mad," Rhaenys shot back, chuckling.

Contrary to the anti-Targaryen propaganda churned out of Sunspear and Wyl or by the occasional reactionary septon, such family gatherings weren't the blood magic rituals or feeding prisoners to their dragons for their own amusement. It felt as a real family would… even closer than that considering the stuffy and stiff nature of many Westerosi. Very close, very loving and happy even with the tense feelings between the members. Maegor and Alyssa didn't speak to each other much, while Ceryse didn't speak at all - not out of malice, though.

Main courses done, the servants brought in dessert. Pastries, fruit tarts, and vanilla pudding - a rare treat, but this was a special occasion. "I cannot be prouder of my granddaughter," Visenya bragged, enjoying a spoonful of the pudding. "She's a prodigy on dragonback, while her swordsplay is improving by the day."

Aenys, seated next to his daughter, wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek. "That's my girl."

Sipping her wine slowly, Ceryse piped up for the first time that night. "I never understood it… female warriors." She shrank back as many sets of purple and grey eyes met her - she always felt like an outsider among them, especially since… "I mean, the concept is strange to me. Is it merely a Valyrian matter?"

"We have female warriors in the North, as do the Dornish," Jocelyn Stark replied. "Born out of desperation on both sides, namely the lack of manpower against the wildlings or Ironborn… or in the wake of the Rhoynish Wars. It's become our culture though." Ceryse nodded, but said nothing. Maegor wanted to place a hand on her knee in affection, but for the life of him he couldn't make the limb move.

Affection brought nothing but pain - even with Ralla.

"I cannot be anything but proud that my daughter is a true dragon," Aenys announced, not noticing the disapproval of his wife. A dragonrider I don't mind, but I'd rather not have a daughter exactly like Visenya. "You'll have to show me sometime… perhaps a spar against your brother."

"Father?" Aegon spoke. "Don't you think that is an unfair match? I mean, even a year younger I am larger and stronger." Rhaena glared at him, though he didn't notice. Everyone in court peppered comparisons of him to his grandfather, and Aegon saw the parallels every time he looked in the looking glass. How could his elder sister even compete, how dainty she was?

"A word of advice, nephew," Maegor said. "Never judge an opponent based on first glances. Wyl of Wyl was a slight man, but he nevertheless was able to disarm and mutilate our uncle." An uncomfortable notion, but one that hit home for the family. Argella and Orys would arrive the next day, and his missing hand was always noticed.

"While I disagree with your uncle in bringing that uncomfortable story to this table," Alyssa spoke up, "He's right, my son. Don't be arrogant." Aegon smarted under the criticism, but said nothing. "But we shan't have any sparring in the next days. Our schedule is too busy considering all the Lords and Ladies of the Realm are arriving for the Jubilee."

Rhaena was disappointed, but the next words made her blood curdle. "Trying to marry her off?" her aunt Rhaenys asked.

"Never too early to put out feelers," Alyssa replied absentmindedly. "You'd do well to find matches for your brood, goodsister."

"No," Brandon dismissed. "Too early."

"Perhaps not to make inquiries," mused his father. "We could see if there are any northern lads or proper southerners to foster at Winterfell… or foster Egg or Alaric."

"Not Daena?" Visenya asked, curious.

Torrhen shook his head. "And trust my granddaughter in some foreign keep? Not in this lifetime."

"Here, here, father," Brandon chimed in.

King Aegon chortled. "Take the Lord out of the North but can't take the North out of the Lord."

"Oh please." Visenya smacked his shoulder. "You said you wished to lock Rhaenys in the Sea Dragon Tower because you thought she was a bit too… forward with the young lads of court."

Rhaenys looked shocked. "Excuse me?! How is this the first time I'm hearing of this?"

"I'd be happy to lock her in the old keep if it pleases you, your Grace," Brandon chuckled, only to get a withering glare from Rhaenys. Oh, he would pay for that.

But Rhaena didn't listen. Mother wishes to marry me off? Truth be told, she hadn't thought of it at all even though a marriage was all Samantha ever talked about, and Larissa matter of fact. I don't want to marry some Andal knight. It just didn't appeal to her. Some girls did, but not Rhaena.

She didn't realize that as she thought about it, her eyes flickered to her uncle each time.

Perched in front of the looking glass, Alys Harroway tried not to flinch as the fingers worked at her auburn hair into a proper braid. Not easily… "Owww."

"Stop moving," her elder sister Jorelle smirked, shaking her head. "You have to hold still."

"I would if you stopped… owww! Quit pulling at my hair!"

"If you didn't sleep like a sloppy squire, all twisted in bed, then this wouldn't be so hard."

Alys scowled. "Shut it." In spite of her mere four and ten years on the earth, Alys could look more striking and mature than any of her elder sisters. Not at the present moment, though neither of the other two were any better - siblings tended to do that to each other.

Giggling, Celia drew the ire of Alys next. "Come on, sissy," she was nonplussed by it, using their diminutive pet name for her. "You have the worst case of bed hair we've ever seen. Not befitting a lady." Both taller than Alys, Jorelle and Celia were nonetheless not as striking. The former was prone to freckles while the latter had a lanky build not enjoyed by most men. Alys was small, slender, and impish, a perfect package… if she wasn't so free-spirited.

Before she could blow up, however, the door opened. "Leave your sister alone." Barba Harroway - formerly Darry - entered the room of their guest house in the capitol city. "This is her first formal event, and it is intimidating for your first to be the Royal Court."

"But it isn't even the proper court," Jorelle whined. "Only a ladies' luncheon supposedly hosted by the Queen." Supposedly was correct. Queen Visenya reportedly hated such frivolities, completely different from the late Queen Rhaenys in this regard. Crown Princess Alyssa was the host more often than not, while Princess Rhaenys served as the hostess some of the time before becoming Lady Stark.

"Don't speak light," the Lady of Harroway's Town answered for her eldest child. "The actual court functions have men that are… blinded by the charms of a pretty woman. These are not the same, and the women can be far more dangerous a pool to navigate. Queen Visenya… she is the least likely to harm you ironically enough."

Celia blinked. "What do you mean by that, mother?"

She shook her head. "Forget it. I need to speak with your sister alone, so why don't you wait for us downstairs?" It was said in a maternal tone, to which both young ladies nodded - complying with their mother's request. At seeing Alys already coming of age, Barba sighed. "You're growing up so quickly, my dear Alys."

Alys glanced at her mother, expression softening. "Thank you."

Chucking her chin, Barba settled where Jorelle had been and started anew at the braids. Her hands were far more gentle. "You remind me so much of myself. Content with your place in the world, as is your younger brother." Lost in that was the fact Jorelle and her eldest brother Thom were like their father, with Celia somewhere in the middle. "I am afraid such will not be what is needed by Lucas."

"I know how father is," Alys sighed. "Always clawing his way up the ladder." Lord Lucas Harroway was a minor Lord in the Riverlands, ruling over an important area but sandwiched between the greater powers of Harrenhal, Darry, Stone Hedge, and Raventree Hall. Their Grandfather had been the first to side with the Targaryens come the conquest but Edmyn Tully got the credit for being the first major Lord. Their father was not about to make the same mistakes of their naive grandfather, marrying the daughter of Lord Darry and raising five children.

Children who were now expected to help him advance in the Realm. A task young Alys didn't feel up to.

Sensing her discomfort, Barba kissed the crown of her head. "You are a wonderful girl, Alys. There will be other perfect girls at this luncheon, and there will be right cunts as well." Alys couldn't help but snicker at her mother's use of profanity. "Just stick close to your sisters till you feel more comfortable to venture out." Rising, Barba urged Alys to join her. "There, you look beautiful."

Catching her single Reach braid that framed her neck and shoulders, joined by an effective sprinkling of makeup, Alys admitted she was glowing. "Thank you, mother."

Hours later, she wished her mother hadn't been on pressing engagements with father. Women of all cuts of dress - from the North to quite a few from Dorne of all places - were gathered in the manse of Crown Prince Aenys for the annual Queen's luncheon, as important and formal that a casual gathering could be. No steady courses of heavy meats and stews that feasts were a staple of, just the lightest of breads, cheeses, and pastries that could be eaten daintily. A band played light music, adding to the sunny, relaxed feel of the luncheon.

Alys felt alone and lost among those of higher birth and much higher arrogance. My sisters are no help. Each had darted off to find their own cliques of fellow young ladies - Jorelle among the giggling maidens of the Reach while Celia spoke to… was that Princess Rhaenys? Neither bothered to help Alys, likely seeing her as competition when it came time to use the connections they built here to charm those they could seek to seduce and marry.

It all seemed… churlish to Alys but it was the way things worked. Father wanted them to find husbands to elevate them, and do so she would.

"You seem lonely."

A gentle, kind voice yet one not weak - most of the Reach, Stormlands, and Westerlands maidens shared this with those of the Riverlands, delicate as if a flower. This one held none of that, but Alys thought her likely someone of the North or even Dorne. Not the face that greeted her when she turned. "Oh…" Her eyes widened at the silver hair. "Your Grace." Alys bowed.

Chuckling merrily, Princess Rhaena moved to pull her upright. "None of that, please. We're all on the same level here, more or less." She was breathtaking the way all Valyrians were, purple eyes piercing yet warm - a mix of her parents and… others that Alys weren't familiar with. "I am going to guess that you are of the Riverlands, but I know all the Qoherys', Blackwoods, Brackens, and unfortunately Tullys." The way Rhaena phrased the last made Alys smirk in spite of herself. The Tullys were quite droll as a family. "But I've never placed your face."

Alys cleared her throat. "I am Alys of Lord Harroway's Town, daughter of Lord Lucas."

Rhaena's eyes sparkled in understanding. "Ah, now I remember your family. Your sister was Lady in Waiting to Lady Qoherys, no?"

"My sister Celia, aye." Father arranged for Jorelle to do the same with Aliena Tully, now Aliena Lannister after her marriage to the practically ancient Lord Loren. Both advancing their family's cause, to which it was her turn.

And now she was faced with the potential to one up the both of them if taken among the Princess' favorites. Rhaena was famous for the affection she showered upon them. Her elder brother often made ribald japes about them.

A silence passing between them, Rhaena broke it. "Well, I remember when I was as shy and awkward in these things - my uncle and my dragon helped me discover my voice, and it would be remiss of me if I left someone as sweet as you to the vultures these courtly women are." With a dragon's determination, she grabbed Alys' wrist. "Come on, you'll sit at my table with me."

Unable to resist the invitation even if she wanted to, Alys at least held a measure of smug preening at the shocked and jealous looks on her sisters' faces when they saw who she was with.

Rhaena knew why her grandmother hated these things. Truly, she did. Feasts were tedious as they were, but at least the prospect of drunken Lords acting like fools offered amusement to someone as… unconventional as Queen Visenya. But seated around the central table in the ballroom of her father's manse chatting with other highborn ladies over the latest gossip… It was no confusing thing for Rhaena to know why her grandmother was nowhere to be found.

Probably with Vhagar… or sparring with grandfather. They were aged, but still strong.

"Do you still keep the old gods?"

Alayne Royce laughed merrily. "House Royce has practiced the Faith of the Seven for generations, but father still keeps a godswood in Runestone. Connection to our ancestors and such."

Tyanna snorted. "I don't think being conquered and forced at swordpoint to give up my gods for others would endear one to any religion," she mused.

"It's been a thousand years. Bygones should be bygones, no?"

"Mayhaps that's a point." Tyanna sighed and drank from her goblet.

Unlike her grandmother, Rhaena loved these things - even if they were so dreadfully boring at times that she wished to pull her hair out. She supposed it was her father in her, for he loved them as well, but something about mingling with the entire court after early years of being unable to speak to a stranger simply drew her fancy. It wasn't hard, considering Rhaena was usually the life of the feast.

Her little group of highborn ladies sat in their own spot at the head table, set in the center of the ballroom where her mother, aunt, and Jocelyn Stark entertained the other senior ladies of the Realm. Samantha and Larissa chattered about their own topics, Tyanna spoke religion with the newcomer Alayne Royce, while Alys Harroway kept to herself - picking at her plate.

She loved all of her confidants and only added another that she had an instinctual attachment or fascination for. Alayne Royce had this and fit in swimmingly - Rhaena wouldn't allow young Alys to be her only failed addition. "You seem quiet?"

Alys looked at her new… friend? Could they call each other that so early? "Thought I could show up my sisters by being here as your guest, but apparently I don't have much to say."

"We're four and ten. If I wasn't a Princess no one would talk to me, and they still often don't." She wrapped an arm around Alys' shoulder. "Just listen and enjoy the conversation. You'll learn a little something."

They managed to key into a discussion already taking place. "...and I finally found that the situation in the Free Cities had calmed down, thank the Seven," remarked Lady Sabitha Rowan, a distant Lannister cousin by birth. "My husband and I can finally travel back to Myr for our annual holiday now that the… unpleasantness has cleared up."

"Fifteen thousand Black Guardsmen can do that," added Argella Baratheon, far more direct. "The Unsullied that won them Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh are strong soldiers, but unable to pacify cities during peacetime… or whatever that bloody few years can be called."

"At least the trade has returned at full step again," interrupted Lady Stokeworth, Samantha's mother. "My perfumes and scented oils were double the price during the fighting, while now they are lower than the pre-war sums."

"A toast to the Volentines, then," Lady Rowan raised her glass, a toast picked up by most of them.

Rhaenys turned to her goodmother. "Will you fake choking, or must I?"

Jocelyn gave her a sidelong look. "I often ask if Brandon was from my womb or you were, sometimes." The wife of the Hand had been seriously considering that for some time, ironically enough. Political discussions could be held by women, but not all of them. "In any case," she spoke up. "Any trade is good trade, as long as both sides get what they wish from the deal. As my husband arranged for the North, Myr got sturdy ironwood from House Forrester's preserves while we gained Myrish glass. A win/win."

"Why would you want Myrish glass?" asked Amelia Westerling, not the brightest candle in the chandelier. "It's so… dull." She was the emerald type.

"See, my dear," said Aliena Lannister - Aliena Tully by birth and Lady Paramount of the Westerlands. "In the North it's very cold. Myrish glass allows them to grow crops all year so they don't starve in the cold. It isn't that hard to grasp." For Amelia it was, but that was best left unsaid.

Crown Princess Alyssa raised an eyebrow. "You know much about the North, Lady Lannister?"

She shrugged. "One should know about the Realm. I am very worldly." Not a classic Tully trait, figured Rhaena. "Especially when the Lord Paramount of the North is the Hand of the King."

"Well, I am proud of my home," Rhaenys spoke. "A proper road halfway complete between White Harbor and Winterfell, a proper integration with the rest of the Kingdoms after centuries, and bonds forged by my brother and husband while he fostered in Winterfell."

Aliena shook her head, sighing. "Such a shame about the path Prince Maegor has travelled. He had the potential to be a truly great knight and prince of the Realm."

While her Aunt Rhaenys bristled as well and was the elder of the two of them, Rhaena spoke up first. "What do you mean, Lady Lannister?" she asked, voice tinged with ice.

Rivalling her husband and goodfather in biting arrogance - the Tullys in general were arrogant, but much more torpidly so, the Lannisters on a whole other plane - Aliena shrugged. "We all heard of his prowess with a sword while a youth. Trained by Gawen Corbray personally, adept at both horsemanship and hand-to-hand, a powerful tourney knight he would have been… if not for, well…" She let it hang, knowing the other ladies at the head table would catch the innuendo.

The future Lady of Winterfell did. "Are you suggesting that the North poisoned my brother? My new home and that of my children?"

"Oh, Lady Stark, not at all," Lady Lannister replied, smiling sweetly. A smile that was everything but superficially sweet to the Targaryens at the table. "Those of the North follow a different faith and different traditions than the rest of Westeros, but the connections have been long and extensive as to civilize the wild ways of the ancient First Men." An insult, but one diluted enough to not be worth truly escalating. "No, what makes this unfortunate was how the Prince made acquaintance with the… true savages of this continent."

"You mean the wildlings?" Tyanna spoke at the moment, always perceptive to the rumors and whispers about court.

Aliena regarded her as only a step above a common prostitute, but she was of noble blood of the Free Cities and the Lady in Waiting of the Queen, so she held her tongue. "Aye. Those people." The last words dripped with contempt.

From many of the ladies across the table - including Samantha, Alys, and Alayne to Rhaena's mild surprise - nodded or murmured some degree of agreement with Lady Lannister. "Such a shame," breathed Lady Rowan. "Having such savages desecrate polite society."

"My husband deals with similar scum, the Hill Tribes," said Talla Arryn, wife of Ser Hubert Arryn the cousin of Lord Ronnel - she was of House Grafton, so the Vale hate for the First Men remnants that refused to kneel after the Battle of Seven Stars was ingrained deeply in her. "They are vile creatures, more beast than man. My Hubert has slain eleven by his own hand," she remarked proudly.

A derisive snort from Sharra Arryn. "Imagine, having to dine with them? The indignity."

Steadily, Rhaena grew angrier and angrier - her violet eyes darkening. How dare they speak of him that way? Uncle Maegor was a dragon, above these petty noblewomen in blood, might, and stature. If he wishes to associate with wildlings, then let him. Her aunt was angry as well, while even her mother, not Maegor's biggest fan, grew miffed at the tone as it began to take their entire House as collateral damage. Princess Ceryse was silent, stony.

But it was the ditzy Amelia Westerling, deep in her cups, that pushed the assembly of ladies beyond where even the schemers among them were willing to go. "And that he takes one of them to his bed. Oh, the scandal."

One could hear a pin drop among the ladies… the silence migrated to the other tables of the less connected noblewomen. They didn't hear Lady Westerling's drunken nonsense, but could understand the implication of four Princesses, three Ladies Paramount, and the other senior wives of the Realm going silent. Rhaenys bristled, Alyssa stared wide-eyed, Jocelyn pursed her lips, and even Sharra Arryn - no love lost between her and the Targaryens - averted her gaze to her meal.

For Rhaena, she was floored. Uncle Maegor? A lover? He was the perfect epitome of a Prince in her eyes - for all his greatness, her father had his flaws and Rhaena wasn't blind to them. And yet… he stepped out on his wife. Ceryse was a kind woman and Rhaena remembered them much in love. This has to be a mistake...

Like the fool that she was, Lady Amelia giggled. "You must be heartbroken, dear Ceryse, especially since you are without children…"

Fork clattering on the imported porcelain plate from Yi-Ti, Ceryse stood up. Her head was down and face a stone mask. "Goodsister…" Rhaenys spoke up, trying to mollify her, but the Princess just walked away without a word. Completely humiliated before the Realm.

"Was it something I said?" Amelia asked, words slurring.

"I believe," Alyssa spoke, voice even and soft, "That a new topic of conversation is needed."

"Yes, your Grace," said Jocelyn, concurring. "A new one must be found, and allow me to start. Princess Deria Martell is apparently on her deathbed."

"Bah," Lady Tyrell scoffed. "I'll believe it when it happens. In my childhood I endured endless speculation on when the Yellow Toad would finally croak her last and it lasted far longer than any of the bets made in my household."

Rhaenys kept a glare on the hiccuping Lady Westerling but didn't break the newfound truce. "I agree. That House has a tendency to cling to life in spite of the greatest pressure." Both times from Valyrians, ironically enough.

Leaning back in her chair, Rhaena motioned for Tyanna to lean over to her. "Is it true?" she whispered in her friend's ear. "What that bitch said?"

Tyanna nodded, much to Rhaena's displeasure. "He and his wife are… quite cold these days. The wildling woman was his lover prior to his marriage and now they've rekindled their affair." Quirking an eyebrow, Tyanna looked at her friend. "Why?" If she didn't know better, she would have sworn that Rhaena was… jealous.

"No reason." Rhaena looked away, her own emotions about it a mystery to her.

"By the Father above," ranted Archsepton Boniface, his face red and jowls jostling. "You must transfer me back to Oldtown, or at least Lannisport. If I must continue to associate with these degenerate Valyrians and tree-worshippers…!"

"Calm down, Boniface," Hugor stated, holding up his hand as he stared down the King's Landing delegation of the Faith that greeted him in his rented manse. It hadn't been an hour since his arrival till the holy men of the city peppered him with their complaints and questions - he looked forward to speak to Murmison, even being a Targaryen sympathizer the man was jovial and interesting - and it gave him a headache. "You serve a good role here in the Capitol. If not for your sermons that grip the average citizen, we'd have far less Faithful here than we do."

That seemed to mollify Boniface, but not his companion Grand Captain Damon Morrigen. "No, this cannot be tolerated any longer." He had risen far since the… death of High Septon Gerold, farther than Hugor was willing to let him. Damn politics. "The spirits of the Warrior and Smith only bestow their glory upon those that seize the moment, not the craven and cowardly. We must take down the dragons."

Shooting out of his chair, the facade Hugor carefully husbanded crumbled as he gave the man a withering stare. The stare of his martial ancestors, making Morrigan flinch. "There will never be victory against the Conquerors themselves. Do you hear me?"

Morrigan gulped, chastised. "I understand, your Holiness."

A victory of authority, no doubt - not understanding. "Leave me, the both of you." Each bowed and departed, leaving Hugor alone with Barth. "Gods, don't people have patience anymore, Barth?"

"Did they ever, your Holiness?"

"Fair." Not as much an arrogant highborn to refuse pouring his own goblet of wine - no bastard, no matter how highborn, could afford to be so arrogant - Hugor sat in his plush chair to see Barth still there, hands clasped atop his waist. "Do you still need something, my son?" he asked of the young man.

"Simply a moment of your time, your Holiness."

"Need not ask of it, Barth. We've been through too much together." Hugor motioned for the boy to sit. Sometimes he was too deferent for his own good, likely considering his humble birth. Assertiveness will eventually come once he feels more secure in himself. The bright lad had already come a long way. "What is it you wish to discuss?"

Barth scowled momentarily before it disappeared behind a pensive frown. "When there was still a possibility that I may have followed in the familial footsteps at the smith, my father always said to me that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. There are too many weak links for me not to worry."

Hugor nodded. "You're speaking of Boniface? The fellow is indefatigable if brash."

"No, not Boniface." He shook his head. " He has a gift for speaking. As long as his mouth is shut until the right time and doesn't reach a position of complete authority, the Archsepton is nothing but a boon for us. I'm speaking of Morrigan."

"Ah… I think I understand you now."

A certain fire appeared in Barth's eyes - fire and… desperation? "That cretin will be the ruin of us all."

"Please elaborate on your thinking, here."

"He wears his opinions on his sleeve. No one in the capitol can deny his ire at the dragons, nor does Morrigan ever refrain from a chance to contemptuously challenge one of Lord Stark's northern retainers on any disagreement - no matter how slight." Barth heard from the grapevine that the King's Landing chapter of the Warrior's Sons actively made sure that the Grand Captain was never in the same vicinity as a Northern Lord or knight equivalent, so bad it was.

Hugor met Barth's eyes. "You don't deny that the tree-worshippers of the North are our enemies?"

"Most likely they will be, but it shall be impossible to conquer the North. We must coexist for at least a while, and thus involves not blundering into a blood feud with them, considering the last time the Northmen held one against us."

Everyone knew the story of Theon Stark. Hugor needed not it explained. "What do you suggest I do with Morrigan?"

"Execute him… I can arrange for something to serve as a pretext."

That had the High Septon laughing. "I never thought you to be so cold-blooded, Barth. No, don't feel ashamed. I approve of the line of thinking." When matters of life and death could be held in their hands, emotional attachments were… a liability. The overzealous reaction by the Targaryens to Queen Rhaenys' death, while terrifying, fit in that category. While Hugor's desire for vengeance over his father and family still remained, he buried it deep. "But Morrigan cannot be killed."

"I find there to be no reason why…"

"He knows too much, that's all I can say." Barth shut up - Hugor had drummed into him long ago, with secrets, the less that knew them the better. "Besides, deranged zealots like him have their purposes… and usually take care of themselves."

"I see." Barth sat there quietly. "So what is our purpose here, then?"

Hugor chuckled. "Enjoy ourselves as best we can. It is the jubilee for our great King and Queen after all." He motioned for Barth to leave him. "I will be joined by some female companionship within the hour, and I suggest you do the same before your nerves send you into a tailspin."

Sometimes, nothing could be done but wait for the opportunity. The crocodiles of Sothoryos were known to do that, wait under the water's surface until a prey animal showed up. Such was something High Septon Hugor Flowers was perfectly ready to do.

Chapter Text

Steel clashed within the training yard of Aenys' manse as the two competitors went at each other. "Better, far better," Prince Maegor breathed between clenched teeth. He parried a flurry of blows, noticing his muna's style that tried to batter him down. "You have natural skill." Another parry, one that needed skill against. She wasn't an opponent he could beat without exerting himself.

Smirking, Princess Rhaena felt a surge of self-confidence at being able to match her great uncle blow for blow. "Will today be the time someone finally bests you?" Boys both her age and older had fallen to her furious attacks… including even her brother, who stormed out of the training ground as a result. When her uncle challenged her right after, she smugly leapt at the chance.

"Arrogance doesn't suit you, niece," Maegor replied, giving ground as she struck at him. "At least not when you can't back it up." Seeing her move to thrust aggressively at him, he quickly dodged, batted her sword to the ground, and swiped his feet to catch hers.

With a yelp, Rhaena toppled to the ground. Bested by her uncle. "Seven Hells," she hissed, cheeks flushing red with humiliation.

Anyone else would have gloated over taking down someone so arrogant and strutting, but Maegor refused to. What was the point? She was his niece and this was a lesson, not a chance to show off. So he merely stared at her neutrally. "Yield?"

Rhaena huffed, blowing a silver strand of hair away from her forehead and brow. "I yield, uncle." Looking away in shame, she was prevented from her anger by Maegor grabbing her hand and hauling her up. That forced her to look at him. "Go ahead and say it, you were right and I was wrong."

"As long as you understand it." Shooting a glare to the onlookers, faced with Prince Maegor Targaryen they happened to scatter, leaving only Ser Raymont Baratheon as guard. "You rely too much on your fury, your strength. I know you wish to emulate your grandmother, but she is taller and stronger than your petite frame. Speed and flexibility are your strengths, so lean more into them." Taking in her put off expression, he leaned down to kiss her brow. "You're my niece, Rhaena. I'm only here to help you."

Biting her lip, her ire deflated. "I know." Suddenly, he pulled her into a hug, one she returned quite quickly. Both were sweaty, but Rhaena felt the greatest of comfort against his chest… much as it would have been easier on her to avoid this, she sought it out greedily.

Pulling back, he looked her in the eye. "You've truly grown since last I saw you." A wisp of a thing, scared of her own shadow… "Now you're a youthful version of muna. She's worked wonders."

Rhaena smiled, eyes sparkling. "She can't take all the credit. It was you that gave me the dragon egg."

Surprisingly, Maegor looked awkward and modest. Reserved, he often was, but never modest. "You needed it. Every young dragon does." Perhaps if your brother got one he wouldn't be as much of a spoiled brat sometimes… No, he wouldn't think of his nephew that way. Such was unfair.

Leaving the embrace - and feeling quite empty without it - Rhaena raised an eyebrow. "But, you aren't a dragonrider, uncle? You're stronger than all of us, yet you have no mount to call your own." Even the thought of living a day without Dreamfyre to ride or speak to or simply rest against was agony to Rhaena. "Why is that?"

Maegor snorted. "It's a long story, niece."

She smiled sweetly and looped her arm in his. "My next lesson isn't for an hour. We have time to speak." Perhaps she just wished for the moment not to end just yet, but her semi-selfish desire came true and he nodded, leading her towards the garden.

Oft in his free time, Aenys had a passion for horticulture. From all over the known world did he find trees, shrubs, and flowers to husband and grow, planning to lay the foundations of the new keep's gardens once the main walls and holdfast were completed. It made a perfect place to talk in solitude. "... and when it came to the dragon eggs in the last clutch, none of them bonded to me."

Her gaze was filled with grief. "Oh, uncle." Rhaena squeezed his hand. "I can't bear you knowing not the great bond." After raising Dreamfyre to the point where she could ride her, Rhaena didn't understand how she could've lived before the birth of the little hatchling. "It brings me the worst sort of agony just thinking about it."

"You need not worry for me, Rhaena. I am sure that in the future, I shall forge such a bond with the only one worthy of me." He followed up his comment with a haughty, confident set of his jaw.

Rhaena ate it up, giggling. "Well, I hope so. You're a mighty dragon, just like grandfather." Leaning her head on his shoulder, suddenly the thought came. Of what was said in the luncheon two days prior. It made her stiffen.

The Prince noticed. "What is it, dear niece?"

This was supremely difficult for Rhaena to broach, but she needed to know. Her new attitude and boldness drove her to things that the old Rhaena would have long since cowered over. "Do you truly have a mistress?"

Maegor was taken aback, though his surprise waned after a moment and was replaced with a wince and a sigh. "I take it you've heard about that. Who told you, your muna?" It sounded like something Alyssa would do to spite him…

But he was surprised when he shook her head. "No, it wasn't her. Lady Amelia Westerling was drunk and made some comments about it."

Amelia Westerling? Shit. That meant it was wider knowledge than he thought, and immediately a pouring of guilt for Ceryse filled his gut. His reasons were his reasons, yet he still cared for his bride - it wasn't her fault. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

"So it's true then?" Rhaena trembled, breathing uneven. "Why, uncle? Why would you do that?" A confirmed chink in the armor of her shining knight. The perfect man her mind had so elevated since she was but eight namedays.

"It…" Maegor cleared his throat, the issue weighing heavy on himself. Never had he truly vocalized it, preferring to bury his emotions less he either lessen himself in the eyes of others or add on to Ceryse's pain, yet to his niece… everything within him said he could trust her. "Ralla's a good person, Rhaena," he finally said, straddling the issue. "Do not think her evil, it is I that seeks her out."

"You looked so happy on your wedding day, uncle. Was that a lie?"

"Then, no it wasn't. Ceryse cared for me and I her, it's just…" Pain crossed his face. "It's been supremely hard for us since she lost our child."

Rhaena's eyes widened. "What? A child?" I had a cousin?

He looked away, trying his best to keep the pain at bay. If he didn't stop it, then there was no chance he could survive the loss - many called him cruel and heartless, but none knew how much it affected Maegor to see his wife after a miscarriage. To see the corpse of one's child not yet born. "Three," he breathed, admitting it for the first time.

"Oh gods." Rhaena clasped a hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry, uncle."

"You have no need to be sorry, dear niece. It is my burden to bear… and so it seems Ceryse's as well. I've told her it wasn't her fault, but she doesn't believe me. She… blames herself. It's made our marriage bed cold, and I can't ask her to change it. She holds more sorrow than I ever could." And it was obvious where the implication went - for a man needing intimacy, he sought out his former lover. A woman that would never judge him nor ever seek to blame him. "I suppose that makes me as callous and cruel as they say…"

Wordlessly, Rhaena drew him in her arms. It wasn't the hug of a child to a parent, but of one soul intimately comforting another, though neither of them were perceptive enough to catch such a reality at the moment. "You're a good man, uncle."

"Ironic that you say that, for most would think me completely different." He knew the names that banded about among the highborns of the realm - Maegor the Cruel, Maegor the Wildling, Maegor the Monstrous.

"We dragons are higher than any fool that would speak ill of you." She smiled at him. "We answer not to men or gods."

That made him chuckle. "I see your grandfather has told you his stories."

"He does love to tell stories." Both dissolved into laughter, Maegor feeling less weighed down than in years - truly enjoying Rhaena's company.

He looked forward to speaking with her more and watching as the once wallflower bloomed into a proper dragon.

"Forgive me, holy father, for I have sinned."

"Be at peace, child, tell me of what you seek absolution for."

The confessional was supposed to be inviolate. Shrouded from prying ears and eyes, yet young Harren was able to hear just fine even standing five paces away. He was the only of the retainers of Lord Daeron Qoherys allowed to accompany his lord into the Sept of Remembrance, even as a half-dozen Poor Fellows and two rainbow-cloaked Warrior's Sons milled about the massive well of the holy place. An imbalance he found both irritating and hypocritical, but one that didn't rate high on his list.

No… worse crimes predominated.

"My nephew, I feel I cannot control him within acceptable bounds." Harren closed his eyes, calming his anger at the thought of the fat, oafish scoundrel that was Ser Gargon. "He deflowered the dear daughter of one of my most trusted manservants, so ravishing her that her mind has fell to madness." Lord Daeron paused within the confessional. "I wished to kill him."

"Your brother?" asked the Septon, whom Harren figured was the renowned Murmison.

A deep breath. "Aye."

"Even in the greatest of temptations and travesties, the thought of kinslaying is an affront to the gods, my child."

"Then what would you have me do? Make him take the Black?"

Kill him and then kill yourself. But Harren's opinion mattered not. Not yet at least.

"Unless what he does affronts the gods themselves or the laws of the Crown, you cannot force him to what is in effect slavery at the Wall. Seek to show the wisdom of the Seven to fill his soul with the true nourishment, as his desires of the flesh likely stem from lack of the desires of the soul."

Daeron sighed audibly. "Thank you, your eminence." Harren straightened as his Lord walked out. Lord Daeron was the epitome of a Westerosi Lord. His hair was a dull silver belying his Valyrian heritage, but the second son of his father Lord Quenton held the strong gait and chiseled good looks of the knights and heroes of all the stories - as well as the chivalry to match.

Many thanked the gods that the second son took preference over the grandson, but Harren was not one of them. Granted, he hated Gargon too… he wished none of them to inherit.

But he stayed quiet and dutiful. "All done, my Lord?" he asked.

Shoulders heavy, Daeron nodded. "Aye. Let us head to the manse before light falls." Falling into place behind the Lord, Harren locked eyes with Ser Dickon Flowers, one of the Warrior's Sons on duty at the Sept. Almost imperceptibly, they nodded at each other. An accord of understanding.

Harren Rivers was but two and ten when his mother succumbed to the pox. There was no one else for the struggling boy and his young half-sister, leading a friend and former man-at-arms for the Hoare Kings to arrange for him to move to Harrenhal castle as an apprentice guardsman. It was a transformation, the lad that hadn't once left the remote village situated on the banks of the Trident which barely had but a mud track to arriving at the largest castle in Westeros, inhabited by people from all over the world and with its main avenues paved with cobblestones. He had been a bit starstruck, though adapted quickly to the hearty food and weekly baths.

Here he had excelled, rapidly gaining skill at swordsplay and command that left him a Captain after ten short years while his sister rose to be one of the senior maids in the kitchens. Until… no, he would not speak of it. She was safe now, and that was all that mattered in the short term.

House Qoherys owned a manse not far from that of Crown Prince Aenys, though more modest in the austere tradition of Andal knights. The frugal Daeron rarely spent time here, instead renting it out to visiting foreign dignitaries and merchants in order to pay the high upkeep cost of his keep. Only a few times did he host guests, and most of those were of his friends and political allies.

Harren knew this would be one of those times when he spotted the portly Ser Guy Lothston - his Lord's steward - waiting for Daeron in the foyer. "My Lord, Lord Stokeworth and Lord Arryn are waiting for you in the solar."

"Is Lord Reyne here yet?" Daeron asked.

"No, my Lord, he has not arrived yet."

"Fashionably late as always, I suppose." Daeron chuckled before turning to Harren. "Rivers, please fetch my brother and be quick about it."

He bowed. "At once." His face was the mask of loyalty, even when his back was turned.

Gargon was… in the position Harren expected of him. Entering the chambers of the Lord's nephew, the sight of a big-breasted whore straddling the paunchy highborn greeted his eyes. To his disgust, the whore grinned sultrily at him. "Want to join, big boy?"

Cursing, Gargon peeked his head round the woman and glared at Harren. "Get the fuck out of here!"

"Your brother wished for you to join him, Lord Stokeworth, and Lord Arryn in his solar," Harren replied emotionlessly.

"In a fuckin' minute, now get!" Harren couldn't be told twice.

Outside, he came face to face with a servant - one of his friends from Harrenhal. "It's worse, isn't it?" the servant murmured in a low voice.

"Aye. You saw what he did to young Alys."

"I treated her, it's disgraceful." The servant's eyes shifted. "Martyn was broken by it… I think we should take him into the fold."

Harren nodded. "Do it." Watching the servant shuffle away, Harren heard the rough laughs follow a girlish giggle from within the chambers. He gritted his teeth, fingers tightening over the sword sheathed at his belt. Soon grandfather, I shall avenge you.

The sounds of revelry still echoed through the winding halls of the Aegonfort. Thin and wooden rather than the stone of more established keeps, why wouldn't they? The nameday celebration of the Crown Prince was the event of the year, drawing his many friends among the Westerosi Highborns from all over the Realm. So merry and desirous to be liked, one couldn't separate him from the table of honor if war broke out within King's Landing.

So when a flagon of the best Arbor Gold was pilfered from a serving girl's platter as two guests ducked out one of the back entrances for some privacy, no one noticed. Much less the Crown Prince himself.

"Gods, that is insufferable," the older of the two, her feminine lilt slurring from the copious wine she had downed that night, complained. "If I have to stand another receiving line at another feast…" She trailed off as she took another swig before passing it to her male companion.

Ulike her, he took a swig before he spoke. "I love him dearly, but he cares far too much what people think of him."

"Exactly!" Gods, it felt good to voice these things to someone who understood. Her handmaidens were too enamored with the handsome Prince Aenys to get it. "You're not going to make everyone love you, no matter how hard you try. Must be something you learn quickly in the North?"

"Even the people that love you there are likely to punch your teeth out." There was a pause before the two giggled like small children, inhibitions and reservations smothered by the alcohol. "You… you… I've seen what happens. You deserve a stronger man, one who can truly stand up for himself."

Hiccuping, she blinked - half-confused and half… flirtatiously. "Oh, and what man do you have in mind?" She may have been quite deep in her cups, but the hidden lust in her young voice was unmistakable.

His eyebrow raised, too inebriated for his mind to tell him of the mistake he was making… that she was making. "I think an intelligent Lady such as yourself can guess."

"Mmmm… you talk too much." Lurching forward, she sloppily brought their lips together as they gave into their passion.

"Your Grace?"

Blinking, Alyssa Velaryon Targaryen was forced to leave the most welcome and most agonizing memory of her life to return her gaze to Ser Jonos Arryn. The younger son of Lady Sharra was nowhere near as handsome or dashing as the 'King who Flew,' his older brother Ronnel, but he held shrewder eyes - clearly the much smarter of the two. Nonetheless, Ronnel was her husband's friend and the Lord of the Eyrie. "Forgive me, Ser Jonos. There is much on my mind."

"Of course. There is plenty that has to be done for the Jubilee."

That all you think a woman is good for? She hated these sorts of people, but the whims of ruling sometimes took precedence. "I brought you here because I believe my husband will wish your brother appointed to the Small Council."

The younger Arryn raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, that's a great honor even considering their friendship. But what does that have to do with me?"

"The Vale needs a steady hand, and you have outdone yourself in my husband's service constructing the new palace. House Targaryen would wish that you return to the Eyrie after Lord Ronnel's appointment is confirmed and he must stay in the capitol."

A tiny smile appeared on Jonos' face as he bowed. "As you wish, Princess. I am honored."

"Good. You have my leave to go." As Jonos left, Alyssa saw her brother slide beside him, clad in a tunic of sea-green that showed off his toned muscles. A fine, proud head of her birth house. "Ah, brother. Welcome."

As she rose, her brother hugged her, kissing her cheek. "I am at my dear sister's beck and call."

"Oh shut it." He was always like this. Never serious lest either sailing or in battle. "I'm glad you could come. Your help can be useful." She gestured to one of the dispatches. "Volantis has begun a naval expansion."

"Hmmm…" Aethan Velaryon took the parchment in his hands. "It seems redundant, since they already defeated the Three Daughters." With the famed Black Guardsmen combined with the infamous Unsullied of Astapor, it was only a matter of time and blood before the Tigers of Volantis could exult in their victory. "Do you consider your source reliable?"

"Whatever whispers have came from them previously have been corroborated, though I cannot be sure." This was where her request came in. "I want you to take a trade delegation to Volantis. See what you can divulge about their intentions?"

"For the crown or for our House?"

"For your House." She was not of House Velaryon anymore. "Would make it less suspicious… and take Prince Maegor with you."

He looked surprised. "Maegor? Why?"

"I want him gone."

Aethan rolled his eyes. "Not this again. I know you find him crude but he loves his brother your husband and is a strong fighter for House Targaryen. You have to let this go."

"He is the ruin of House Targaryen, and for this as my brother, you have to get him out of this city."

Pursing his lips, Aethan couldn't deny his little sister. "I'll see what I can do. You have my word."

Her smile was genuine. "Thank you, brother. Please give young Daemon my love next time you are in Driftmark."

He laughed. "I shall, I shall." Once he left, Alyssa sighed and returned to her seat. She had much to labor over.

The reign of the Conquerors was coming to an end - Alyssa wasn't sentimental enough to try and deny this though she knew her husband would. He would never comprehend a world without his great parents, the thought so painful for him to the point of debilitation. I cried when my parents passed into the afterlife too, but I'd be a fool if I didn't plan for it. As always, she would need to protect her husband. Guard against his naivete. Often a thankless job, but the fate of her line was in her hands.

"You are beautiful, Als."

A smile adorned her rosy cheeks. "I adore you." They kissed again as he entered her…

Alyssa closed her eyes. Willing away the painful memory… and the moan that threatened to bubble up, remembering the emotions of that night. Forcing herself back into the reports.

Never! She wouldn't let his depravity ruin her husband or their dynasty. Never! Never! Never!

There were no patrols. Nothing from Blackhaven or Nightsong - Malcolm Wyl felt a bit disgusted, that the incompetence existed. Granted he wasn't the type to look a gift horse in the mouth but it was still insulting. Orys Baratheon was a cunt but a worthy opponent, which made his mutilation ever more pleasurable for the aged Lord of Wyl.

Where were such opponents anymore? Did the Dragon's Peace make every knight a eunuch? The Starry Sept finally has some true warriors, though. But looking at Septon Garrett of Starpike next to him, they still weren't in charge. Still the zealous fools.

The man he had delivered a massive shipment of arms that night was also a zealous fool, but the trouble was they were all useful. Hefting one of the finely made scimitars, the swarthy peasant worked it about… not without skill. Wyl watched him. Not of noble bastard blood, but perhaps a hedge knight, or a man-at-arms at least. Some realities even escaped his networks unfortunately. "With these blades, we shall rule the Dornish Marches once the dragon bastard croaks."

"I wouldn't be so arrogant about it… your Grace." The Vulture King crossed his arms, glowering at Wyl's calm critique. "There is a new Lord of Horn Hill."

"Horn Hill? The Tarlys do not worry me." He scoffed. "Lord Otto was a weak little shit and so is his heir Garth."

"Garth died a year ago of the pox." You moron.

He blinked. "Then who is the Lord?"

"Samwell Tarly, Lord Otto's second son. A more martial person one cannot imagine." Wyl knew no one could beat someone of that skill unless using unconventional tactics or massive numbers - and only then with supreme intelligence. The Vulture had a sort of animal cunning, but otherwise wasn't of that nature. "He needs to be watched closely."

Glancing at his men beginning to shift the blades, spears, and quivers into burlap packs for quicker transport, the would be king tried to dismiss his opponent. "He follows the Seven. Can't be be persuaded?"

"Those that follow the Warrior are brave in battle," replied Septon Garret, pursing his lips. "I have the unfortunate pleasure of meeting this Samwell Tarly… his attendance of the Sept are outweighed by his visits to his least favorite brothel, and he never sleeps with Dornish girls. Commented that it was an insult to his House."

Not loyal to House Targaryen, but rather more one that loathes all of House Targaryen's enemies. Wyl knew those sorts of persons on both sides, and sometimes it was perfectly enough.

He then heard the Vulture King speak. "...And a quick storming of the castle will result in his slaughter…"

It was done quickly. The infamous butcher from the Dornish War was old and grizzled, but he still retained a spry strength and ferocity as his younger self. His ally was on the ground, Wyl on top of him with a hand round his neck. "You will not move unless I fucking say you can. You will not fuck this up for me, or a death at the hands of the Targaryen dragons will be the outcome you pray for as I slice off every digit of your body one bit at a time." The arrogant upstart's eyes were wide with terror. "Understood."

"I… I understand," he croaked out. Wyl released him, and he sprang to his feet. "So when do we move out?"

Not until the King is dead. "When I give the signal, and you'll know it when it happens. Be prepared."

From what he could tell, it would be any moon now that the weakling would be in charge. He just had to bide his time till then, and the unfinished triumph of Wyl's past would finally be completed.

It took a half-dozen guards to push open the massive bronze-plated ironwood doors that formed the entrance to the Great Hall of the Dragonpalace as what was being constructed on the High Hill was being called. Rhaena Targaryen took a breath, close to her uncle as they, her father, and her eldest brother waited for the doors to swing open. "What could grandfather and grandmother want?"

Maegor shrugged. "Perhaps they want to show us the finished structure."

"Father knows what it looks like," Egg mused. "But he wouldn't let any of us see it."

Aenys laughed and ruffled his son's hair. "That would ruin the surprise, lad. But I promise, it will amaze." The Crown Prince was in charge of construction, and even his biggest skeptics had to admit he'd done an amazing job. He truly had talent in such matters of organization and aesthetics. "Besides, mother and father made me promise - they wanted to show everyone at the Jubilee."

"I knew muna had ulterior motives for throwing this." Visenya using a feast as a power play fit her. She definitely didn't enjoy it for the sake of frivolity and celebration. The doors cracked as they hit the stone entryway. "Well, let's have a look see. Niece?" He extended his arm.

Taking it, Rhaena felt a flutter in her belly. "Thank you, uncle." Their conversation from earlier still repeated in her head - the illusion of a perfect uncle who could do no wrong shattered… and yet… Rhaena didn't think any less of him. She understood, and sympathized. Not everyone had the luxury of marrying for love, and the thought of losing a child, it tore her up inside.

Muna and kepa lost my littlest sister last year. They nearly were destroyed by it. It seemed Maegor and Ceryse weren't as strong as they.

All negative thoughts were dashed when the vast Throne Room of the Dragonpalace came into view. "By Arrax…" she heard Maegor breath beside her.

Rhaena couldn't help but agree, gasping up at what was arrayed above and before them. "Kepa… you designed this?" she asked in awe. Even the usually nonchalant Egg was speechless.

Her father grinned toothily. "I've seen it every day for moons now and it still gets me shivering. The best master builders and painters and sculptors in all the known world."

"It was worth it, brother," Maegor told him.

The first fact noticed was how tall the great hall was. Something gathered from simply looking at the hill, but it created true majesty from looking from within. Ribbed vaults extended from the walls to form a half-dozen different ceilings all connected together. "That's stone, father," Egg commented.

"Aye, it is."

The young Prince was completely flummoxed. "Black Harren tried that for his Hall of a Hundred Hearths but even he had to resort to wood in the end." It was why he burned. "How did you…"

"Flying buttresses outside. They protect against the wind off Blackwater Bay slamming the stone." Aenys chuckled. "Got that advice from your wife, Maegor. Your goodfather used the same designs in his renovation of the Hightower."

"Is that a fact?" Ceryse never told him she conversed with Aenys. Not that they talked much in the last few years. A situation he hated but couldn't for the life of him fix.

Sighing, he looked back at the marvel his brother created. Pointed arches followed Rhoynish columns high from the floor to the second floor, and then another series of arches extending the length of the walls to the ceiling. Statues of great dragonriders filled the hall, as did intricate frescoes and mosaics of scenes of Valyrian and Targaryen history. But what was truly breathtaking…

"Colored glass, kepa?"

Aenys beamed. "From Myr… before the Volentine conquest. They perfected the design." Each pane of glass was huge, letting in a panoply of light that illuminated the entire hall. The glass panes told a story… the story of the Targaryen Conquest. Beginning with the founding of King's Landing and ending with the crowning of Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys at Oldtown along with the forging of the Iron Throne.

A throne which sat mounted upon a raised dais of Dornish marble. Massive in it's monstrous majesty… upon it resting King Aegon I Targaryen and beside Queen Visenya I Targaryen, ruling monarchs of all Westeros. "Took you long enough to notice," Aegon cackled, enjoying how his children and grandchildren raced to stand before them. "No, no, don't kneel. We're family here, not at court." He pushed himself off the throne, groaning at the creaks in his joints. I hate being fuckin' old…

Visenya noticed his discomfort and wrapped an arm around her little brother's bicep, guiding her husband down the steps with a loving touch. A touch reciprocated when he kissed her hair. Still so much in love. "I take it you approve of the Crown Prince's choices as much as we do."

"It is amazing, grandmother," Rhaena said, twirling around. "It's as if being in Dragonstone… yet in Westeros too." The combination of their styles truly felt as if… "It's like a new world being built by our family."

"I did try and go for that," Aenys remarked, earning a chuckle from his brother.

"A bit dark if you think about it, kepa," Egg critiqued. He never did like Dragonstone. "I would wish for more light - more majestic that way."

"That's what the stained-glass is for, valonqar." Egg narrowed his eyes - that pet name irritated him for… reasons unknown to him. It just did.

But he loved his sister, so he let it go.

"That is actually why we summoned you here," Aegon stated, both him and Visenya growing more serious. "We have ruled for thirty-five years, my children. A rule of the most prosperous peace and the bloodiest, most terrifying war imaginable." He paused, closing his eyes in a painful memory, one only banished when Visenya squeezed his hand. "A full life that I have few regrets for, but a life soon to reach the end."

Four pairs of eyes widened at that. "No father, don't say that," Aenys began, only for Aegon to cut him off.

"Need to face facts, my son, I am aging. In the twilight of my life." As if to emphasize, he coughed. "This is my twilight, and I'll be damned if I let the realm your munas and I built go to ruin because of powerhunger." He walked forward, looking Aenys in the eye. "Which is why your muna and I are appointing you Prince Regent of the Kingdoms."

Aenys couldn't believe what he was hearing. Prince Regent, effectively the ruler of the realm unless directly countermanned by the King or Queen. A heavy responsibility… "I shall make you proud, father." Aegon smiled and kissed his son's brow. He looks so much like his mother - so kind, so full of life. It brought a happy sorrow to his heart.

Visenya approached young Egg. "Grandson, your kepa has handled the diplomatic progresses as Crown Prince since your grandfather and I are too aged, but as Prince Regent he is needed here. Therefore, it must fall to you to continue the progresses."

Swelling with pride in himself, Egg nodded. "I shan't let you down, I promise."

Squeezing Aenys' shoulder once more, the King strode over to his second son. The one man in the room who could both rival and eclipse him in height and strength even in his advanced age. I remember when he was still in his swaddling clothes. Aegon blinked back a tear at how far Maegor had come. "My son," he breathed, clasping his upper arms with affection.

Maegor had faced wildling cannibals, pirates, and the certain death of trying to be the first to scale the walls of a Lysene fortress - those hadn't fazed him, but the loving gaze of the King hit him like a sledgehammer to the heart. "Kepa," he could only say.

"You left for the North a boy, and came home a man," began Aegon. "You left for the Narrow Sea a man, and came home a true dragonlord… by the gods," his voice caught. "Your muna and I cannot be prouder."

"I am not a dragonrider, kepa," Maegor replied modestly. The three and ten Maegor would never have self-deprecated in such a manner, and he now wouldn't usually. But it was his father… "I cannot call myself that without one I can call my own."

"Nonsense," dismissed the King. "You're my son and have fought with the fury of the dragons of old." And I know whom you are destined to sit astride, my boy. "You need to promise me something, Maegor."

The Prince had seen his father in many moods… never once was the mighty conqueror so vulnerable. His emotion raw with the desperation of a man accepting of his mortality. The thought was painful. "No… don't do this, kepa…"

Aegon's grip grew tighter, his violet eyes more desperate. "Please, my son… you need to promise to be loyal to your brother. To do whatever it takes when I pass…"

"You shan't pass for a while, I know it. You're much too strong."

"Valar morghulis," replied Aegon. All men must die. "I need you to promise this to me. That you will ensure our dynasty will survive the tribulations of the new era."

"I promise, kepa." Maegor was reduced to tears… a sight that was so rare as to be unknown by most. Aenys wrapped an arm around his shoulder comfortingly, while Rhaena wanted so badly to give him a hug.

Nodding, Aegon reached for his belt and drew Blackfyre from its sheath. "You shall do so with this." Flat he held it in his hands, offering it up to Maegor.

Rhaena gasped, Aenys' jaw dropped, and Egg's eyes bugged out of his sockets. "What…" Maegor trembled as his father pressed the blade into his hands. Shame falling on him for the sword of the first King of the Seven Kingdoms even daring to grace his touch. "I can't accept this…"

"You deserve it, my son. Use it well - let it be both the sword and shield of your family." There were no words left. Maegor leaned it against his leg and embraced his father, the King laughing softly and clapping his son on the back.

Beaming at the heartwarming scene, Rhaena wiped her eye just as a glittering, reflected light caught her peripheral vision. Her gaze flickered for a moment… only to stay rooted there in shock as she saw what was coming. "Grandmother…" Visenya was smiling, Dark Sister out of its sheath - not drawn in any hostile manner. "You mean to bequeath your sword to me?"

"Quite perceptive, granddaughter."

"But… I am not ready…"

While his grandfather giving up Blackfyre to his uncle made… some sense, his father not the martial type, young Egg's cheeks suddenly flushed at the thought of his sister earning one of the great heirlooms of their House. I am the heir. "She can't even stand true in a proper spar…" But he trailed off when Visenya sent him a glare. Eyes darting to the floor.

Confident her grandson wouldn't make trouble for his sister, Visenya approached Rhaena. "I am still your teacher and will still oversee your training, granddaughter, but my days of personal combat are past. It is your moment, my dear - the moment to show the world that Valyria still produces warrior queens."

Taking Dark Sister in her hands, Rhaena could feel the power emanating from the ancient steel. The essence of generations of proud Targaryen warriors, ones that fought the Rhoynish, conquered the Ghiscari, and hacked through their enemies as the family fled Valyria to start anew. She couldn't help but smile in awe. "Thank you, grandmother."

Visenya embraced her protege. "In the afterlife," she murmured in Rhaena's ear. "Your grandmother is smiling for you, I just know it. Do not let her down."

"I shan't. I will make all of you proud."

"I'm already proud, my dear."

In the halls of the newest Kings, sunlight streaming through the glittering windows of colored glass, those that had forged the Iron Throne passed the torch of dragonfire to the new generation. A generation not knowing of the blood, toil, tears, and sweat that created the unified kingdoms where only division had existed before.

The conquerors could conquer no more. It remained to be seen if their children and grandchildren could keep what they had won.

Chapter Text

Lord Aerion Targaryen always had what he called a 'sixth sense.' He never really described it well to his children, only that he sort of knew by instinct when disaster or danger was approaching. Visenya was certain she inherited it from her father, and it was being felt at the moment.

"Hold still, your Grace," Tyanna remarked from behind her, fingers weaving her hair into a proper braid.

"Are you sure… this is how it's done?" Visenya asked, wincing at another tug of her scalp.

Tyanna nodded. "Aye, this is the Dothraki way. The more intricate the braid, the greater the warrior prowess. And you are the greatest of all the warriors."

She smirked. "My husband might think different." Imagining Aegon's hair long and in braids made her chuckle - it was an amusing thought.

There was no outwardly reason for Visenya to feel danger - everything was perfect. Their meeting with their heirs went smoothly, and the Jubilee feast was tonight. She hated feasts but this one actually appealed to her. As she said, it was… instinct.

"Your son said at supper last night that the you, his Grace, and Queen Rhaenys were three sides of the same coin. Great on their own, but unstoppable together." Her voice held reverence to Maegor's words.

"You seem to fancy my son," the Queen said offhandedly, chuckling… only to raise an eyebrow at the reaction.

Tyanna sputtered, cheeks reddening as she gulped. "Why… why would you think that?" Normally she was never this flustered at anything, but the question caught her off guard. "I do not fancy Prince Maegor."

"I meant it as a jape, but now I have to pry further." Still staring at her through the looking glass, Visenya crossed her arms. "You're denial wasn't very convincing. Do you fancy him?" She was not to be denied.

"I…" She had to be quick on her feet. "I suppose all women in court would fancy Prince Maegor at one time or another."

A scowl. "That does not answer the question, Tyanna. You know better than to lie or omit anything to me." Visenya watched as her handmaiden hung her head. "So do you fancy him or not?"

Hanging her head, Tyanna bit her lip. "He is handsome. I cannot deny that I have looked at him in that manner."

"Well don't. He is married." Not that the marriage is worth anything at this point. While it hurt her to admit, she had been right… although from what she knew it was not to the blame of Lady Ceryse. She has been devoted to him, I am surprised to admit. That family, not so much, but she yes. "Stay away from him."

"Yes, your Grace." Tyanna curtseyed. "Your hair is done, my Queen."

Looking herself over, Visenya had to admit that her handmaiden did a good job. "Thank you, Tyanna." Standing, Visenya turned and looked at her. "Remember why I took you in when visiting Pentos?"

She nodded. "I do remember… you wish for me to assist you tonight?"

"Aye, after the feast." With that, she put the thought out of her mind. It was just a precaution, Visenya told herself. "Let us see the babes." Her grandchildren would put her in a good mood before the feast.

Ser Symond Crayne waited outside the nursery several paces away. "Your Grace," he bowed. "If you wish to see the children, his Grace is there too."

"Oh? He is?" So that's where he ran off to. Visenya couldn't blame him - their grandchildren were a delight.

"Aye, your Grace, and he gave me instructions for him not to be disdurbed."

She frowned. "Well, I need not follow his instructions."

Before they even entered the nursery though, Visenya could hear squeals of youthful laughter echo into the hallway. "Another! Another!" The Queen recognized the squeal as coming from Princess Alysanne, ever excited.

"Please, grandfather, another." That voice belonged to Aegon Stark, sounding much as his grandfather did at that age, only with a northern lilt to his words. He was called 'Eggsy' by the family to distinguish himself from his grandfather and cousin.

Then a laugh, obviously belonging to her husband. "Alright, wee ones. One more then I must be off." Several sets of hands began clapping, happy at the prospect of another… another what, Visenya didn't know.

"Should we go inside?" Tyanna asked.

Visenya shook her head. "No, I want to hear this." Placing her ears at the door, her smile widened as she listened to her husband speak to their many grandchildren.

"I know all of you have heard the story of the Field of Fire and Black Harren," Aegon began, his eyes focusing for a split-second on each of his grandchildren. From Rhaena - holding her cousin Saera Stark - Aegon, and Viserys seated in the back, to Jaehaerys, Aegon Stark, and Alaric seated cross-legged before him, and to little Alysanne resting on his lap, purple eyes gazing up at him with wonder and awe. Gods, how had he gotten so lucky for this to be his family? "And I told you about myself and your grandmother… your muna's namesake, little wolves."

Alaric let out a sigh. "Muna says lots bout her, but never knew her." The resigned, brooding way he said it reminded Visenya of her Egg… and the topic brought a pinprick to her eye.

For Aegon, he had it too, but recovered. "She was… but now it is time you hear a rarely told tale of your grandmother Visenya's life - the great Battle of the Gullet."

Amid the chorus of awe from the younger children - clearly expecting something amazing from the particular emphasis Aegon put on it - Visenya's eyes widened. Not that, Egg. The Gullet was one of her most notable failures as a Warrior Queen. What was he doing?

Bouncing Alysanne on his lap, the King began his tale - powerful body worn with his many decades but eyes sparkling and alert. "While your Grandmother Rhaenys fought the Arrogant King and I battled with Black Harren, your grandmother mounted her dragon and led the Targaryen fleet towards Gulltown - ready to bring the Vale into our kingdom."

He doesn't mention that Sharra Arryn tried to worm her way into our bed, but best not tell the babes that. Sharra was a gorgeous woman back then, but she couldn't hold a candle to Rhaenys in beauty for Visenya. Plus she'd have stabbed me in the back soonest chance she got.

"His Grace seems into the story," Tyanna mused behind her.

"He always loves talking about Rhae and I," the Queen replied back, voice low. He truly loved the both of them…

"...and the fleets clashed in a great battle, the seas awash with crippled ships. Down your grandmother went, burning enemy ship after enemy ship on dragonback, Dark Sister held in the air and glinting from the lightning."

"Wow." Eggsy pumped his fist - he inherited his father and mother's penchant for over the top gestures. "A great victory."

Aegon shook his head. "No, grandson. That battle was actually a loss for us - retreat, we did."

While the older children knew the story, all the younger ones were absolutely shocked. Jaehaerys especially. "No, impossible. Dragons do not lose." He said it with absolute conviction. He needs humility. While her bright grandson was a clever boy wise beyond his years, he was impetuous - prideful in a manner different than his older brother or his uncle in youth. Much of Egg in him.

She then heard Aegon sigh. "I hate saying this, Jae, but a dragonlord is no god. We may have immense power, but we are also mortal. We can make mistakes, and we can lose. I've tasted that sting, and so has your grandmother."

"But you won the Vale," Eggsy proclaimed. "What happened?"

"You're gonna love this part, little dragonwolf," Rhaena cooed to her little cousin, rocking her. Saera merely yawned, stretching her tiny arms in Rhaena's hold.

Aegon smiled wistfully, stroking his chin as a far away look crept on his eyes - framed by crow's feet. "Your grandmother… she was always able to think quickly on her feet. A talent for improvisation."

"Impwov...is..at..at...at…" Alysanne had trouble with the large word, which made Visenya giggle.

"It means she comes up with plans quickly, my little hatchling." He tickled her nose, which made Alysanne squeal in delight. "That was always her best quality, and I couldn't have become what I was without it." Visenya got a little catch in her throat - gods, she loved this man, her baby brother. "She was faced with the Vale, not an army to take it, when she acted decisively."

Eggsy knew instinctively what was coming. "Vhagar!" As always, the dragons were beloved in the nursery.

"Aye, that beautiful beast… though never tell your grandmother I said that." A chuckle left Visenya's lips, listening further. "She never gave up. She never does, and flew past the Vale's armies at the Bloody Gate and landed at the top of the Eyrie - the castle is so tall that no enemy has ever breached it or scaled its walls, yet Vhagar simply landed in the courtyard. When Queen Sharra returned, she found her little boy sitting on her lap, listening to stories of the dragons just as I tell you."

"What happened next?" begged Alysanne, riveted.

Aegon laughed. "Queen Sharra bent the knee, and that was that. All thanks to your grandmother."

Jaehaerys was astounded. "Gods, she was bold."

"Bold she is. The greatest woman in the world." From the back, Rhaena swooned, imagining a man she loved calling her that the adoring way her grandfather did. A man as strong and powerful as my uncle…

Visenya couldn't take anymore. "Enough of that." Pushing open the door, she strode in with all her finery. "It's time for your grandfather to come with me."

"Grandmother!" Both Jaehaerys and Eggsy were at her side in a flash. "You have to tell me about the Field of Fire," the Prince begged.

"You're my hero," added the future heir to Winterfell. "I can't wait to be dragonrider like you."

She couldn't help but melt at their adoration. "While I'm sure you'll make a powerful dragonrider, do not forget that you are also a direwolf, grandson." He nodded, even though his grey eyes were the only Stark feature about him. Seven Hells, between him and his siblings, only Alaric possessed the dark coloring of House Stark, and his eyes were a bright amethyst. "And besides, your grandfather doesn't even tell the story right."

"Oh? Enlighten me, your Grace," Aegon called out, crossing his arms while Alysanne had hers looped round his neck.

"You forgot to mention that grandmother didn't fly to the Eyrie until after Lord Torrhen bent the knee."

"Thank you, Viserys," Egg groaned.

The studious boy beamed. "You're welcome." Him and his elder brother and sister were all dressed up, joining them at the feast tonight while the younger children stayed in the nursery.

Which meant. "Ready to go, my love?" Visenya asked Aegon.

"Absolutely." He leaned up and kissed her sweetly before looking back at Alysanne on his lap. "My dear Princess, do you mind if I escort Queen Visenya to the feast?" Visenya bit her lip to stifle her giggle.

Alysanne furrowed her brows much as Rhaenys had… both Rhaenys'. "Alright… but come back, grandpa."

He grinned and kissed her forehead. "Absolutely. You have my word."

"This is your moment," Lord Lucas Harroway instructed his youngest daughter, finger in her face and a serious frown on his lips. "I don't wish to hear you shied away from it."

"I promise, poppa, I won't," she urged, trembling slightly.

While her mother, sisters, and younger brother were getting ready, Alys' father took her aside for a private chat - as she expected, it was about her budding friendship with Rhaena. Several times she had been invited to the great manse, all by the Princess. "You were always my most difficult daughter," he stated matter of factly. "Too shy and too idealistic to know what you needed to do." Alys closed her eyes for a moment, letting his hurtful words wash from her like water off a duck's back. "But by the gods, you did it. You did what your sister's couldn't do."

She swallowed. "I truly enjoy Rhaena's company, and she does mine…" A squeeze of her shoulder shut her up, wincing.

"Personal feelings matter not, understood?" His scowl had deepened. "You will continue to treat with the Princess. You will charm her and her circle and turn yourself into her confidant, even her lover if her tastes are so inclined." Alys would have gasped, but she had heard such from her father before. She was sure Jorelle had warmed the bed of at least one lonely noblewoman in order to seek out a betrothal at father's instigation. "I will not let this opportunity slide and neither would you, understood?" His tone left no room for argument.

She didn't try. "I understand, poppa."

Alys Harroway hadn't seen her father, mother, or sisters since they arrived at the massive feast in honor of the Jubilee. Why would she? The great hall of the Dragonpalace was massive, a beautiful, awe-inspiring structure that portended something far grander than any in Westeros had ever yet seen upon full completion. But size wasn't everything - she may have lost her family, but she hadn't been alone for a moment before Princess Rhaena snatched her up.

"You must tell me the name of your fabrician?" Samantha Stokeworth gushed, running her hands along the pattern of Alys' dress. "What is this fabric? Silk?"

"Aye," she nodded. "Silk from beyond the Jade Gates." It had cost her father a large amount of coin, but he considered it an investment rather than a splurge. It was a light, clover green in color that hugged her abdomen tightly while blooming out in the skirt - though not as much as the standard Westerosi fashion.

"It is beautiful," conceded Larissa Velaryon, herself radiant in a sea-green gown decorated with white seahorses. "Not as much as our Princess' though," she grinned.

Rhaena's dress did beat out the lot of them. It also departed from the styles of the Reach or Lannisport that dominated the outfits of the ladies here. It was sleeveless, one that exposed just a hint of cleavage, form fitting and pure black with white swirls. Valryian beauty at work, Alys mused.

The herald took that moment to clap his hands, attracting attention. "The Hand of the King!"

Torrhen Stark stood from where he sat close to the dias, where the King and Queen sat upon the massive Iron Throne. "Lords, Ladies, dignitaries, we are gathered today to celebrate the thirty-fifth year of the reign of King Aegon and Queen Visenya." Torrhen Stark was a smart and crafty man, but his northern accent gave off a certain earnestness. His words were genuine rather than platitudes and it showed. "To the King and Queen." He raised his goblet in a cheer. "Long may they reign!"

"Long may they reign!"

With the first cheer, by tradition the feast would now be open to a first dance - the beginning of the social angling of the high society of Westeros in alliances, romance, and plotting in the guise of a fun and intimate art. Already the men were taking their wives to the floor or approaching unattached maidens. Alys closed her eyes and waited for what lordling or knight would ask the companion of the Princess.

"Lady Harroway." Her eyes flew open at the familiar voice, revealing Prince Aegon smiling at her, hand extended. "May I have this dance?"

What could she say? There was no chance she would deny the Prince. "Of course."

It was slow, the minstrels starting with something gentle to ease the guests into the tempo. As such, Alys was forced to pay attention to her partner rather than lose herself in the movements. "You are very pretty, Lady Harroway."

She met his gaze, blushing. "Thank you, your Grace. Your compliment honors me." While she didn't choose this, Alys didn't find dancing with Prince Aegon Targaryen to be unpleasant. Youthful that he was, the boyish features mixed well with those he held of a man coming of age. His face didn't tend to acne like many of his youth, nor did any stubble give an awkward image. He was comly, and would grow to be a very handsome man in the near future. Alys could do worse, especially if Aegon's father, uncles, and grandfather were the basis of his future looks. "I was quite surprised when you chose me as your first dance tonight."

He blinked. "Why would you think that, Lady Harroway? Do you doubt your beauty?" Aegon chuckled, turning them slowly. "Only my sister can compare to you."

Of course, Rhaena was radiant and a brother would always praise his siblings - yet the comment mattered more from a Targaryen than others. We know what they do with their sisters. The King whispering something intimately into the Queen's ear which she found amusing only bolstered the statement. "You could have your pick of anyone," Alys finally said. "Why me?"

Aegon regarded her with a smirk. "I find you interesting." He twirled her around, hand quickly finding her waist again. It made her shiver. "House Harroway isn't a major house. Old and august, yes, but not with power or clout - and yet here you are as a favorite of my sister." Another chuckle left his lips. "My sister may be sentimental, but all her friends are of senior highborns. That means you are something special, worthy of my attention."

That was… strange. Alys could understand if a suitor was captivated by her beauty, both chivalrous and lecherous. This… Prince Aegon was a deeper individual, whose motivations were an enigma to her. Lust? Power? Jealousy of his sister? She couldn't know.

Which made him both an attraction and a danger to her. The latter screamed warning, while the former begged to pull him closer to her.

The former won out, Alys taking advantage of a gentle lull in the music to rest her head against his shoulder as they danced. While his eyes wandered, Prince Aegon didn't pull away.

Watching her beautiful daughter twirling about the dance floor, falling into her northern husband's arms, Visenya sighed happily. "Rhaenys would've loved this. It was always her favorite times, dancing at feasts."

"I wouldn't say her favorite time." Visenya understood her husband's implication and glared wryly at him. He chuckled. "Aye, she would have." Leaning over to where she sat, Aegon took her hand and kissed the wrist, looking at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world - which to him she was. "Right about now, she'd be pushing you onto the dance floor."

"Gods, I hated that," Visenya groaned, for a moment feeling just like the ten and eight maiden being dragged around by her ten and five nameday-old sister. "Our son gets it from her, the effortless ease to make people like him." As always, when he didn't take his wife or some highborn matron for a dance, Aenys was surrounded by a gaggle of well-wishers that he engaged with in conversation. Their merry laughs rang out across the great hall. "He even charms our enemies."

"Rhae had a way of doing that," Aegon agreed. "Little Rhae is like that as well, though she gets her fierceness from you." Never once did any of his comparisons between his two loves ever cause one to come out ahead of the other - even if it unfortunately seemed that way at some time - but Rhae's fierceness was gentle, silent, one that would smile at you genuinely while getting a knife in the back later. Visenya… she'd just claw your eyes out right then and there. Maegor got that, Rhaenys got that… and he was sure Rhaena had that. "Maegor, he's just like you."

She shook his head, finding him always either by himself, by Ceryse, or speaking with one of the Northmen - only twice did he dance, once with his wife and once with Lady Stark. "No, Maegor is your son through and through. He broods, he sulks, and he keeps to himself. That is you, your Grace." Looking back at Aegon, her husband had a mischievous twinkle in his purple eyes. "What are you planning, Egg?"

Still grinning, he looked over to Lord Commander Corlys. "Cousin, if you'd please?"

"Of course, your Grace." He took a spear from one of the household guards and smacked the base against the dias - noise echoing across the great hall. All around, the sounds of laughter and pleasant conversation ceased as the gathered guests stilled, eyes drawn to the dias. "His Grace, Aegon I Targaryen, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men, wishes to speak."

Standing, groaning softly as he worked out the kinks in his back, Aegon handed out his hand for Visenya to take. "Your Grace."

She smiled wide at him, taking the hand and feeling quite lucky. She recalled at their wedding feast he did something similar… Egg… you're not… But before she could speak, he was leading her down the dias.

Clearing his throat, King Aegon Targaryen still looked powerful in his black gambeson - red silk was stitched in the shape of a three-headed dragon emblazoned on the chest. Blackfyre may have now been the sword of Prince Maegor, but Aegon looked as if he could still conquer the kingdoms as he had three decades ago. "Gathered Lords and Ladies, visiting dignitaries, my beloved bride and I thank you for coming to celebrate the thirty-fifth year of our reign. A land of warring states, united now under peace and prosperity under the dragon's might." A chorus of claps followed, Targaryen stalwarts cheering while the others tepidly joined in. "Today is thirty-five years since my coronation, but also thirty-five years since my beloved Queen Visenya was crowned right next to me. By the gods, I've endured the seven hells upon this earth but never did I tire, because she was beside me."

Even the veteran of scores of battles and years of ruling couldn't keep Visenya from nearly swooning like a maiden at his words. "Egg…" she murmured, audible only to him.

Wordlessly, Aegon signalled to the minstrels, who prepared their instruments accordingly. The King took his Queen into his arms - they were already in the center of the Great Hall, watched by everyone. "I'm not an old man," Aegon told her. "I can still dance with my wife."

"You never dance," she replied in a whisper.

"True." His hand on her waist still managed to send tingles through her skin. "Neither do you, but you do enjoy it on occasion." She nodded, baffled that even after such a long marriage he could make her fall for him all over again.

And the music began again, the King of all Westeros leading his beloved across the smooth stone. It was a waltz from Oldtown, an old andal tune that held grace yet a serious flurry of movements that only a still spry man could follow. And Aegon followed it perfectly, the hem of Visenya's floor-length red gown that hugged her curves toned by still strenuous training brushing the priceless marble

Even in age, the powerful monarchs of Westeros still presented an imposing sight. An intimidating presence that quaked enemies in their boots and awed those that may have raised ire to someone weaker. As long as they lived, the realm they had forged would stay at peace, bound by their power and prospering under their love and rule.

If Rhaena had expected the dance between her grandparents to permanently liven up a rather dull evening, she was sadly mistaken. Granted, watching them glide about with the grace and power of those far younger than themselves was entertaining and wonderful for her, but it was just that… a fleeting feeling. They had long since returned to their seats upon the Iron Throne while yet another series of lordlings at the behest of her kepa and muna drew Rhaena in for dances.

She accepted politely each time, but gods, it was tedious. Most of them barely disguised their lascivious appreciation of her body or smug confidence at winning her heart for their own gain - young Manfryd Redwyne, deep in his cups, even groped her backside with a leer. Cousin to her aunt Ceryse, Rhaena couldn't do anything about it, but a quick word to her great-uncle Corlys to keep him away from her was heeded.

Muna or grandmother would likely send someone to teach him a lesson - Uncle Maegor would do it himself. She had no problem with that if it happened.

The minstrels finished their latest tune with a flourish, a jaunty melody from Braavos quite popular in high society. Rhaena planted her feet on the stone floors and clapped politely with the rest of the guests, curtseying to her partner. "Thank you for the dance, Lord Androw."

Unlike the vast majority of the others, shy Androw Farman was almost pleasant to dance with. He was slow and dense, but polite enough and one to allow her to speak. "Thank you, Princess. It was an honor."

He bowed and she curtseyed again, heading for the gaggle of her favorites gathered around one of the refreshment tables. "I told you my brother was a good dancer," grinned Lady Elissa Farman, lightly tapping Rhaena on the shoulder.

She laughed. "Aye, he is, though when I said that all my partners were imperious and never let me speak once, I didn't suggest the exact opposite." That wasn't exactly true. Young Luthor Tyrell was kind and deferent without being a dunce, yet there just wasn't any spark. Somehow, when compared with her grandfather, kepa, or uncle Maegor all men fell short of them. Especially with her uncle in looks.

"Well you're not giving us much to work with," shot back her cousin Larissa. "Picky picky picky."

"Leave her alone, Larissa," said Samantha Stokeworth. "It's not her fault she hasn't found her soulmate." That drew muffled groans from Elissa, Larissa, Alayne Royce, Tyanna, and Rhaena. "He's bound to be around her somewhere and I will not rest till I find him for you."

Rhaena took in Samantha's dreamy gaze - likely she was planning her wedding already. "Perhaps it's best for you to find a soulmate of your own, Sammy. Let me handle it myself." She made her way for the refreshments, eating some sliced cheese and bread while washing it down with watered wine.

"Ah… I know the perfect sort of man for myself." She gasped, smiling. "Perhaps we'll marry at the same time, and be pregnant together!" She practically simpered with delight at the thought.

Alayne shorted. "Alright, Sammy, calm down. Let's not get ahead of ourselves." The Vale maiden had quickly integrated into their little group - graceful but blunt much like Larissa or her Aunt Rhaenys. Rhaena was so thankful for the friends she'd made almost as much as she was for Dreamfyre. "Gods, Alys is at it again."

"What?" Oh, right… Rhaena caught the other new favorite back in a dance with her brother Aegon, the third time that night. "Is she really after my brother?"

"More like him after her," mused Tyanna. "I saw him staring at her whenever she wasn't with him. He's besotted."

Shrugging, Alayne raised her glass. "Here's to Lucas Harroway. Managed to snag a Targaryen for a goodson." Rhaena wished to rebut that they weren't betrothed yet, but she couldn't. It did sound like something her headstrong brother would do. The Royce maiden suddenly pointed. "Heads up…"

"Your Grace." Rhaena turned to come face to face with another suitor… one quite unwelcome but too important to blow off even if she was so inclined. "May I have this dance?" Ser Tyrion Lannister asked, lips curled in a gentle smile that was undoubtedly charming.

She couldn't refuse, and he didn't seem like a lecher. "Of course, Ser Tyrion." Taking his hand, Rhaena allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, casting a look back at her friends. Noticing how Tyanna slipped away towards her grandmother.

Striding to his bride, Maegor handed her a freshly-filled goblet. "Here you are, my dear." Ceryse accepted it with a light smile, leaning over to kiss his cheek in thanks. There was a time where that kiss would have been on his lips and accompanied by her melding herself flush against him, but Maegor chose not to reflect on what had been.

His brother however obtained such a reaction as he did the same thing for his wife. "Such a chivalrous, noble knight," Alyssa giggled, kissing Aenys' lips and affectionately stroking his shoulders.

"We're not insecure in ourselves, my love," Aenys replied happily. "Both Maegor and I are perfectly willing to act as proper husbands, not foist our duties off to a servant." He grinned at his brother.

"Of course. Proper husbands," she replied, eyes flickering to Maegor, gaze hard before returning a glittering smile for her husband.

Never change, goodsister… His sarcastic thoughts manifested as a sigh as he leaned against the wall. Maegor was certain her affections for Aenys were genuine, but they always took a backseat to her feelings of him. Currently, it was equal parts resentment and loathing, though it hadn't always been the case. Gods, forgive me for that, brother… He instinctively wrapped his arm around Ceryse's waist. She looked at him, slightly surprised at the rather intimate gesture they hadn't even felt while dancing together, but Ceryse didn't question it - merely leaning her head against his shoulder.

Whatever calm affection had brewed was dashed by the arrival of Lady Tyanna. "My Prince, a message from your mother for your ears only."

Catching the curious glances from his wife, brother, and goodsister, Maegor shrugged. "Can't ignore muna."

The young Pentoshi leaned up on her tiptoes, a head shorter than the tall Prince. "You need to rescue your niece," she whispered in his ear. "Her Grace would rather she dance with you than Tyrion Lannister."

Looking in that direction, Maegor could see his niece gliding about upon the dance floor with the Lannister heir. He couldn't deny that the parade of suitors had irked him, but none were of the caliber of a lion of Casterly Rock - and none as deadly. "Excuse me," he said to his brother and his wife, not paying Alyssa any heed. Ire and… something unfamiliar burned in his gut, but he pushed it down for propriety's sake. "I need to take care of something." A kiss to Ceryse's temple and he was off.

With Maegor gone and Tyanna heading back to her friends, Aenys was confused. "What was that about?"

Alyssa snorted. "With your brother, could be anything." Probably going to his mistress or something… "Come on, husband, goodsister. I think my brother and Lord Ronnel are primed for some stimulating conversation."

Her feet throbbed, and much as Rhaena wished to ignore it there was a greater ease in obsessing in the pain than paying full attention to the conversation before her. "...Lord Crakehall was a tough opponent, but on the fifth tilt I managed to knock him from his horse."

"That must have been a heady moment," she replied vaguely. Tyrion Lannister was handsome, no doubt, his golden hair and blue eyes likely to cause any maiden to melt for the lean yet powerful highborn. But there was something about him that made Rhaena… uncomfortable.

"It was, though victory usually is. I don't truly enjoy jousts."

"Oh?" They danced to the jaunty yet airy tune, replete with wide arcs and distance between the dancers - something Rhaena appreciated.

"Aye, I vastly prefer the melee. Less structure, more freedom to engage in the tactics needed to obtain victory." There, in his eyes, was a glint. One that unsettled Rhaena greatly. Most maidens wouldn't notice, and those were free to pursue him as far as the Princess was concerned.

Spinning around again, Rhaena was pulled out of her silent prayers by the stolid form of her uncle. He stood right in their path, one arm behind his back while the other was extended towards her… "Yes, uncle?" she asked, smiling at him in a way she hadn't ever smiled at Tyrion or any of the other suitors for her hand. "Is something the matter?"

He shrugged, smiling softly. "No, just the endurance of the mundane nature of court politics and manners."

A snort from Tyrion. "I find we are in agreement on that, my Prince, but if you would be so kind…"

Maegor ignored him. "Princess, if you wouldn't mind me cutting in?" His tone was so… charming, Rhaena fought a flutter in her heart.

"I would mind, Prince Maegor," replied Tyrion. "Princess Rhaena and I were trying to dance."

"You were trying, Ser Tyrion - she was succeeding."

Rhaena couldn't help the little giggle that left her mouth. Who would've thought the infamous Prince Maegor Targaryen was adept at the subtle insults of court. Tyrion hadn't, and his face reddened with anger and humiliation. But before he could respond, Rhaena squeezed his hand. "Thank you for the dance, Ser Tyrion. It was quite appreciated," she lied, eager to get from his possessive grip and into her dear uncle's. Hoping that it didn't come off that way.

Easing the heir to Casterly Rock away from her, Maegor clasped his back - they were both the same height, but the lion was more slender compared to the dragon's powerful muscles. "A simple jape, Ser Tyrion. Nothing more." He chuckled. "I was just here to inform you that my sister the Princess Rhaenys is in conversation with the other Lords of the Westerlands and wishes to include the discussion to you."

Tyrion eyed him warily - as if seeing directly through Maegor's little tricks. But he was politic, and nodded his head. "Kind of you, my Prince. I shan't deny the Princess her wish." A tiny glint of loathing flashed in Tyrion's eyes, met by an equal one of possessiveness in Maegor's before the former bowed to the latter and made for the Princess' table.

Chuckling, Maegor made his way to Rhaena. "Well, I cannot allow my niece not to finish this dance. It would be impolite."

Her waist tingled as Maegor placed his hand there, a blush adorning Rhaena's cheeks. "We can't have that." She straightened herself, hand squeezing Maegor's shoulder. "Lead the way."

It didn't take them long to reach the tempo of the song, Maegor an even better dancer than she thought he would be. Sensing her curiosity, he smiled to her. "Lady Stark may have been from the swamps of the Neck, but she was a cultured lady. Both I and Brandon were forced to learn the finer arts." Dipping Rhaena, he caught the glimpses of many a highborn. Disgusted looks, ones he noticed when his parents danced or were affectionate… though they seemed more open at him. Incestuous Targaryens.

"I must thank Lady Stark for her teachings - they work to my advantage right now." He spun her, holding his hand so she could twirl… and end up back in his arms. It was a steady feeling, and Rhaena was exhilarated. "Thank you for the dance, uncle. I was drowning."

Maegor frowned. "Ser Tyrion was that bad?" The tone carried an undercurrent of promise - that she just needed to say the word, damned be the political fallout.

"No… it wasn't like that." She wouldn't want her uncle to do something he would regret. They circled another couple, avoiding a collision by mere inches. "He was polite, but unsettling."

The couple they had avoided, a Lord and Lady of the Reach, gave them another glare of disgust. Maegor wanted to cave the man's teeth in, but refrained. "All Lannisters are like that."

"I haven't met Lord Loren, so I wouldn't know." Her feet were throbbing before, but now she didn't even feel them. "Others were worse. Manfryd Redwyne grabbed my ass."

The frown turned to a scowl. "I'll kill him."

Faced with his dragon fury, Rhaena shuddered… he never looked more handsome. "No need, he's just a cunt."

"Are you sure? Ralla's father knows some wildling punishments that would make a man beg for dragonfire."

Somehow she found that amusing, and Rhaena giggled. "No, it's quite alright." Her laugh coaxed a smile from him and they were able to return to enjoying the music.

But as soon as it began, the tune ended and the minstrels took a moment's rest. Both of them broke apart and clapped accordingly along with the rest as the Lords and Ladies made their way off the dance floor. "I rather enjoyed that," Maegor proclaimed.

"Aye, it was most enjoyable. I already enjoy your company, uncle, so it isn't surprising to me."

Locking eyes with his muna, Visenya almost openly urged him to continue. Subtle gestures screaming loud and clear what she wished. Maegor found himself wishing the same things. "Rhaena?"

"Hmmm… yes, uncle?"

He gazed at the other highborns, most going back to their conversations but some still giving him dirty glares. "Would you be up to something more… robust?" If they are scandalized by us dancing, why not give them something to actually be scandalized over.

She looked quizzical, raising an eyebrow. "How robust are we speaking of?" He leaned in and whispered it to her ear, piquing her interest. "I should be able to keep up at that."

"Are you sure? Your dancing is skilled, but such a tempo may be too powerful a challenge." He deliberately stoked her fire, seeing if she was up for it.

Her eyes narrowed. "I am a dragonrider. Nothing is too powerful a challenge to me."

Just what he wanted to hear. Nodding, Maegor made his way to the lead minstrel and slipped him a gold dragon, giving his recommendation. The minstrel beamed and pumped his fist, excited for a challenge of a song. The Prince returned to his niece, extending his hand. She took it, supremely ready for...

In a whoosh, he dipped her twice in quick succession, Rhaena's heart already beating at the rapid movements… only for Maegor to pull her flush against him. Redness filled her cheeks at the closeness - at just how muscled he was - but recovered as the gentle glide of the dance moves began. It was a tune from Old Valyria, quite popular there in the same way dragonriding was. Full of exaggerated movements and sensual gestures, many thought it based off of dragon mating rituals done in the skies between prospective partners.

From the dias, both Aegon and Visenya watched with interest - especially at the scandalized looks of many of the more pious lords. "Oh, Maegor, you beautiful bastard," Aegon muttered, suppressing a laugh.

Parting from Alys Harroway for one of the few times that night since their first dance, Prince Aegon was taking a drink of unwatered wine when his attention was drawn to his sister and uncle. "What in seven hells," he murmured, watching as they danced almost flush against each other, their movements jerky and… sensual. "Rhaena…" he said almost angrily, not liking at all what he was seeing.

Sweat formed a sheen over her forehead and cheeks, but Rhaena noticed not. Her mind was a flurry of movements and positioned, desperate to keep up to her uncle's almost boundless reserve of energy and fire. She knew why this dance was popular in Old Valyria, for only two dragons could handle the sheer passion and heat it required to keep up to the music.

But in spite of her concentration, her senses flickered about to other things. Specifically, her uncle, the rest of the world closed off from her. The glint of the many lights upon his silver hair, looking as an explosion of color. The way his muscles contracted underneath his doublet as they moved. The heady scent of strength. His powerful touch that nevertheless held her with care - as if she was a precious gem that needed to be treasured.

It threatened to overwhelm her.

From the outskirts of the great hall, the Crown Prince and his party were immersed in conversation. A flourish in the music drew a cursory glance which ended quickly… until the true sight was actually processed, drawing more involved and stunned expressions. There was the Princess dancing sultrily, athletically with the Crown Prince's own brother, all knowing of the predilections that House Targaryen was renowned for. Aenys laughed, clapping his hands at the display of skill. Ceryse looked away, face flushed and profoundly embarrassed and jealous.

But none could pale in the cold fury of Alyssa's expression… combined with a slight tinge of jealousy as well. That little shit...

Arms raising, Maegor strained to lower Rhaena to the floor - the skirts of her dress pooling around her like cascades of molten lava from the Fourteen Flames. Only to jerk her back up in a powerful show of strength and dexterity. The minstrels added a final dash of string heralding the end, the Prince spinning his partner around before dipping her back, neck extending just as the last tune was played.

When the King and Queen immediately stood, clapping uproariously, even the most offended of the Lords and Ladies had to join in. Visenya and Aegon were visibly laughing merrily, while from the head of the crowd the arriving Crown Prince Aenys looked awed at the skill of his brother and eldest daughter. Rhaena's favorites cheered their friend, leading the other Targaryen stalwarts to do the same.

Heart pounding in her chest, Rhaena lifted her head back up to find herself gazing into his violet eyes. A gaze that sent her entire soul fluttering. My gods… he is magnificent. Young as she was, it felt to her as if she was looking up at her soulmate.

Chapter Text

"What in seven hells was that?!"

Princess Rhaena had been in a daze since she left the great hall of the Dragonpalace… hells, since the final flourish of her sensual Valyrian dance with her uncle Maegor. All eyes had been on her, all attention drawn to the once shy princess now displayed for the entire world to see as the most desirable maiden in the Realm. It was a heady feeling in and of itself.

If the eligible Lords and knights of the Realm had sought out Rhaena for dances or conversations beforehand, following the dance the chorus had tripled. But Rhaena turned them down, instead insisting on sitting among her family for the arrival of the main courses of food - right next to her uncle in spite of the disapproval written on her mother's face. But her negation were overcome by her friends, who practically pushed her beside Maegor… not that Rhaena would ever deny such an invitation by her uncle.

The way he held her, the way his muscles rippled under the house colors of his doublet, the way his eyes both sparkled and darkened as they looked at her… Rhaena shivered just remembering it.

She missed the clusters of Lords that chattered around the royal table. She missed the tension between the various members of her family. She missed the moments she had witnessed before the dance - so consumed by the heady feeling of her uncle that all else for Rhaena was masked…

Until she saw Aegon storming towards her, jaw set in anger. 'Valonqar," she replied. "What is it?" She had seen him petulant and ired before, but never this angry.

Aegon couldn't think straight. The feast had been enjoyable, especially the time he danced with the impossibly beautiful Alys Harroway - her father wasn't of high blood but none mattered to him, intoxicated he was by her - but seeing Rhaena dancing hotly with his uncle arose something inside him. The dragon temper burned green with jealousy. "Don't pretend to be ignorant, sister."

"I honestly don't know what you are referring to," she shot back. "And don't take that tone with me."

He shook his head at her intransigence. She has to be deliberately taunting me. "That display you did with uncle. If you wanted to show all your disgusting suitors just how little you thought of their pathetic advances then bravo. You succeeded beyond your wildest imaginations."

Rhaena blinked. "Are you japing me? Firstly, the offers only increased after the dance…"

Snorting, Aegon lifted up his hands in frustration. "You have no idea the machinations of court, given you spent most of the last four years on Dragonstone with grandmother."

"Allow me to finish," she said firmly. "And second, how is it your doing to meddle in whom I dance with or not?" Rhaena crossed her arms, growing increasingly miffed by this. "You're not kepa. He was fine with it."

"Kepa's an idiot!"

"Do not speak of him like that," she shouted back.

"Because you're meant to be my bride!" The declaration by him stunned her into silence. Sure, that was the anticipated default, but he usually talked it as such… not something he actually desired. Rhaena smelled a hint of wine on his breath. Aegon wasn't drunk, but the wine clearly lowered his inhibitions. "You and I, Rhaena. King and Queen."

She shook her head. "No betrothal has been yet made, valonqar."

"It will happen regardless and I have been looking forward to it…" But his expression darkened. "But now you fell for our uncle."

"What?"

"You heard me, don't deny it."

"I am not in love with our uncle." Liar. "What you're doing is ridiculous."

Aegon sneered. "Did you fuck him already?" Her eyes widened. Even arrogant, her brother never spoke this way. "Spreading your legs and allowing our married uncle to take your maidenhead? When was it? Yesterday, tonight even?"

Longing to slap him, Rhaena restrained herself - though she seethed. "I shall forget you said those things to be because we are siblings, but I won't listen to your drunken rantings any longer." She turned to leave…

But was stopped by his hand shooting out to grab her wrist. "Don't you dare walk away from me!" he bellowed, squeezing the wrist tight enough to make her wince. Instinctively, she wheeled around and smashed her fist into his shoulder. Not expecting it, Aegon grunted and pitched back, letting go of her wrist.

Rhaena stared incredulously at her brother, jaw dropped in a stunned silence. One that quickly changed to anger. "You'd dare touch me?"

From the pain in his shoulder to the fire in his sister's eyes, Aegon found his good sense returning to him. "Rhae… please…" he pleaded. "I didn't mean…"

While he reached for her, Rhaena slapped his hands away. "You'd dare lay a hand on me? Your own sister?!"

"It was a mistake, please. Forgive me, it wasn't my intention."

She believed him. The dragon temper was… hard to control at times even for her grandparents or uncle. "I won't hold this against you, valonqar," Rhaena told him, seeing Aegon sag in relief. "Provided you learn to control your temper."

His head bobbed up and down. "Thank you, Rhae."

But her eyes hardened again. Stepping forward, Rhaena shoved her finger into his chest. "But hear me now, Aegon Targaryen. I am not your property. I do not belong to you - I expect my love and affections to be earned and not assumed." She found she enjoyed how he squirmed at her cold furor. "If you, in jealousy or stupidity or anger, ever try to claim me - ever try to lay a hand on me again, I will cut off your cock and feed it to Dreamfyre. Are we clear?" In the face of the woken dragon, Aegon nodded. "Don't speak to me for the next few days."

Rubbing the point in which she poked him, Aegon couldn't deny her that. "I understand, sister. And I'm truly sorry."

"I know you are, but I need to have time to forgive you for this." Rhaena met his gaze once more. "Goodnight, valonqar." He said not one more word to her, but she could feel his eyes track her until she turned the corner towards her bedchamber.

Once out of his sight, her poise and composure left her. Rhaena sagged, a pained frown finding her lips and her eyes watering from sorrow. Aegon may have been prideful and smug at times but they were always so close. What happened?

And yet Rhaena likely knew. It was obvious, and it terrified her for what she told him was a lie. She would never let Aegon earn her love or affections because there was none to give. My heart is already hopelessly given to another.

Rhaena's heart belonged to her uncle. Abrupt as it was, she couldn't deny it or rationalize it - and he would never be hers, nor she be anyone else's. Silently, her tears fell from her eyes to the ground as she walked through her father's manse.

Brows furrowing, Visenya gazed at her lady in waiting with an unsure look. "I have never encountered such a ritual before in my readings. Are you certain it is legitimate?"

"Yes, I am, your Grace." Tyanna still wore the same yellow-orange gown from the feast, but her hair was pulled into a severe bun rather than the lustrous tresses that flowed free during the festivities. It added to the solemnity that was about to transpire. "Most dragonlords relied on their dragon dreams if they wished to glimpse the future, but you seek answers now."

"The maeges of old performed this?"

"Quite regularly, and the priests of R'hllor use something similar for their flame-gazing… though without dragonsblood it isn't as effective." Stepping onto the grassy plain jutting into the sea just behind the great hall, stars twinkling brightly above them in a panoply of beauty, Tyanna bit her lip. "I will warn you, they aren't as accurate as a dragon dream."

Visenya was curious. "How so?"

"One of the reasons your ancestor, Daenys the Dreamer, wasn't believed of the Doom was due to the College of Augers determining through this very ritual that no calamity was coming." Her mother and her grandmother before her had speculated on the very nature of this - of how the ritual could be accurate and yet misleading. "The gods, they are mysterious and shrouded. I caution your interpretations."

"Duly noted." Visenya couldn't risk waiting for dragon dreams. She needed to know the sort of danger they faced, especially for the near term. The Realm is at peace, but for how long?

While the massive block of the great hall loomed large over the high hill, there was still enough untilled grass at the cliff face itself for Vhagar to land. They hadn't yet built the outer walls, let alone the defenses for the seaward side, perfect for the bronze-scaled dragon to make an easy landing. But this wouldn't be allowed for long. As the Dragonpalace continued to be built and expanded, the ability for a large dragon to land here was severely curtailed. The royal family would need a special place for the dragons to reside somewhere in the city.

Those concerns put away for another time, Visenya immediately went to her. "Hello, my sweet," she murmured affectionately in High Valyrian, rubbing her snout.

What is it this time, muna?

She raised an eyebrow. "My my, are we testy tonight.," she scolded.

The great beast almost seemed to mewl in apology. Forgive me, muna, but Balerion kept me and the babes fishing all day and I'm exhausted.

Visenya giggled - that sounded like Balerion, and her dragons' insistence in referring Arrax, Quicksilver, and Dreamfyre 'the babes' was still amusing. Better than how Balerion dubbed them 'the pests.' "Don't worry, my sweet. This shan't take long." Vhagar trilled in response, nuzzling Visenya's chest as if a hatchling.

Watching the scene, Tyanna was still amazed. Never mind being around the King, Queen, and Rhaena while they interacted with their dragons as one would a child or sibling, it never ceased to bring her awe. She held Valyrian blood through her mother's line, but they were blood maeges, not dragonriders. Tyanna couldn't comprehend the depth of the bond between them no matter how much Rhaena tried to explain it to her.

It was no wonder why many were dazzled by the family that had conquered Westeros. Such majesty inspired loyalty as readily as rain spurred growth. "Your Grace, we may begin," she said gently.

Eyes flickering to her, the aging Queen nodded. In a bag slung from her shoulder, Tyanna produced from it a tiny glass vial, handing it to Visenya. She unsheathed a dragonglass knife that she carried and slit open her hand. "Ah…" Visenya winced, making sure the blood dripped into the open vial. Rolling up her sleeve - she really did like the dress - the Queen held out her arm with the vial in front of Vhagar's snout. "Dracarys."

Careful not to burn or harm anything else, Vhagar coughed a tiny torrent of flame. Only enough to envelop the hand and the forearm of her muna. The dragonfire caused Tyanna to stumble back even though she was three strides away. Gods, it was hot.

Visenya though was unharmed, as was the blood. "Here," she told Tyanna, handing it to her.

"Too hot," Tyanna waved off. "Please pour it into the bowl." When the blood mixed inside the dragonglass vessel, the Pentosi maege whispered a chant in High Valyrian, adding a special wine, milk of the poppy, and some herbs. Soon, she was done. "Drink."

"How long will this affect me?"

"However long the gods wish to grant you what you seek. Now drink."

Shrugging, the Queen drank. Her face blanched from the horrid taste but she made herself guzzle the disgusting brew down her gullet. Eyes shut and shaking her head. Perhaps this was a mistake…

Opening her eyes, she found herself not at the cliffside, but in darkness. One soon lifted as orange-red torchlight illuminated the square of King's Landing. A massive bonfire emerged, dozens, then hundreds of shadows leaping upon it to stoke the flames higher and higher until they rose like Kingspyre tower into the sky.

Out of the flames emerged two dragons, one black and one a serene blue, shrieking and ascending into the moonlit sky. They grew as they soared, soon reaching the size of Balerion and Vhagar.

"My daughter." Visenya turned and found her mother's form staring at her. Her eyes were hardened, stern. "Danger awaits you."

Visenya opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. It was as if the gods sought for her to listen, not contribute.

Raising her arm, her mother seemed to toss the Queen into the midst of a bombardment of noises and visions. "The masses, rising to destroy that which they once loved."

A scene of ants swarming over the skeleton of a dragon hatchling morphed into a weirwood tree, beset by shadows swinging axes. "The Corpses of the Doom," her mother continued as some of the shadows sprouted wings upon their backs, flying up to hack at the weirwood's branches. "Advancing on a dying beast."

Again she tried to speak. Again she was stopped.

The images disappeared, replaced by dancing patterns of red and blue. "Ice and fire, stronger together than alone."

The blue morphed to red. "Fire and fire, through them the salvation of your House shall be forged."

The red changed back to blue, though this was pulsing, alive. The remaining red swirled, as if a freezing wind. "Cold fire, burning ice, the future of our world. Of our people."

Suddenly, Visenya regained her faculties of speech. "Muna!" she called out into a void of darkness. "What does this mean?! Tell me!"

"Keep your family close, watch your subjects."

"Muna!"

"Remember your blood…"

Almost tripping over her feet, Visenya felt her limbs tingle. Head spinning. "Your Grace? Are you alright?"

Finding Tyanna's worried face, the Queen nodded. "Aye, I'm fine." The dizziness was already dissipating.

"What did you see?"

Blinking, Visenya remembered the vision clearly. Beyond that… "I, I cannot be sure. It was vivid, but still shrouded in mystery."

"Do you wish to try again, seek some clarity?" Unlike with shade of the evening, the favored tool of the Ghiscari and Warlocks of Qarth, there was more leeway with this ritual before one's mind became lost.

But Visenya shook her head. "No, no it's fine. I wish to return to my husband."

'Ice and fire, fire and fire. Cold fire, burning ice.' The words were embedded in her mind, but what could they mean?

'Corpses of the Doom, advancing on a dying beast.' What did any of it mean?

"Yer' alright, my Prince?"

"Hmmm?" Blinking, Maegor was brought out of whatever thoughts had clouded his mind, drawn back into the embrace of his lover. "Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere."

Ralla laughed, pulling his head tighter atop her busty chest while her hand gently stroked his bare shoulder. "I could guess. Even when we were fuckin', you had your attention on somethin' else." She had been surprised when he showed up only twenty minutes before, given the feast that occurred earlier in the night. But Maegor was insistent, demanding and it drove Ralla wild as always. Here she was, freshly fucked and yet she could tell something troubled him. "Wanna talk about it?"

He sighed, enjoying Ralla's heartbeat. It soothed him from his tumult. "No, it's fine."

"Ya' don't 'ave to be so strong round me, my Prince." Even if their affair could end, and Ralla was under no illusion that it would last longer than his marital problems - while he and the 'pretty one' had been happy together, her bed was empty… at least empty of him - they were friends. They had survived much together. She, as was her entire clan, was loyal to him directly. "Talk to me."

"It's fine." He hauled himself up. "Just exhausted after dancing with Rhaena." A chuckle left his lips. "Scandalized my goodsister and the rest of the snotty cunts." It had been hilarious, especially since his family approved other than Alyssa and his eldest nephew.

Raising an eyebrow, Ralla seemed to understand. "Rhaena, yer' pretty niece. Thinkin' of pullin' yer' father?"

"Pulling my father?" Pulling on his trousers and tunic, Maegor's brow furrowed… until he understood. His eyes widened. "What? With Rhaena, no!" He looked alarmed. "Of course not."

A snort. "I know you too well, dragon. Yer' thinkin' about it."

"She's ten and four."

"Older than I was when I had mi' first couplin'." She laughed at the red blotch on his cheeks. "Don't try and deny it, and I thought yer' family was all about that kinda marriage?"

He shook his head. "This conversation is over, Ralla. Goodnight." He kissed her on the cheek and made his exit.

"You can deny it all ye' want, but you can't fool me!" Her giggles filled his mind as he headed out of the servant's wing of the manse where Ralla and the wildlings stayed towards the actual royal quarters. Rhaena… my bride? No, of course not. She was his beloved niece, the little girl whom he rescued from her own shyness and helped turn into a mighty dragon.

A beautiful dragon. She's not a little girl anymore. Maegor shook his head. He couldn't be having those thoughts. Not of his brother's child…

Not Alyssa's child.

Ser Jon Tollett, one of Maegor's occasional and preferred sparring partners whenever he was in King's Landing, clicked his heels as the Prince arrived at his chambers. "Your Grace."

"Ser Jon," Maegor nodded. "Is my wife here?"

"Aye, the Princess awaits you in your chambers."

"Good. Evening, Ser Jon."

He opened the door for the Prince. "You as well, your Grace."

Maegor was ashamed to admit to himself, but he didn't spend as much intimate time with his wife as he should've - not nearly enough. Early in their marriage, the general custom for the husband and wife to possess separate chambers and only share one bed when it came time to couple was discarded by mutual consent. Not that they didn't couple. Far from it, the passionate nights were quite pleasing and often continued long after sunrise, but they never strayed from each other's arms. It built their marriage strong.

At least until their babes… or what would have been their babes. Ceryse retreated into her socializing, while Maegor into sparring, missions on behalf of his father, or Ralla's arms. Once a week they would share a bed, if that and he hated himself for it.

But he couldn't look at her without thinking of… no, he wouldn't destroy himself like that. Shield your heart. A man always on the verge of destruction cannot afford flights of fancy. Brandon taught him that, and the lesson had served him well in his battles.

When they did sleep together at night, Maegor normally found Ceryse at her vanity or fast asleep. But the fire still crackled in the hearth, bathing the empty table in a soft orange glow. Following his line of sight, he could see Ceryse. She laid in bed, but not underneath the blankets and furs. "Evening, husband," she said in a tone that sounded seductive, clad in nothing but a sheer nightgown that hugged her curves.

Gulping, Maegor couldn't deny she looked beautiful. "Wife." He toed off his boots and slipped off his trousers - it wasn't cold enough to sleep with them on, leaving but a tunic and underclothes.

Ceryse appreciated her husband's form. Even after everything, she knew she was a lucky woman to have snagged him. Not in other respects… "Come to bed, my Prince," she said sultrily, bidding him forward with her finger.

It reminded him of the early days of their marriage. Of the happy time they shared - oh, how he longed to simply dive into bed as he did before and ravage her, take advantage of his youth and power. But something stilled him. An ever so slight hitch in her voice. She's acting… a mummer's play. Ceryse was forcing herself to do this in spite of discomfort and pain.

Oh, the love was there. He knew it because he felt it too, but there wasn't simply love as when they were first married. Much had joined that emotion between them - emotions nowhere near as welcome.

So, he merely walked to the bed, slipping atop the covers. "What is this, wife?"

"A wife cannot love her husband?" she replied, shimmying over to him. Immediately straddling his waist and kissing Maegor. For a blissful moment, the Prince was lost in the wonderful embrace. In the warm lips and passionate tongue that threatened to swallow him whole. Encouraged by his moans and grip of her hips, her hands ghosted down the hard planes of his stomach.

They came in a flash. Two handsome boys sparring, one with pure silver hair and the other chestnut brown - both with violet eyes as they laughed and fought as the stories his father spoke of him and Orys as youths. Of a beautiful girl, colored as his mother but daintier as she danced about, singing happily. Of another girl, violet eyed and raven-haired as she murmured something into a bonfire.

Four gorgeous babes. The family he most yearned for, all dancing before his eyes like the worst of torture.

As he stiffened, Ceryse felt herself pushed back. She gaped at him incredulously, but he could only offer an apologetic wince. "I can't. It's… I just can't."

Not again… I was so close… She took a deep breath, it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. "Please, my love. I miss you." Ceryse hugged him, and felt hope when he didn't pull away. "Just relax, Maegor."

"I'm trying, Ceryse," he said softly. She didn't deserve any blame for this. "It's… it's just hard."

"I know… which is why I think it's time for us to try for another babe." It was said sweetly, happily, as if it was the joyous occasion as their first and second tried for it had been.

Hearing the words, Maegor looked down at her with wide eyes. "What? No!" He recoiled, scrambling out of bed to her shock and hurt. "No, it's too soon."

"It's not too soon!" she cried, feeling the worst sort of pain and betrayal. "Do you not love me?"

"Of course I do."

She pounded her fist on the bed. "Then make love to me! Give me a child, husband. I yearn for it, crave it… I have prayed daily to the Mother for fertility, this time won't be like the last, I promise!" Every babe lost, it was like a part of her died, but her husband was still here. The man she married, the man she sought and loved.

His heart was beating out of his chest. I love you… of course I want a babe with you. The imaged flashed in his mind again, the most potent of elixirs… but they filled with new images, memories of blood-stained sheets, of Ceryse crying for days, for weeks where he couldn't do anything to mollify her… where he couldn't do anything for himself but bury it lest it destroy him. No, he couldn't take that pain again - losing another child would cause his heart to burst. Shield your heart… shield your heart.

The hurt and agony Ceryse felt - like her husband had stabbed her in the heart - changed into a cold anger. "You were with that whore again weren't you?"

He was shocked for a moment, before his own eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare speak of her as such."

"Oh, am I not accurate enough. Your wildling savage whore?"

Maegor's fists clenched. "Hold your tongue, woman."

Ceryse laughed, too far gone to care if she hurt him - she was hurt beyond what she could take. The insults at court, the stares of pity and amusement the other ladies gave her, the humiliation… her husband's rejection was the last straw for the highborn Lady of House Hightower, Kings when House Targaryen were goatherders in Old Valyria. She would not become a joke as many highborn wives did. "Why should I bother. All of court knows you sleep with her instead of me." She tilted her head. "Is that why you can't have a babe with me anymore? You've decided to use her womb for your breeding…"

A fist slammed into her vanity, punching through the wood and shutting her up. Maegor's hand hurt like hells, but he didn't care. "Do not speak of things you do not understand."

"Oh, I understand plenty, husband…" Unlike before, the term of affection was instead said bitingly. "Or is there someone else you have your eye on? I mean, a wildling isn't fit to bear heirs for a Prince… oh, I see." She laughed. "Your niece Rhaena." He looked at her with pure rage, and Ceryse knew she hit a nerve. "She is gorgeous, I cannot lie. Perhaps you wish to make your mother's plan a reality six years after the fact?"

Before Maegor could stop himself, he had lunged. Pinning Ceryse to the bed with murder in his eye and a fist raised - ready to strike her. But looking down, his expression dimmed. Her anger was gone, replaced with fear. With terror. He had seen it before in enemies cowering before him on the battlefield, but never with his wife.

Because of him.

Retreating, looking at his hands, Maegor grabbed his trousers and rushed out. He couldn't look at himself, couldn't look at her. He brushed past a maid carrying a steaming teacup, one of his wife's servants. She took in his expression and peeked in the room. "Your Grace? Are you alright?"

Ceryse shook her head. "Leave me." The maid immediately shut the door. Tears welling in her eyes, Ceryse grabbed the pillow and buried her face in it, sobs wracking her body. How did it all go so wrong?

Listening, the maid snorted softly. Turns out the Princess didn't need the tea tonight after all.

Entering her chambers, Visenya was greeted by a pleasant sight. "Welcome back, my Queen," her husband murmured. The hearth was roaring, but so were dozens of candles interspersed amongst the large bedchamber. He held two filled goblets. "You were gone too long for my liking." It wasn't chiding… more along the lines of how Vhagar grew whiny and sad when she was late to a dragonride.

Mind still in a funk from her visions, Visenya softened at the intimate gesture from her husband. "What is this?" she smiled.

"A King cannot care for his Queen?" His eyes sparkled with love. "Nor a brother for his sister."

"Few brothers would do this for their sisters," she quipped, but her heart melted. Aegon was always described as brooding, fearsome, and larger than life, but they didn't know the sweet, loving man Visenya did. "But thank you for this." It warmed her.

He handed her one of the goblets. "The love I have for you doesn't deserve to be watched and gawked at by those monkeys at court. Only for us and us alone."

Taking the goblet in her hand, Visenya gave her husband a sultry smile as she sipped it. "Hmmm…" the taste was… unexpected. "Tyroshi pear brandy, valonqar?"

"We're alone, none of that sickly sweet Arbor swill or sour Dornish piss. My Queen deserves the best."

"And the fact that this particular vintage always drives me to lust never occurred to you?" Visenya smirked.

Aegon had the sweet courtesy to look sheepish - like a man just come of age seeking to lose his maidenhood, in spite of the lands he conquered, keeps he'd immolated, and children he'd sired of her and their little sister. "Perhaps that did cross my mind."

Finishing the rest of the tart liquor, Visenya set the goblet down on the table, hands on her hips. "I came to terms long ago with the fact you are a filthy lecher." But she laughed throatily afterwards, walking to him and circling his waist. "However, you are fortunate that I happen to love that fact. It has only brought me pleasure over the years."

His brow rose. "Tell me of this pleasure you find." He was smirking now, mirroring her.

"Seeking your sister to indulge your ego, valonqar?"

"Would you prefer I seek someone else to indulge my ego, big sister?"

Her eyes darkened, fingers digging in his lower back before rising - grabbing his neck. "Never," Visenya growled. "I don't share what's mine." And with that she brought their lips together. His tongue tasted of the pear brandy, sweet and tart as she plundered his mouth.

Aegon pulled her flush against him. No matter the years that passed, she still held a beauty that eclipsed all others. "Vis…" he murmured, dropping down to work at her neck.

She moaned, body squirming as he sucked her pulse. So deliciously playing at her body with an expertise built by familiarity and practice. One touch from him and I am a puddle… Bucking her hips for a desperately needed friction, Visenya felt a hardness poking into her abdomen. "Someone is eager." Egg grunted, drawing her earlobe into his mouth. "Don't make me wait," Egg," she moaned. "Please, I need…"

He needn't wait for her to continue. Lips locked in a duel no less furious than the hours-long spars in their youth, Aegon stripped her of her dress, shoving Visenya on the bed. The Queen gasped from lust, taking advantage of his mauling of her breasts - an action she adored - by deftly peeling off his doublet and trousers. Soon enough they were both bare, primed to explode as Visenya sucked his length as Aegon supped her cunt simultaneously… a favorite position of theirs.

But as she dug her fingers in his back, Visenya was a mess. Neither of them had climaxed yet, Aegon clearly eager to draw out her pleasure in a form of torture. She hated him for it… no, fuck, she loved him for it. "Oh gods… oh fuck… harder, valonqar, harder!" She was a cauldron of swirling flame seeking release. Visenya couldn't stand it, instinctively sliding her hand down her stomach. Finding the bundle of nerves and rubbing it quickly - seeking to find that blessed release her husband's coupling always drove her to. Every time.

But the effort was ended abruptly as Aegon grabbed her hand. Pinning her wrists above her head as she watched his almost furious glare - violet eyes black. "You cum when I say you cum," he growled.

Visenya almost came then and there at his draconic furor. "Kessa." She bit back a scream as he began pounding her harder and harder, threatening to split her open. "Fuck me, husband." The Queen loved it when he took control and made her a vessel for his pleasure.

"Don't hold back," he husked, not slackening even once. "Scream for your little brother."

Her ecstasy got the best of Visenya with his words. Screaming wildly, her eyes rolled into the back of her head as Aegon took a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard with the sensation going straight to her core. Her walls were tightening quickly, heralding a massive climax. Eyelids growing heavy, she needed her brother-husband to spend himself inside her. Craved it, thirsted for it. Visenya bucked her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust.

It sparked a fire in Aegon. Roaring, he threw a leg over his shoulder and fucked her harder. Deepor, ever so deeper.

That did it. "Valonqar!"

Her walls pulsating around his cock, it drove Aegon to the end. He grunted and gasped, seed shooting into her womb as they rode out their intense climax.

Visenya's eyes were screwed shut, the Queen trying to catch her breath and collect herself from what had just transpired. She was soaked in sweat and her heart pounded in her chest. Slowly, the powerful weight of her husband eased off of her, cock sliding out of her cunt with a wince from her and a groan from him. Automatically, she rolled to his side, arm draped round his chest. "I apologize for ever calling you old, little brother."

Aegon buried his face in her hair, inhaling the heady scent of spice and charred wood. "Apology accepted, though I do admit your teases do drive me further to prove my vitality."

"I have been thoroughly proven wrong," she chuckled, further nuzzling herself against his chest. Getting comfortable. "If only we were young again. I'd spend a week in bed with you and Rhae before I was sated."

"The conquest would've been delayed, though I wouldn't have minded in the slightest." Aegon held her tightly, trying to calm his racing heart. His fierce, beautiful dragon queen truly drove him to his limits. A yawn overcame him, Aegon stretching his limp legs. "Gods… I love you, big sister." He sighed against her silver hair. "I've and I shall always love you."

Sleepily, Visenya smiled and moaned from the calming pleasure of his sweet words. "I love you too, valonqar." Dreamland began to eat at her consciousness. "To another thirty-five years with you."

The King chuckled lightly into her hair, sleep slowly falling upon him as well. "I could only be so lucky." Two powerful dragons, joined together as closely as the creatures they bonded to. As they did nearly every night, the Targaryen conquerors drifted into slumber wound tightly in each other's arms.

The first time he had journeyed into the land of white - of the elysian plains of vibrant grasses and skies the color of the purest snow - Aegon had been confused. Scared even of a world he didn't understand or recognize. Now, the otherworldly glow of sleep surrounding his soul, he beamed. This land heralded the arrival of one person and one person only… someone he truly missed with every fiber of his being.

"Egg," she called out from behind him.

Aegon turned and immediately scooped Rhaenys up. "My beautiful Rhae," he proclaimed, twirling her around as he did in their youth. Gods, she was just as beautiful as he remembered, even moreso. "I love you."

"I love you too," she replied back, kissing him. "Your sight brings my heart warmth."

"Always a poet at heart," he laughed. "Vis and I both hated that we loved it." Sighing happily in Rhaenys' arms, Aegon felt at peace. He always was when he could hold his two brides, Visenya in the mortal realm and Rhaenys in the godly. "I love these dreams, Rhae. We both miss you terribly."

Rhae would always respond to such loving words with a kiss… many times leading to something even more pleasurable, but this time she acted strangely. Merely pulling back and gazing into his eyes with a sad smile. "Oh, Egg," she murmured.

He raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid this isn't a dream."

Blinking in confusion, it took a moment for his look of puzzlement to morph in recognition. "Oh…" It changed to surprise, then to acceptance… and finally to the deepest sorrow. His shoulders slumping, his eyes worn and filling with tears. "Vis…" Aegon murmured.

Rhaenys nodded. "Aye, Vis." The two embraced again, eyes wet with tears for their eldest sister - now alone in the world.

Chapter Text

The sun set in front of them, illuminating the incomplete visage of the Dragonpalace where but three days before was wreathed in celebration. In the most complete joy to proclaim thirty-five years of prosperity and peace within the Seven Kingdoms under the Targaryen banner. Where a great King and Queen heralded the hope of a further century of peace and glory. But as the great red orb slowly passed underneath the horizon, so too would the joy of that night.

For the great King was dead, the magic that so imbued him with the powers of the Valyrian gods slowly ebbing away from his corpse now resting upon the funeral pyre. Aegon I Targaryen was no more, banished to the afterlife in his sleep to return to his late wife.

As the call of the Night's Watch proclaimed: his watch had ended.

Dressed in a bone white, High Septon Hugor watched as Princes Aenys and Maegor - along with Prince Aegon and the Kingsguards - carried the open casket to the pyre. Setting it down reverently as Aenys pulled up the red cloth to encase his father's body. Aegon Targaryen would be sent to ash in his full armor plate, dressed as the warrior King had been. Blackfyre though was absent, instead clipped to Maegor's waist. He also wore full plate, while Aenys instead chose for a black-red mourning doublet and trousers.

All were silent, desperate to hold themselves together.

Hugor hid the relief and excitement in his heart that the passed King left to him. With over a hundred thousand people staring out at him from the massive square on Rhaenys' Hill, any indication of joy would result in his being torn apart. King's Landing loved their King, just how much Hugor bore witness too.

A problem that needed correction.

"Citizens of the Seven Kingdoms!" he began, voice firm and powerful. "We gather on this sorrowful night to lay to rest the King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men. Aegon Targaryen, a man larger than life and strong in spirit. May the Stranger release him to the afterlife with haste and little sorrow, so blessed was he." It left a bad taste in his mouth, but Hugor was used to it. "Her Grace, Queen Visenya, would like to say a few words."

Visenya was dressed similar to her daughter, gooddaughters, and granddaughters - a black mourning dress, color of the night sky without the twinkling stars of hope to mar the pristine darkness. Her hair was pulled up in a severe bun, dark circles under her eyes and face pale. Nevertheless, she stood up regally, powerfully. Truly the last survivor of the three dragons that created this Kingdom with fire and blood.

She had to be. These were her people and she was their Queen. Never could she let her people or her enemies see just how broken she was inside.

Never see how the morning just two days previously felt like a knife digging into her heart - a pain continuing to this very moment.

Visenya woke up just as she usually did, snuggled against Aegon's side. Murmuring happily in her sleep and grogginess, seeking out the warmth of her lover and little brother. It was a little different than usual. Her adored lover wasn't as warm - his firm chest tenser and not as comfortable. She put it aside. Perhaps it was merely a bad dream.

Stretching languidly in their massive bed, Visenya had enjoyed a rather lurid dream. One of her, Aegon, and their beloved Rhaenys enjoying a night together, bodies entwined and engaging in all sorts of carnal acts that made Visenya shudder in pleasure. Looking up at Egg, he was still asleep with a blissful look about his face. She grinned, knowing that he would appreciate being woken up sensually.

"Egg," she whispered in his ear, kissing it. "It's morning, my love. Time to please your big sister." Mentioning their relation never ceased to get him going. She half-expected him to simply pin her down and enter her right then and there.

But nothing came. He just laid there, serene.

Visenya frowned. "Egg, wake up." She nudged him - nothing but cold. Now she was worried. "Egg… Aegon?" She nudged him harder, and then punched his chest. Still nothing, which led her to check his pulse…

The resulting scream of terror brought Sers Addison Hill and Olyvar Bracken storming into the royal bedchamber, swords drawn. What they saw wasn't an attacker, but their nude queen screaming and crying over the bed, holding frantically to the still body of their King. "Get the maester!" Ser Addison screamed at a gaggle of servants, him and Ser Olyvar sheathing their swords and rushing to Aegon's side.

"My King! Don't do this…" Visenya couldn't control her tears of agony and fear, clutching him desperately. "Don't leave me. I love you. Please…" She didn't notice Gawen scurrying into the bedchamber. She didn't notice her cousin Corlys drape a cloak around her bare form and lead her away from her husband. Nothing but an ever approaching numbness.

A feeling solidified the moment Grand Maester Gawen proclaimed the King dead. Passed away of a massive stroke in the middle of the night - no pain, no sound. Just a blissful passage into the afterlife.

Closing her eyes, the Queen's mind was bombarded with the images. Her sons and daughter watched with dismay as their muna trembled, ready to break protocol and hug her if she couldn't take it… but Visenya was strong, and kept her composure. She cleared her throat. "Subjects… my husband King Aegon Targaryen has passed into the afterlife."

Not one person in the crowd spoke, though many were in tears. They wished to scream and wail and pound their chests in grief, but all eyes were riveted on the Queen. Willing to grant her the respect of words.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Overhead, the dragons flew, granting her some comfort. "He was a man who lived a full life, who accomplished great things. Through the flames of Balerion the Black Dread and the steel of Blackfyre, out of six divided warring kingdoms he forged a new realm through fire and blood. A united realm, devoted to peace and bettering its citizens. No more useless wars, no more squabbling petty Kings fighting for gold and land.

"But we all knew Aegon the King. None but I and my blood knew Aegon the man. He who smiled whenever I walked in the room. He who would never deny his children or grandchildren his time no matter how pressed he was. There was no worse enemy than Aegon, yet no greater friend and no more loving father and husband."

Turning, Visenya walked to the pyre. There laid Aegon, still serene in what looked like a blissful sleep. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek. "I love you, valonqar," she murmured in High Valyrian. "Find Rhaenys and wait somewhere beautiful for me."

Her form straight and graceful even in grief, Queen Visenya stepped off the platform where the pyre rested. Black gown brushing the stone of Rhaenys' Square beneath her, she approached the great form of Vhagar. The dragon trilled softly once her hand rested upon the scales of her snout. 'I'm sorry, muna.'

Please… don't speak of it. Visenya was barely holding it together, and if Vhagar spoke any further on it she would break. Thank you for doing this, my daughter.

'It was the least I could do for kepa.' Balerion, having lost the fourth dragonrider of his long life, was inconsolable at the moment - shuttered away from the world on the cliffs of the Dragonpalace. It would be Vhagar that lit the pyre, an action that Visenya knew her beloved husband would've wanted. They weren't a bonded pair, but were father and daughter nonetheless. 'Whenever you're ready, muna. I'm here.'

The last of her childhood. The last of her youth - all else were gone. Egg, Rhae, muna, kepa, Meraxes… All that remained were Vhagar, Balerion, and Orys. Everything else was lost to time and death. Thank you. Visenya's lips pressed into a determined line, her face shining fiercely in the light of the torches. She would not break, not when sending her great husband into the afterlife as befitting a mighty Valyrian conqueror. I love you, Egg, now and forever.

Gathered to the side, the royals heard their mother and grandmother speak the infamous word. One used to forge the Kingdom in a glorious inferno, now committing the second of the founders into the afterlife of the dragonlords.

"Dracarys."

Rearing her head back, Vhagar shot forward and unleashed a long stream of dragonfire onto the funeral pyre of her kepa. Doused in pitch and tar after being dried for days, the wood quickly ignited and soon the gout of flame enveloped all. Sheathing the corpse of Aegon Targaryen in the red-orange cloud. Aenys gripped Alyssa's hand, blinking back tears. Maegor leaned his head against Ceryse's shoulder, seeking out comfort that in spite of their pain, she willingly gave. Rhaenys hugged her sons close as they whimpered, even the stolid Alaric driven to grief for the loss of his grandfather. Rhaena did the same for her youngest siblings, Jaehaerys doing his best to keep it together while Alysanne was openly sobbing.

A man so mighty as to create a new future for Valyria from where none existed. He and his sister-wives, the creators of the new era. How could such a man perish so quietly in his sleep?

How could their beloved husband, father, or grandfather ever die? The greatest of all grief.

Suddenly, a scream was heard from the crowd. Silently watching and quietly grieving, the sight of their king immolated in fire drove the citizens of King's Landing to a collective madness. One man surged forward, leaping behind the throng of guardsmen towards the pyre. Tears cascading down his eyes, the poor laborer tossed a sliver of firewood into the dragonflame. "For you, my King!" he screeched.

More followed, at first a trickle, then a flood… until the cordon simply vanished and the entire crowd surged towards the pyre. Men, women, children… all those that willingly came to the city founded by the three dragons seeking a better life. Prospering under the aegis of House Targaryen. Never were they able to truly mourn Queen Rhaenys, body broken and lost to the sands of Dorne, but the great King Aegon burned before them and none could leave a ruler so beloved to burn in a way not fitting the greatness in which he lived.

Merchant, artisan, laborer, a begging wretch from the streets, the crowd was bound not by any lines of class or wealth. They carried whatever they could - a pile of driftwood, a chair, a table, a bale of hay. Whatever could be burned was hurled into the pyre, stoking the flames higher to the anguished cries from the crowds. Making sure Aegon burned brighter than any pyre in the history of Westeros or Old Valyria before it.

Trembling, Alysanne looked up at her sister. "What are they doing, why do they hate grandfather so?"

Rhaena kissed the crown of her sister's head. "No, Ally. They love grandfather. A dragon's strength is fire, and the bigger the fire the stronger the dragon." Truly, a great man.

Tens of thousands still stampeded over each other to pay tribute to Aegon I Targaryen, so the royal family bid their exit. It was too painful for them to witness, and their fragile composures were best left expressed in private. The Starks entered one wheelhouse, each Targaryen family into their own, and lastly Queen Visenya. Both Rhaena and Rhaenys wanted to go with her, but the silent Queen waved them off.

Stepping into her wheelhouse, completely alone, Visenya broke. She fell upon the cushions, burying her face in them as the tears spewed forth. Egg… my Egg… how can I live without you? The Queen Dowager cried alone, wishing above all else that the gods let her follow her husband into the afterlife.

Gripping the sweaty back of her husband, Alyssa threw her head back - moaning at the pressure deep in her core. "Fuck me, harder," she begged, enjoying the pleasurable burn Aenys' length blazed inside her.

But her pleas were only… half-heard. "My love, my wife," the Crown Prince groaned, continuing his slow, languid pace inside of her. "I love you," he whispered, silver hair matted to his forehead. Aenys stared at her with frantic eyes. It seemed as if he thought he'd lose her if he let go, if he stopped gliding inside her with their skin flush against each other… but never enough to smother. He was the perfect lover, attentive and kind.

Alyssa loved it… thought she loved it… wanted to love it. It brought her so much pleasure, but never to the point she needed to shatter. To come undone underneath him the way she craved. Clutching him desperately, urging him forward with knees locked around his hips and fingers digging into his back, Alyssa begged Aenys to finish her. Mind drifting to the most unwanted thoughts when it was clear that as usual, he wouldn't the way she wanted.

"Oh gods…" Alyssa's face was buried in the furs, a firm hand holding her down. "Yes… take me." The hard thrust rocked her, trying to fuck her into the bed.

"Scream for me," bellowed the command, smacking her ass. "Cum like the slut you are!"

The dignified princess moaned filthily, feeling a flood of wetness fill her cunt at his crude words. "Aye, I'm your slut. Fuck your slut!" He was bruising her hips with how hard he gripped them as he fucked her, and she was seeing stars…

She hated it. She hated that the images flashed in her mind as Aenys was inside of her. Hated just how much she was aroused by the memories flooding her…

"Yes, my dragon! Yes…!"

Alyssa shattered, feeling Aenys spill inside her. He quickly turned them on their sides, hugging her close. "Mmmmm…" he murmured, kissing her cheek. "I love you, dearest wife."

She reciprocated, resting her head on his chest. "I love you too, husband." But it hadn't been him that drove her to such a satisfying climax. Not him that filled her mind. It was impossible to pretend Aenys was the man that haunted her to this day - he was sweet and loving. Always sweet and loving, never one to cover Alyssa with his powerful build, to dominate her and fuck her hard like she begged to be treated.

It was sweet and loving, and Alyssa knew she needed to come to terms with it. He was devoted and kind and charming, not the piece of shit who… No. Not again. He'd marred her mind too much that morning.

Her thoughts were interrupted as hot tears fell on her shoulder. "My love?" Alyssa asked, feeling Aenys sob against her. She sighed, stroking his back. "Let it out, husband. Let it out."

"I can't believe he's gone, Lyssa." The loss of his father had taken its toll on Aenys… on the entire family. "Mother is numb, and the children shattered."

"He was a great man, my love. It will be hard to fill his boots, but you shall. You're a great man too - raised from birth to be a King."

He nodded in her shoulder, their bare forms pressed tightly together. "I will finish what he started, build a peaceful realm of marble and gold… Old Valyria come again." Alyssa smiled against his skin. Yes husband… strong, decisive… take the initiative.

Soon, Aenys had fallen asleep, expression finally at ease after days. Alyssa couldn't disturb him even as the sun rose in the sky, kissing his forehead and allowing him extra slumber. Deciding for a walk in the gardens to clear her mind, Alyssa watched the waves of Blackwater Bay as they crashed against the cliffs. It was a familiar sight for her, one she was born in and raised in hailing from the Driftmark. The waves never ceased to calm her, to focus her thoughts on what was necessary.

The King was dead. Much as the tragedy would need to truly work its way through the family as it grieved and mourned Aegon, Alyssa looked instead to the future. Aenys was now to be King - the Realm operated on inertia and the decisions of the Small Council but soon he would be crowned and life moving on… and it scared Alyssa. Her husband was a clever man and an able administrator, but this was the first time in the history of the Kingdom that it would not be ruled by those that forged it with fire and blood. The old ways hadn't died, and fear of Aegon's wrath was gone now.

Many would seek a return to the old ways, and Alyssa feared Aenys wasn't ruthless or cunning enough to stop it. I will need to be ruthless and cunning enough for both of us. It was what Alyssa had been training for ever since her betrothal to the Crown Prince was announced between the King and her Lord father.

First was the Small Council. It worked for Aegon and Visenya, but Aenys would need his own loyalists. Persons that could work well with him. I cannot rid myself of Torrhen Stark. While Alyssa would've preferred her brother or Ronnel Arryn in the position, a sense of stability was needed. Old Osmund Strong needed to be retired, as did Corlen Blackwood to make way for Aenys' companions… the able ones at least. Butterwell and Reyne. Alyssa was determined to have her son hold a seat on the council, if only as an advisor for now. Visenya could never be dealt away with nor did Alyssa want to…

But that left Maegor. Fists tightening at the thought of him, Alyssa willed herself not to lose her composure… she always had control, except when he was involved and it irked her greater than he did. Still, he drives me mad. Aenys was a sentimental fool sometimes and would want his brother close. She would need to find a position for him that would keep him away from the capitol. Out of sight, out of mind.

My husband will forge the beginnings of the ten thousand-year Targaryen Dynasty and I shan't let that debased thug ruin it.

Grunts from the gazebo ahead drew Alyssa's attention. Softly she approached, peeking across the leafy vines to look within. There was Rhaena, alone and dressed in her training tunic and trousers. Never the way a lady should dress, let alone a Princess, but her daughter wasn't either of those at the moment. No, she was a Targaryen Warrior Queen in being, the ruby-pommeled Dark Sister slicing through the air as Rhaena practiced her forms. It was… almost a sensual dance how fluidly she sliced at the air and thrust forward.

Spinning, performing a slashing cut that didn't break a sweat, Rhaena stumbled at the sight of her mother. The surprise nearly made her fall. Alyssa darted forward on maternal instinct. "My sweet girl… are you alright?"

She nodded. "Aye, mother, you just gave me a fright."

Alyssa chuckled, guiding them to one of the benches. "I didn't know I was so frightening."

"Oh no, just startling at the moment." Rhaena chuckled softly… only for a frown to return. "Alysanne cried herself to sleep last night."

Swallowing, the future Queen nodded. "I heard, and Jaehaerys hasn't said a word since the funeral." Even after an entire day and two nights, the pyre still smoldered from where Aegon Targaryen was put to rest. "They'll heal soon, I feel."

"I agree, they loved grandfather but are still so young. They didn't truly grasp what he represented to the Realm. Grandmother Visenya is still here, but too many think less of a woman, unfortunately."

Patting Rhaena's back, Alyssa knew that all too well. "Nothing that can be avoided, but through strength we can overcome it. The women of our family are strong." Both Targaryen and Velaryon.

Rhaena looked up with a smile. "Kepa will be King soon, and with grandmother, uncle Maegor, and yourself behind him I have no doubt he'll make grandfather proud."

Alyssa's smile disappeared, the future Queen biting her lip and averting her gaze. "About that…" The sorrowful events that draped over Westeros like a funeral shroud hadn't blinded Alyssa to what she had seen of her daughter. How… close she was to her uncle. Not just the scandalous dance. Professional gossip spreaders of court focused on that, but Alyssa saw the little things. The spars, the showing off dragonriding skills, the talks the two shared. "Keep your distance from your uncle."

Furrowing her brows, Rhaena was confused. "Why, muna? I enjoy his company."

"Aye, many women do, apart from his wife, of course." Didn't take long for him to cast her aside like a used washcloth too. "I don't wish to speak ill of family, but you shouldn't make a habit of consorting with a person like that."

"A person like what, muna?" Rhaena sat straight, eyes narrowed. "He's a great man. Fought the wildlings, fought the pirates… he gave me my dragon and allowed me to become what I was destined to be. He cares about me." I love him…

She shook her head. "You don't know him like I do, Rhaena." I hope you never do. "He fought, aye, campaigns of the greatest brutality in which he distinguished himself. There is a dark side to him, and I don't want you suffering it when he uses it on you."

"He won't! He's my uncle."

Stomping her foot, Rhaena stood. "I'm not done speaking with you, young lady!" Alyssa called out at her.

"Well I am!" Rhaena shot back. In seeing her walk away, most would say she was exactly like her grandmother… Alyssa saw differently. That was herself, leading the poor girl down the same path. Seven above, don't let her make my mistakes. Even now, she was still paying for them.

"Sleep, my beautiful pup," Princess Rhaenys cooed, rocking the babe in her arms. "Muna's here, and she loves you. Kepa loves you, and your grandparents love you." Her father definitely did, from both the mortal realm and the afterlife. A tear fell from her eye. "We all love you and your siblings."

Saera, looking up, could sense her mother's discomfort. "No cry, muna." She, unlike her brothers, was too young to understand the grief that shrouded the royal family - too young to realize what the massive bonfire she witnessed was about. "Gamp'a story."

Closing her eyes, Rhaenys fought another burst of sobs. Whenever she was sad of being away from home, kepa's stories would calm her. In the youngest direwolf's childlike mind, such would be the best way to ease Rhaenys' grief. Gods, she loved her baby girl.

But exhaustion won out and the two-nameday old child yawned, stretching her arms within her mother's hold. Rhaenys set her in the bed, kissed her forehead, and pulled the furs over her. "Nighty… muna," the girl murmured as she drifted to sleep.

"Goodnight, little pup," Rhaenys replied. Walking to the other bed, she leaned down to kiss the sleeping Aegon. Both of them were her Valyrian darlings, perfectly colored as her even though she could sense the wolfsblood in them. Her Alaric was all Stark, on the other hand, and when she leaned down to kiss his forehead she was greeted with his eyes - the only feature of her on him. "My son… you're still awake."

Alaric, not one of many words even as he grew up, shook his head. "Can't sleep, muna." He sighed, grabbing his dragon egg and squeezing it to him. Each of her babes had one, placed in their crib by her upon their birth. They treasured them, especially Alaric. "Worried."

Rhaenys sat on the bed, stroking his hair. "Why are you worried, pup?"

"Grandfather dying." He was always the smart one of her babes, further matured emotionally than the other boys his age. "Who's gonna die next?"

"Why would you think such a thing?"

There was a silence, Alaric's lip quivering. "I heard aunt Ceryse talk with someone… she said deaths happen in threes. I don't want grandmother to die, or grandfather Torrhen." He squeezed the egg harder, face pressed against the scales, trying to keep his grief back.

Sighing, Rhaenys kissed his brow. "Listen to me, my son. All will be well, I promise."

"How do you know?"

Gods, how did he become so jaded at such a young age? Was it the icy winter in his blood? "Because your kepa and I will fight for what grandfather built, as will your uncles. You are the blood of the Kings of Winter and the dragonlords of Valyria. We answer to neither men nor gods."

His violet eyes found her. "Alright, muna. I trust you." He didn't, not truly, but Rhaenys could tell that he trusted her willpower, and for now that was enough.

Shutting the door to the nursery behind her, Rhaenys turned only to run into her husband. Brandon eyed her with a sad smile on his rugged, handsome face. Her direwolf… It released the gate of emotion. "Bran…"

"Com'ere, Rhae. Let it out."

Rhaenys collapsed into his arms, crying softly against his cloak. Many times she had sought his comfort in the last few days, and each and every time he had been there for her. Thank the gods I have him. The best husband I could have. She loved him from the night of their wedding, and that love grew by the day - just like her muna and kepa.

She managed to recover her composure quicker than the other times, wiping her eyes and finding his greys. "Are you alright, Rhae?"

"Aye," she nodded. "I'm fine… just the children. They still miss their grandfather. Alaric is despondent in his own way while even little Saera can tell something is wrong."

Brandon sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know who has it worse, the children with simply losing their hero and beloved grandfather, or us that still have those losses while having to endure the aftermath as well."

Her brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Father wants to speak with the both of us. A conclave of the direwolves… and white dragon." He referred to the snow-white dresses that she oft wore as per her duties as a Stark. Rhaenys pecked his lips and took his hand, letting her wolf guide her.

Hand of the King Torrhen Stark wasn't the young, dashing warrior Lord he had been when renouncing the Crown of Winter to pledge his loyalty to House Targaryen. In the last few days, however, he looked to have aged at least several years. His back was hunched, knees hobbled as a cane appeared. Lady Jocelyn was ever close, tending to him with loving care, but the surly seriousness that more resembled his bastard brother remained planted on his expression. Only seeing his son and gooddaughter seemed to soften him. "Bran, Rhae. Welcome."

"Father," Brandon stated, hugging him.

"Goodfather." Rhaenys kissed his cheek. They had long grown close enough to act as father and daughter. "You summoned us?"

"Yes, please sit down, dears," Jocelyn stated. Her eyes were worn but she was in better spirits than the aging Torrhen. It didn't hurt that she was much younger than he, though that didn't do anything to dampen their devotion to the other.

Outside, the moon was already shining over the black waters of the bay. It was a mere sliver of crescent, portending a new moon sometime soon - a bad omen in the North, for the larger the moon the less darkness there was in winter. "The King is dead," Torrhen began, hobbling towards the window. Staring out of it. "Within the next moon or so, Aenys will be crowned, and I am scared shitless."

Rhaenys frowned. "You hold disloyalty for my brother?"

"I was loyal to your father, Rhaenys, and I am loyal to your brother as well. Don't you dare question that." The Princess bit her lip, regretful for the statement - sometimes her mother's temper got the better of her. Brandon squeezed her hand in reassurance. "If it was a time of peace and unity within the realm, I would be at ease and already planning my return to Winterfell to live out the rest of my days." He, Visenya, Orys, Argella, Loren Lannister, and Sharra Arryn were all that was left of the old ways. Of the generation that bled and burned through the conquest. Soon, none would be left and it truly made him tremble.

"But the realm is at peace, father," Brandon remarked.

"Aye, it is. For now." Torrhen turned, grunting at the pain in his joints as he walked to his seat - a plushly upholstered chair, one of the few indulgences he allowed himself. "But that is all due to your father, Rhaenys. He, your mother, and I maintained the foundations of this realm through sheer force of will, and doing so brought greatness… but the realm is young and will go through growing pains… perhaps violently if my fears are realized.

Brandon seemed skeptical. "Father, I highly doubt that many would see the warring past as a paragon to return to…"

"No, Bran. Goodfather is correct." Eyes were on Rhaenys, who didn't shy away from voicing her opinion. "There are many who would benefit from the old ways… or a realm free of House Targaryen. I don't trust the Faith."

Jocelyn chuckled. "Spoken like a true northerner. We haven't trusted the Faith since Theon Stark." The Hungry Wolf, so opposed to the Faith that he made peace with the Boltons in order to destroy them.

"But the worries of the crown can be dealt with another time, with your brothers in attendance," Torrhen said. "What I worry of is House Stark's position. We are isolated and thus weaker than the other realms in manners of political influence, but with the world shrinking as it is we cannot rely on that isolation to save us."

"My house's enemies will see House Stark as impeccably loyal… and punish us for it." Rhaenys was under no illusions.

"What do you suggest, father? More marriage alliances between our bannermen and the south?"

"To start with, but that won't be enough." Torrhen winced, rubbing his knee. "In the last years I arranged for wealth to be brought in from the crown to build up the port of White Harbor into something far larger. I will now seek King Aenys for leave to construct roads between our main keeps… to cut down travel time if we need to call the banners."

Rhaenys nodded, but found the idea… lacking. "Goodfather, do you think all Northern houses would support us?"

That caused him to blink. "Explain that."

"I'm only suggesting that the call for a return to isolation may be heeded by many in the North. Something greatly unifying should be made to bind all factions to our House."

"And what are you proposing, Rhae?" Jocelyn asked.

It was something she had been thinking of for a while now, but the political situation forced her hand. "A betrothal, between Aegon and Lord Rogar Bolton's daughter."

Brandon blinked. "Excuse me, Rhae? Marrying our son to one of those flayers?" Anti-Bolton animosity ran deep within House Stark - even the pragmatic Jocelyn looked aghast at the idea.

But Rhaenys stayed firm. "I wouldn't suggest it normally, but Rogar Bolton seems quite different from his predecessors, at least that was what Lord Theomare Manderly told me of him when he fostered at White Harbor. Besides, my house established marital alliances with both House Durrandon and House Stark. Why not solidify our kingdom the same way?"

"I'm not completely comfortable with this, Rhae," Torrhen voiced. "But I am intrigued by your proposal. I don't trust Rogar Bolton, but perhaps if his son and daughter were to foster at Winterfell I might change my mind."

Smiling at her goodfather's acceptance of the idea, Rhaenys turned to Brandon. "Husband, we shan't make Eggsy marry anyone he doesn't wish to marry, especially a flayer… but we need to make tough choices."

He nodded. "I know, Rhae. I trust you, but the Boltons? It's… I wouldn't wish them on anyone, least of all our son."

She squeezed his hand in hers. Gods, Bran, I hope a Bolton gooddaughter is the worst thing we'd have to deal with in the coming years. Shivering, Rhaenys wasn't hopeful.

The sooner she was back in Winterfell, the better.

They were all walking wounded.

Passing by the line of guards surrounding the grassy knoll in the shadow of the Dragonpalace's great hall, Maegor found them about where he expected. The refuge of all true Targaryens - among their dragons. He sighed, knowing their pain for Maegor felt it too.

Whimpering, Syndor nudged her master's side. Urging him to go to them with both a mewl and two pleading eyes. "Stay here," Maegor said, ruffling her black fur. The direwolf complied, but never took her eyes off Maegor. As if making sure he kept his word.

His brother and sister were the first he came across, the two of them cuddled close to their growing dragons. "Brother," Aenys remarked. He was almost unkempt, hair hanging loose and beard untrimmed. "You need to speak to our mother."

"She won't speak to you?"

"We've tried… she's just silent." Rhaenys was always so happy, so bubbly and full of life. Now, it was muted like a flaccid flower and it only added to his heartbreak. "First our other muna and now this…" His sister clutched to him desperately, crying softly. "She's never been so alone… I've never been so alone. Kepa, he was… he was…"

"I know, sister, I know." Kissing her forehead, he nodded to Aenys, who guided Rhaenys back to the murmuring Arrax. Taking a deep breath, Maegor went to Visenya. She was hugging Vhagar's snout while Rhaena rubbed her back. There were no tears… the Queen had long since cried herself out. "Muna?" No response. "Muna?"

Looking over her shoulder, Rhaena gave her uncle a sympathetic smile. "I think she just wants to be alone with Vhagar."

Opening his mouth to speak, Maegor could only nod. "I understand." He moved away, shoulders slumped. There was nothing Rhaena wanted more than to race to him and hug away his pain… but it couldn't happen. There was no way she could mollify that pain.

Somehow the Prince found himself before the one dragon no longer bonded to a living rider. Composure broken, Maegor allowed his tears to trickle down his face for the first time since learning his father died. Letting his head fall upon the scales of Balerion's snout. The dragon growled gently. 'It's alright, valonqar. Let it out.'

"I miss him," Maegor murmured in High Valyrian. He hated to be vulnerable around even those of his blood, but somehow the great dragon brought his heart some sort of relief that no other could have hoped to do. "Brother, you have lost riders before. How… how do you come to terms with it?" He could sense his family trying to listen to him, but his voice was audible only to Balerion.

The dragon cooed, nudging him. 'I have lived since before the fall of my home, everyone that I knew both human and dragon lost. My first rider, my second… my third before our father. Never once do I live without the agony of never feeling the bond I have with them for as long as I further live.' Balerion whimpered, the sound one of a heavy heart. 'Count your blessings, Valonqar. You bond with but one dragon for life. We must endure the pain of losing our riders again and again.'

Maegor looked up in astonishment, his reddened eyes stained with tears. The great Black Dread, burner of Harrenhal and forger of the Iron Throne - never once did he imagine the mighty dragon to be a tortured soul, haunted by the ghosts of the past. The dragon bond… is this how it feels? Knowing truths about the intelligent creatures that no one else would?

"I'm sorry," He finally said. "How could my pain compare to yours?"

An exhale of air, one that brought heat to his face. 'Enough of that, Valonqar. You're embarrassing our family.' The tone was light, unserious. A ray of hope in the sea of darkness. 'I know you miss kepa, I miss him more than anything just as I do the Aegon before him, and Daenys before that, and my first rider Daemon the elder - father of Aenar.' Nearly two centuries since his hatching, the Black Dread had seen it all.

"Yet how can you stand it?" The Prince looked into the amber eyes of the dragon he had known since his first memory. The constant presence in his life, just as his father had been. "Losing someone that was your rock since you could remember?"

'Because we are dragons. We are strong.' Balerion tilted his head to Syndor, who waited patiently at the edge of the grass. 'Those wolves, don't they say "when the lone wolf dies, the pack survives?"'

"Aye." Maegor chuckled in spite of himself. "Where'd you hear that?"

'Your wolf told me.' Yet another layer in the onion that was Balerion the Black Dread. 'They mean it one way, but I see it differently. Our family still lives even after kepa died. That is why we endure, valonqar. That is why it is worth it for me to continue. A dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing.'

Maegor sighed, resting his head back on Balerion's snout. He was right, but it would still be hard.

Suddenly, he could feel the dragon shifting. Moving his head until he nudged Maegor gently. The Prince's brows furrowed until he looked up, jaw dropping and eyes widening. Balerion had lowered his wing, offering himself to Maegor. 'Hop on.'

"Brother… are you?"

'Yes. You know this is what was always meant to be, valonqar. What kepa wanted for the both of us.'

"My gods," breathed Rhaenys, pushing herself off of where she sat against Arrax's chest. "I can't believe it."

Aenys heard her as he stroked Quicksilver. "What?" He gaped in surprise when he saw it. "Is Maegor climbing atop Balerion?" It was! After so long… "Mother, look."

Settling atop the join of neck and torso, Maegor was embarrassed to say he was trembling. It was just as the first day he rode a horse at such a young age, but he had never hugged the side of a horse so gingerly… especially considering his mother had been riding with him on the horse. 'Calm down, little brother.'

Maegor could've sworn Balerion was chuckling at him. "Just wondering if there's a plan for if I lose my grip?" he said, louder than intended.

'I would advise that you don't, since I do not wish to lose another rider so soon.'

A frown. "Kepa never said how much of a cheeky shit you were." Gripping on Balerion's spines, the Prince looked out to see his family watching him in awe. Rhaenys and Aenys practically beaming, Rhaena gazing with… adoration? And for the first time in days, the light in Visenya's eyes had returned. As if hope finally returned to her world. "What am I supposed to do?" Maegor felt he knew, but at the moment he was drawing a blank.

His mother snorted, smiling softly. "Sovegon, my son."

Nodding, Maegor braced himself. "Sovegon… aaahhhhh!" In an instant, Balerion had launched himself with his powerful hind legs off the cliff. Wings unfurled, the intense plunge bottomed out and he curved just over the surface of Blackwater Bay. Wingbeats kicked up massive clouds of foam and sea spray in his wake as he ascended into the sky.

Soon, the ground and the surface of the sea grew smaller and smaller in his eyes. Wind slamming into Maegor's face, freezing wind - yet he wasn't chilled. The heat from Balerion… the heat in his very blood ran scorching through his entire body. It was nothing his mother, his sister… nary anyone could have prepared himself for. No wonder Rhaena changed so greatly after this… He had trained, fought, and bled for years and yet only now could he feel truly the mighty warrior he was destined to be.

'Hold on, valonqar.' Balerion abruptly plunged toward the sea, turning Maegor's vision red as he clung for dear life... only at the very last second looping back up into the sky with a loud bellow.

"Are you toying with me?!" Maegor yelled over the wind.

Balerion heard him. 'Perhaps I am. Kepa was a good sport about it.'

Wanting to roll his eyes, he could only laugh. Gods, it was a heady feeling. The feeling of riding a dragon, how the power of Old Valyria soaked from the dragon beneath him into his own soul as he soared high above the earth - a vision below him that no mortal could ever lay claim to. That no god could cast him down from. This was his destiny, a dragonlord risen from the ashes of Old Valyria just as his father was before him.

Hearing a hoot next to him, Maegor looked to the side to see Vhagar fall into place beside him. Visenya watched with a delighted look that brought warmth to his heart - his mother, happy again if only for the single moment. To her left was his brother, laughing atop Quicksilver.

Maegor then turned as another roar rang out, finding his niece and sister atop Dreamfyre and Arrax respectively. Rhaenys held a look of mischief, while Rhaena expressed… something he found familiar, but couldn't read.

It didn't matter. Maegor felt powerful up among the clouds and the heavens. Nothing made him more powerful than the roar of the wind in his ears. He smiled wide. "WHOOOOOO!" Balerion roared and climbed higher.

Another four throats joined in. "WHOOOOOO!"

This was where he was meant to be, Maegor knew it now. On the back of a dragon, with his family at his side.

The pack survives… it shall endure.

Chapter Text

"I'm not sure about this, muna." Rhaena was apprehensive for what was about to happen. "What if I make an ass of myself? Or say something stupid?"

Stopping outside the Small Council chambers, Alyssa took her daughter in her arms. "You stop that right now, Rhaena." She looked her in the eyes. "You and your brother shall be the new generation of power in House Targaryen, the children of the King himself. It is time that you take a central part in the Realm just as your younger siblings will once they come of age."

Looking away, Rhaena bit her lip. "But am I truly ready?"

A smile formed on Alyssa's face. "I know you are, my beautiful daughter." She kissed Rhaena's cheek, which made the girl smile back - her perfect Valyrian Princess. "Now, come on."

Rhaena stepped through the doors and was greeted by the chamber of the Small Council, currently housed in one of the meeting rooms of her kepa's manse. All of her grandfather's councilors were there, as were Lord Butterwell, Lord Reyne, Ronnel Arryn, and others that muna hoped to appoint to the council once Aenys was crowned. Her uncle Orys was there, but her grandmother wasn't, much to her disappointment. Aegon sat beside their mother's seat, while Lord Torrhen waited beside…

Uncle Maegor! Rhaena fought a sheepish blush at the sight of his smiling… oh so handsome face. Gods, he looked beautiful… No, stop it… Her budding feelings for him were greatly confusing, and the whirlwind of her grandfather's death had prevented her from truly addressing it.

"Daughter, come here." Aenys waved her over. "Sit beside me and your uncle."

Oh shit. Wordlessly she nodded, slipping into the seat beside the object of her infatuation. "Niece," he said sweetly.

Damn, his voice lit a fire in her. "Uncle."

"May we begin, father?" Aegon asked.

"Don't be impatient, my son," Aenys replied. "We will start as custom dictates."

Formalities were observed, bread and salt passed around for guest rite and introductions made - the banter of highborns was shared, discussing births, deaths, marriages, and other special occasions as the servants brought out wine, ale, and finger-food.

Eventually though, serious matters were brought up. Namely, the initial steps that Aenys would need to make soon after his coronation.

"We need to be cautious, your Grace," Torrhen Stark commented. He had a good working relationship with King Aegon - Aenys and he did cooperate smoothly on matters concerning finances and the construction of the Red Keep, but on the actual issues of comprehensive governing he could feel the rawness and tension. The boy was well-intentional, but seemed almost naively optimistic. "Your father's death will serve, however unfortunately and misguidedly, that Westeros is weak and open to attack." His eyes flickered to Prince Maegor and Alyn Stokeworth, both of whom held the experience and good sense to agree with him.

Drumming his fingers on the table, Maegor thought for a moment. "We should move forces to the borders - not a significant amount to threaten invasion but enough to send a message. The Faith Militant has been expanded so they can do the trick alongside the Marcher Lords."

"We can make them more amenable to calling their banners if we subsidize their call," stated Lord Butterwell. "I could have the bullion minted from the treasury…"

"No, we shan't engage in warmongering tactics." All fell silent to Aenys, just speaking up. "How would my reign look if my first action is to call banners and amass spears and swords along the border with Dorne?"

Maegor leaned forward. "Brother, it would send a signal to our enemies that you are not one to be trifled with…"

But the King was insistent. "We defeat our enemies by making friends with them." He stroked his beard, eyes alight with passion. "Since my father and mothers were crowned, a this realm has exploded in prosperity and material wealth, much more so than simply six independent realms. We can use our power in trade to maintain the peace without resorting to violent wars that bring nothing but ruin.

Admiring his brother's passion, Maegor did concede his proposals had merit. Coin was a powerful incentive, but for traditional enemies to make peace… "The Dornish swine will never accede to peaceful relations without a show of force," thundered Orys, slamming his fist on the table.

"I must agree with your uncle and… brother." Maegor was shocked to hear Alyssa agree with him - Alyssa was equally shocked, but she wasn't petty enough to reject good advice. "You must show them you cannot be bullied before inviting them to the table…"

Aenys shook his head. "I shall not start my reign off with war. The smallfolk desire peace and bread, and I shall give it to them."

"Perhaps…" Rhaena began, only to quiet down.

"Daughter, what is it?" Aenys asked.

"Nothing," was the hesitant reply.

"Rhaena, you may speak your mind," Alyssa coaxed.

But she was slightly intimidated. "Really, it's nothing…"

"Please, dear niece. Speak."

Maegor smiling at her, Rhaena smiled back - a little confidence swelling in her. "Well… kepa, you could invite the foreign dignitaries to the capitol for trade negotiations. We can show off our strength and wealth from the safety of our own capitol, no need to threaten or demonstrate."

"Except perhaps with our dragons. Each of them have riders now, just as before." Maegor smacked the table. "I like it." Rhaena swelled with pride.

"I like it too, dear daughter," Alyssa smiled. "Your Grace?"

Chuckling, Aenys stood - kissing his daughter on the crown of her head. "You are wise beyond your years, my beautiful little dragon." Rhaena beamed, while most of the Small Council nodded approvingly and her brother merely frowned in silence, "This will be the event to cap off an ambitious project. We must show that the reign of Aenys Targaryen, First of His Name, is open and willing to share its prosperity to all that seek peaceful friendship. That is why I want all of you, my children, to begin royal progresses to the other Kingdoms, you as well brother."

"And you, your Grace?" Torrhen asked.

"The Queen and I shall travel to Braavos, Pentos, and Volantis, capping it off with a visit to Dorne once their delegations have finished in our fair city. The world will know of our might and our wealth, beginning the first true peace since the Doom of Valyria." He received a standing ovation - while Maegor and Torrhen had reservations about the details, those could be worked around. The King had charted a firm course and it was their duty to see it through.

An hour passed in a flurry of mundane discussion, largely about the coronation festivals and updates on various world events - none of them concerning. Finally, it was done. The Princess was eager to head to her sparring lessons. What could grandmother wish to have me learn this time? As Rhaena made her way out of the small council chamber, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and immediately her heart made a little catch. "Niece, do you have a moment?" Maegor asked her, giving her a melancholic look.

"Of course, uncle." Sensing a look of disapproval from her mother, she simply refused to look around. "What is it you wish to discuss?" Rhaena bit her lip, trying not to blush. It was hard being around him these days with the new feelings she held - gods, she didn't understand them herself.

Stepping out towards the gardens, Maegor guided his niece in the direction of the courtyard. "Your grandmother… after your kepa is crowned she'll be journeying to Dragonstone. I have no idea how long she'll be gone but considering how much she loved your grandfather…"

"She needs time alone, I understand." Rhaena thought for a moment. "Does that mean you'll be taking charge of my swordsplay and dragonriding training?"

"You are a perceptive young lady, dear niece," he smiled. "In dragonriding… I'd be better off taking lessons from you." The two shared a laugh at that, Rhaena resisting the urge to hold his arm and lean into his shoulder - he was her married uncle, after all. "As for swordsplay, I'd be far too busy in my role as Master of War to properly train you."

A saddened look took hold of Rhaena's face. "I can't say I'm not disappointed." She greedily looked forward to any time alone with him, no matter how much it ultimately hurt. "So who shall be teaching me, then?"

His grin widened, as if holding an important secret. "You shall soon find out."

Waiting in the courtyard was a thin man. He was dressed in a simple tunic and rousers of black, grey leather cuirass strapped to his chest. His salt-and-pepper hair and wrinkled face belied a hard life and great experience, yet there was a serenity about him that intrigued Rhaena. This is not a man to trifle with. "Your Grace," he said, bowing at the Princess. "You are as beautiful as your uncle has spoken to me of."

"Oh…" She blushed at the idea of her uncle praising her beauty - wished to hear such in person. "I thank you, good Ser… Apologies, but I do not know your name."

Chuckling, Maegor patted her shoulder. "Dear niece, this is Ser Gawen Corbray, former master-at-arms at Dragonstone."

Rhaena's eyes bugged out of her head. "Ser Gawen… it is an honor." Ser Gawen was a living legend, having fought at the Field of Fire for House Targaryen and personally slaying Prince Edmund Gardener in single combat at age ten and seven. He had served through the entire Dornish War and personally collected the bounties on five Dornish highborns, making him a personally wealthy man as the second son of the now deceased lord Lyonel Corbray. One of the most deadly knights in the Seven Kingdoms.

Clipped to his belt was Lady Forlorn, a beautiful longsword of Valyrian steel.

"The honor is mine for my reputation to be so high among the royal family." Polite to her, he raised his brow at the Prince. "She looks to have the fortitude of your mother, but she's still raw. Arrogant even."

"Huh?" Rhaena was confused.

Maegor squeezed her arm. "I summoned Ser Gawen from Heart's Home to serve as your teacher in the art of swordsplay, the more advanced lessons, mind you. He taught me when I was much younger than you, so neither I nor your grandmother could think of anyone more qualified for you, niece."

She beamed. "Thank you uncle." Without thinking, she leaned up on tip toes and kissed his cheek. "Words cannot express how grateful I am."

"Just express your gratitude by learning enough to beat me in a spar." Maegor smiled once at her before departing, whispering something in Ser Gawen's ear first.

The experienced knight looked her over once more. By the click of his tongue, he was not impressed. "You wear Dark sister at your waist."

Rhaena nodded. "A gift from my grandmother…"

"Put it away. You are not worthy to fight with the blade of Visenya Targaryen."

"Excuse me…"

Before Rhaena could speak more, Ser Gawen tossed leather trousers and a linen shirt at her. "Go put these on and be back here in fifteen minutes, lest you wish for thirty laps around the manse. I didn't go soft on your uncle and neither will I on you." Rhaena made haste to comply…

Looking up, she could see a blue blur of Dreamfyre soaring high in the sky - it made her harden her fortitude. The prospect of being a mighty dragonrider and warrior like her grandmother was in her grasp. Gawen Corbray wouldn't break her.

Eyes fluttering open, Trianna Vhassar found herself sighing in contentment. Just as she was wont to do every morning of the last few moons. Her family was still immensely wealthy, and the Elephants still maintained the junior position in the ruling wartime coalition dominated by the tigers - no, the source of her happiness was more the simplest of things.

A man.

Allowing such simple, selfish thoughts in the confines of her bed - increasingly their bed - Trianna hugged her lover's muscular form. He was bare, as was she, indicative of the night of passion shared while still awake. They do say Lys is the city of pleasure.

"If you squeeze me any tighter, I will stop breathing."

Trianna smirked. "I would think a mighty northern warrior such as yourself could take it. Apparently not, so I'll have to find someone with more strength."

A possessive arm wrapped tightly round her shoulder, making the second-most powerful person in the newly-christened Volentine Empire yelp. "I think not, sweetling."

"That's a term for children, isn't it Lord Ryder?"

"I call you that because you are quite sweet, Lady Vhassar," Eddard Ryder of the Rills stated flatly. "And I'm no Lord, not anymore."

She hugged him again. "You are a Lord to me, lover, at least within this bed." The power imbalance was extensive, but at least in here the young noblewoman could indulge herself and her dreams. She held enough power to hold whatever lover she desired, at least in private.

Which is what we have to be.

"Time to get dressed, I believe that pompous cunt has summoned us," Ryder spat. As the Captain General of the Company of the Rose - currently under indefinite contract by the Empire since their actions helped the Unsullied legions take Myr with a quarter of the predicted casualties - he was privy to all sessions of the war council. Ironically, that was where they met. Kissing her forehead, he swung his legs out of the bed. "My offer to kill him so you can rule still stands."

Trianna sighed, sitting up and pulling the bedsheet to cover her chest. "He's the legitimate Chief Triarch of Volantis, elected by the nobility within the Black Walls. However much we disagree, I cannot plot against him or risk losing all support I do have."

"My father betrayed his Lord and King by refusing to bend the knee to the damned dragons, and while he lost his lands and titles look where his son has ended up." Eddard yanked up his trousers, covering Trianna's favorite bits of him. "Fucking the most beautiful woman in the world."

The silver-haired noblewoman blushed. "You are a charmer underneath that brutish exterior."

"How else did I get you, my dear?" They shared one last kiss for the morning.

Lys was synonymous with pleasure. Such had been the state of affairs since it was but an outpost on the westernmost reaches of the Valyrian Freehold. Dragonlords adored purchasing manses here, both men and women alike flocking to the pleasure houses to satiate their boundless passion. The Doom hadn't changed the city one bit, even if it became more populated by the swell of refugees and freed slaves from the ruins of Valyria.

But even from her wheelhouse, Trianna could sense a change in the atmosphere. She had been to Lys before as a young woman, and the various activities were still present. The marketplaces buzzed with life, the streets were packed with throngs of people - the majority tattooed in bondage - and the pleasure houses endured plenty of traffic. However, all was not well. Armed men had seemed to triple, roving groups of thugs joining the hired muscle that most business partook in. Tightly disciplined in comparison were the Black Guardsmen of Volantis itself, as well as the ramrod straight hoplites of the Astapori-trained Unsullied legions.

For decades they served the whims of the Good Masters of Slaver's Bay. Now, they served the Volentine Triarchy. Trianna knew not if it was much of a difference.

While she elected a manse at the edge of the city, Catoyn Maegyr used his clout to appropriate the Magistrar's palace for himself. It was an immense, gaudy creation of white marble and limestone, completely different in nature from the black stone manses of old Volantis. Trianna appreciated the airy architecture. What she hated was the grandiosity - such a waste. What had to be three hundred Unsullied and a thousand assorted guards stood guard around it, speaking more to Maegyr's paranoia than his sense.

Lys was the city that resisted the least to the war of expansion.

Enslaved servants led Trianna and her retinue through the halls of the manse to the formal reception chamber. There she saw the military leaders of the War Council - including her beloved Eddard - intermixed with several Volentine highborns of both the Tigers and Elephants. Also there were three of the most powerful figures in Lys that did not hold supreme authority during the war. Admiral Tylor Lohar of the Lysene navy, ridiculously-wealthy merchant Bambarro Bazanne, and the High Plenipotentiary of the Lysene Bank Lakor Rogare. The latter interested Trianna the most. Aside from Maegyr, the King of Westeros, and the Yi Ti Emperor, Lakor Rogare was likely the most powerful man in the known world. Tread lightly.

At the seat of honor, Catoyn cleared his throat. "Many greetings to my colleague, Triarch Vhassar. Her arrival signals the beginning of our discussion."

"I am honored to be a part of this occasion," she stated politely, taking a seat next to Eddard. Quite deliberately. It was no secret he was her lover - they were discrete, so no one cared.

Clasping his hands together, Maegyr motioned to Eddard Ryder. "Captain General Ryder is one of Volantis' best field commanders. At my request, he has calculated the size of our armies."

Clearing his throat, Eddard rose. "Your Excellences, the Empire of Volantis currently fields an army of two hundred thousand foot, fifty thousand cavalry, five hundred war elephants, and a navy of three hundred ships. If the forces of the Three daughters are added, the land numbers rise by half that amount and the navy triples in size." The logistics would be a nightmare, but such was the largest army since the Freehold collapsed. He seated, report done.

In front of them all on the table was a massive map of the known world. "The Targaryen King is dead." That they already knew, so Trianna merely leaned back, waiting for what Catoyn would say next… though she had a feeling she knew that as well. "His son, Crown Prince Aenys, is a far different man."

"A weak, sentimental fool. We all know this, Maegyr," Lakor Rogare huffed, arms crossed.

Lord Admiral Trechel smacked his hand on the table. "Show the Lord Triarch some respect!"

"I'll show respect when it's earned,lest you wish to kill me as you did the magistrars of Myr and Tyrosh."

"My friends, let us calm down." Catoyn didn't want bloodshed. He couldn't afford it within the Empire he had forged his land into. "Yes, Lord Rogare, Crown Prince Aenys is rather pliable and simplistic a man - clever but not warlike. Competent but not decisive. He still retains the Small Council of his father but they are old and likely to pass on such as Lord Hand Torrhen Stark."

Trianna heard a snort from her lover. "May the old gods condemn him to the blizzards of hell," Eddard muttered.

"What about his brother?" Bazanne remarked. "Prince Maegor, we know of his ruthlessness first hand."

Catoyn waved it off. "He is not the King, his brother is, and I have it on proper authority that the various unhealed wounds of the Targaryen conquest will soon fester under the less intimidating rule of Prince Aenys." He gestured to the large map. "As such, our Empire is primed for expansion. Pentos and the northern reaches of the Rhoyne lay primed four our sphere of influence, not to mention the Summer Isles and Naath to increase our slave population."

"How large do you intend to expand?" asked admiral Lohar.

The Tiger smiled. "We are the heirs to the legacy of Old Valyria, and under my leadership I intend to eclipse such a legacy. Only with the support of your networks, ships, men, and coin can I make this happen, though." Trianna tried to hide her surprise. While expansion was what she expected, this… lofty goal wasn't. Where could he possibly seek to expand to eclipse Valyria? The Dothraki were still being bribed to stay away and the Ghiscar good trade partners.

On the edge of the map laid Westeros, which provided a rather frightening answer. No, he's not that stupid.

"You are forgetting one thing, Maegyr," spat Rogare, leaning forward to point an accusatory finger. "The Valyrians conquered half the known world using thousands of dragons to overwhelm the Ghiscar and the Rhoynish, and then only just. Dragons still exist in much smaller numbers, but in the hands of those you wish to also dominate. I find it hard to believe you can snap your fingers and end my worries of your abilities."

Trianna watched her colleague with quizzical eyes. Wanting to know his response. The leader of the tigers only waved off the concerns. "You need not worry, Lord Rogare. The problem with the dragons shall take care of itself - especially with what the Empire is currently planning."

He frowned. "I will need assurances, Triarch. You cannot secure my support with mere innuendo and empty promises."

Nodding, Catoyn motioned for Rogare to follow him to the far end of the massive chamber - far enough away so no one could hear their whispers. "Are you aware of what he was alluding to?" Eddard asked her, thinking she'd know."

Embarrassingly enough, Trianna was just as clueless. "He rarely tells me his plots unless I am a necessary step in realizing them." The Tigers ruled the war council, so they could always scrounge up majorities to wield power unilaterally if need be. Trianna would rather knuckle under and live, at least until opportunity arrived.

Returning, a small smile adorned Rogare's face. "My objections have been mollified, and I am willing to throw my support behind his Excellence Triarch Maegyr." As the other Lysene highborns followed Rogare's lead, Trianna met Catoyn's eyes. He smiled to her, but the eyes were plotting, devious. What are you hiding, my friend? What are you hiding indeed?

Humming delightfully, young Princess Alysanne Targaryen danced through the halls of her father's manse. She twirled about to the tune of Old Valyria, the one she heard the servant girls whistling - apparently something about a dance her sister and 'n'cle Maegor' did the night before her grandfather's death. Such complexities of why her mother banned it in her presence confused Alysanne, but didn't obsess her. So she hummed and danced, content with her lot.

Twirling around a corner, she spotted one of the Kingsguard. "Ser Symond." Alysanne was proud to know all of them by name… and spell them out too.

The Kingsguard clicked his heels. "My Princess." He eyed her curiously. "Shouldn't you be at your lessons?"

"Done for the day!" Grand Maester Gawen and Septon Murmison were always impressed with her wit and good nature - her kepa often bragged about how she was able to read at a younger age than her siblings. She didn't really understand why it was a big deal, but if Aenys praised her then she would be happy. "Grand Maester gave me a whole hour to play cause I was a good girl."

A chuckle from Ser Symond. "You are a very delightful girl, your Grace. The spitting image of your father if he didn't have a cock and stones."

She raised an eyebrow. "Cock and stones? Like a boy chicken with rocks?"

Symond didn't know whether to cackle at the innocent statement or be mortified that he spoke lewdly to the five-nameday old Princess. "If… if you want to go to your chambers, just be warned Prince Jaehaerys is inside."

That made her beam brightly. "Jae there?! Thank you, Ser Symond." She raced into the room, eager to see her beloved brother. Just as advertised, he was there, crouched by the hearth. "Jae!"

Turning to see her bounding to him, Jae covered his lips with his finger. "Shhh, not so loud."

Alysanne stopped in her tracks. Quirking her head at an angle, she could see something in the fire that Jae was intent on watching. "Is that your egg?" she asked, keeping her voice quiet.

Nodding, Jaehaerys watched the bronze-scaled egg he had slept with since the cradle. Sleeves pulled up - both cuffs singed a bit - he reached into the flames to caress the warm scales. "I'm trying to make it hatch like Dreamfyre." He could feel the dragon nestled inside move - feel its heart and fire. "See, Ally. I don't burn. Just like Rhae or grandmother!"

"Can I try?" She herself reached into the flame.

"No!" Jae yanked her back. "I'm not getting in trouble with muna if you get burned."

Her pride was wounded but said nothing - he was just a good big brother like kepa always said. "Why are you burning the dragon egg?" Hers was tucked away in a chest under her bed. She would always pull it out to sleep with at night, snuggled within the pillows and covers rather than braved to the flames.

Jae snorted. "Because, little sister, dragons are fire made flesh. Didn't you listen to n'cle Maegor or grandfather's stories?" Alysanne may have been his favorite person in the world and considered to be the smartest of all the royal siblings, but she was too big for her britches sometimes. "You put the dragon egg in the fire and it hatches. That's how Rhaena did it."

"Rhaena hatched Dreamfyre with fire?" Ally's eyes were wide.

"Aye… but nothing's happening. I've been waiting here for a gazillion minutes and still nothing!" Come on egg, hatch! I want a babe dragon to love and to cuddle and to ride against my enemies like the dragon I am! If n'cle Maegor could ride Balerion, he could hatch his dragon, but the long wait was really getting to him.

Biting her lip, Alysanne squinted at the egg. It didn't move, but she could faintly see something squirming underneath the scales. The dragon was alive, her brother's dragon, but… There was a book Rhaena gave her when she first learned how to read. A simple tome about dragon lore written by one of the early Targaryens. She struggled to remember what it said. "Um, Jae. Maybe it won't hatch now."

He rolled his eyes. "Stop being a doomer like muna or Egg. It'll hatch!" His yelling was likely more to convince himself of the eventuality than his sister.

"But Jae. I read in Rhae's book that dragons are not slaves. That they choose when to come…"

Suddenly he poked her hard in the shoulder, causing Alysanne to flinch back. "Don't tell me what to do!" Jaehaerys poked her again, and she backed away - her feet stumbled into a toy left on the floor and Ally tripped, falling to the ground. "Stupid little girl! Keep your stupid ideas and stupid taunts away from me!"

Heart thumping, the Princess looked up at her brother with wide, fearful eyes. "Don't… don't hurt me, Jae…"

The fury of the dragon's temper, ignited by the failure of his egg to hatch, dissipated as Jaehaerys' mind wrested back control. The six-nameday old Prince saw his dear sister on the ground, looking at him with the most terrified expression. Gods… I… did that? A cruel boy would've laughed at the look on Alysanne's face. Jae held nothing but shame. "Ally…"

He tried to reach down to her, but she shoved his hand to the side. "Go away!"

"No, Ally. I'm sorry…"

She scrambled to her feet, running to the corner and wrapping her arms around her side. "You hurt me, leave me alone!" she screamed.

The screaming attracted the attention of the Kingsguard outside the door. "My Prince, is everything alright in there?" asked Ser Symond Crane.

Jaehaerys panicked. "Aye… all's fine!" He prayed that the Ser Symond wouldn't enter. Luckily, the knight thought better of intruding. The Prince sighed in relief and approached his trembling sister - literally too pale to cry. "Ally. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." Wise beyond his years, he also felt the deepest remorse.

Biting her lip, Alysanne's eyes brimmed with tears. "Kepa and n'cle Maegor say brothers protect little sisters. You hurt me, not protect me."

"I'll never hurt you again, I promise!" Jae cried, embracing her in the innocent, comforting hug of dear siblings. He'd been foolish to try and force his egg to hatch. Rhaena hatched hers, while his uncle mounted their grandfather's. Both came at the right time, so his would hatch thusly just as Ally said. "I'm so stupid!"

She shook her head. "No, no stupid, Jae." Tearful eyes blinking up at him, she didn't want a fight. All she wanted was peace, just as it was before her grandfather's death. "I forgive you." He was her brother. She loved him as she did all her siblings.

Simply holding her, Jae kissed her brow just as he'd seen Rhaena do to him or Viserys. "I'll never hurt you again."

She had accepted his apology and was no longer fearful of him, but as she walked through the grounds of the Dragonpalace Alysanne no longer skipped and twirled with laughter. Her parents had brought the entire family to see the progress being made as construction recommenced following their grandfather's funeral. Jaehaerys, still awkward and shameful of his conduct, avoided her by going with Rhaena and Egg somewhere else, so it was just Alysanne - guarded by Ser Davos Darklyn of the Kingsguard. While normally the great hall and the cliffs would draw her wonder, her mind was too foggy. Too apprehensive.

Why was Jae so mad? He never did that before. Her brother could be stubborn and a grouch sometimes when his pride was wounded, but never to this extent. Alysanne simply couldn't understand it and it worried her.

"Ally!"

Looking to her side, there were her cousins running towards her. "Eggsy, Alaric!" In the moons since their arrival, the three of them had grown quite close. Aegon Stark was a cheery child Jae's age without the sense of pride - always willing for an adventure. Alaric was… quiet and dour, but seemed to bond with Ally in a way he didn't with anyone else. If she wasn't with her siblings, she was playing with her Stark cousins. "You seem happy," Alysanne asked them as hugs were exchanged.

Eggsy nodded. "Muna got a raven from n'cle Brandon in Winterfell. Blizzard's mate is having pups!"

Alysanne had grown used to direwolves due to her uncle Maegor's, Rhaena often playing with her and inviting Ally and Jae to join, so she had a clue of what the direwolves meant to the Starks. "That's great!" Plus… puppies!

"We're going to the godswood to pray for the pups. Wanna join us?"

She blinked. "Um… I don't know…" Kepa made them pray in the sept, and Murmuson didn't share a good attitude to the old gods during their lessons. "I pray to the Seven."

Alaric took her hand. "Just listen, cousin Ally. Weirwood doesn't bite… unless you betray an oath."

"How do you do that?"

He put a finger to his lips. "I don't right now, but kepa says never lie in the godswood."

Ally shook her head. "I don't lie, ever. Muna says never to lie."

"Then you'll be fine!" Eggsy exclaimed. "Come on." She couldn't say no.

Lord Torrhen Stark had built the godswood almost immediately upon taking office as Hand, the grove of trees at the base of the High Hill dating back to the Aegonfort days. When the outer walls were erected, he insisted that the stone barriers were first constructed here. As such, the collection of oak, maple, and northern pine trees didn't hold the same unfinished air as the rest of the Dragonpalace.

As soon as Alysanne entered, she could feel a sort of heady feeling. As if something… really special dwelt here. "Remember, no lies," Eggsy explained. "And any oath here can't be broken."

"I don't lie." Stepping along the path through the trees, the face of the young weirwood came into view. The face carved in its trunk was of a screaming woman, one dripping blood red sap from its eyes. She was… slightly fearful, but took a deep breath. N'cle Maegor says I'm a dragon. Rhae says I'm a dragon.

Dragons are not scared.

One by one, Eggsy and Alaric knelt before the heart tree prayed silently - now it was her turn. "Go ahead," Alaric whispered gently. "Just be honest. The old gods will hear you."

Biting her lip, Ally nodded and knelt before the scary face. Placing her hand on the smooth bark. Ummm… I'm Princess Alysanne of House Targaryen. I'm a dragon that prays to the Seven who are One…

A feeling of displeasure registered in Ally's soul, one that made her sweat.

I mean you no harm… As soon as it came, it receded. She took a deep breath and continued. You don't have to listen to me, but just… watch over my brother Jae. Don't let him be sad or angry anymore. Let him hatch his dragon… and I'll always be grateful. A sudden sense of calm washed over Alysanne, as if a sea breeze passed through her body.

Alaric was right, the old gods did listen.

Steel clashed against steel in the inner courtyard of Sunspear castle, the gentle flowing of fountains and chirping of parrots surrounding the beautiful gardens. Ser Marcus Uller - master-at-arms for House Nymeros Martell - quickly stepped back, dodging a slash before thrusting himself. His sparring partner, Nymeria Sand, spun on her toes and escaped her sparring partner's attack.

"Impressive, young Sand."

"I could say the same for you, Ser Marcus," the 'Sand Snake' observed, pausing for a moment to study her opponent. The granddaughter of Princess Deria Martell, bastard or no, was afforded the best training the Principality of Dorne could offer, and it had paid off.

Easing her wrist, she twirled the infamous Valyrian steel blade of her ancestor and namesake, Princess Nymeria of the Rhoynish. Defiance felt perfect in the Sand Snake's hand, fluid and graceful. Its curved blade designed perfectly for the ancient fighting style of the Rhoynish warriors.

"Waiting patiently, young Sand," taunted the master-at-arms, pointing at her with his traditional Andal longsword - he preferred the glaive, but it was best to train them to fight their most likely enemies.

Nymeria narrowed her eyes. "You will pay for that," she hissed, lunging forward.

Strike after strike was dodged, footwork careful upon the smooth limestone of the tiled floor. Nymeria used her slender frame and flexible joints to her advantage, closing quickly on her opponent and slashing fast. Overwhelming attacks breaking even his superior strength. Unable to properly swing his blade at such close quarters, it clattered on the ground just as Nymeria placed the curve of her blade against his neck.

"Yield?"

"I yield." She dropped the sword, sheathing it. "Very good, young Sand. Your family made the correct decision in entrusting your namesake's blade with you."

Pulling at the ties of her hair, Nymeria let it loose. Splashing some water on her face to bid away the heat. "I've heard better complements, but don't let it stop you." The two chuckled.

A servant scurried into the courtyard. "Lady Sand, the Princess wishes to speak with you." Her eyes widened. Such a summons could not be ignored.

Deria Martell sat alone in her solar. The years had taken a toll on her once immense beauty, and she was wrinkled, worn, and frail - yet her eyes still sparkled with sharpness and wit, ruling over Dorne as it rebuilt itself after its successful resistance of the dragons. And yet, the mighty Princess took great pleasure in the spark of her eye, her dear granddaughter. "Thank you for coming, my dear. I know how you value your training."

"It was over anyways," Nymeria smirked, taking a seat across from the older woman. "You wished to speak to me, grandmother?"

Deria gave a sigh, tapping her cane against the travertine floor of the solar. "My grandmother, they said, used to tell me as a young child that she endured twenty years of maesters and healers that she had but a year to live. Each time, when a year passed she had them banished for quackery." The Princess of Dorne let out a chuckle.

Nymeria giggled. "Definitely a scion of the Rhoynish Princess, she was." 'The Old Toad' she was called for her ugliness even when young, but the bastard of House Martell was rather convinced that the vain and insecure men only voiced such a name out of jealousy and spite. Much like grandmother or I.

"Aye. A lesser woman would have capitulated to the dragon."

"Like the Starks did."

Deria gave her granddaughter a lecturing frown. "The northmen were able to usurp their betters by humbling themselves. They now have immense power and dragons of their own." If they wanted to assert their own independence they were only a few generations away from having such power - more than any other kingdom that submitted to the Targaryens. "Never underestimate the wisdom of conceding when you are weaker, lest you fall into supreme arrogance as some have."

Nodding, Nymeria knew just what her grandmother referred to. Cousin Mors. The child of Deria's deceased eldest son, he was the heir to Sunspear and had a huge chip on his shoulder.

"In any case, dear granddaughter, I now have become aware of how she must've felt."

Nymeria blinked, suddenly apprehensive. "What are you saying?"

A small smile appeared on Deria's face. "The maesters have informed me that I shall soon depart for the afterlife. Malignancy of the bladder."

"I hope you told them where they could stick Defiance."

Deria chuckled. "That would be a sight to see, but I am afraid that they are right. I am dying, it is my time."

Each word felt like a spear to her heart. Nymeria's mother had died giving birth to her, and Deria raised her ever since. "No. I don't believe you."

"Granddaughter, I'm sorry to drop this in your lap so quickly but you must calm." Nymeria took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. "I am dying, and with it dies all that is keeping Dorne at peace."

She sniffled. "What do you mean?"

"Your cousin, he sees the death of Aegon Targaryen as an opportunity. As does Lord Wyl."

"Lord Wyl?" Now that the Sand Snake thought about it, Mors had been traveling west more and more frequently… which was strange because he considered most of the Stony Dornish to be Andal 'yokels.' "They mean to declare war on the Targaryens?"

"It is perceived that Crown Prince Aenys is weak. I believe such perceptions, but those around him are not and the dragons have doubled since the Wroth." She leaned forward. "We were lucky to survive the last invasion. They were unprepared and our forces scored the shot of the millennia in taking down Meraxes. Something we are not likely to obtain again… but your cousin is dead set on war at Lord Wyl's instigation."

Nymeria listened, years of pride in the strength of her people being phrased in a different context. One she understood, while others would reject outright. "What do you wish for me to do, grandmother?"

Her evening meal, normally taken in the main hall with her various companions and friends, was eaten alone that night. Her grandmother's words were still ringing into her head like a throbbing ache. Nymeria was in a daze as she retired to her quarters, shutting the door and unclipping Defiance from her waist.

"It went badly, did it not?"

The voice coming from her bed registered seconds later for Nymeria. She replied with a grunt, gingerly setting down the finely crafted Valyrian steel scimitar upon its mount on the wall.

A snicker. "That badly, it seems?" Her dear companion, the favorite of her many boon favorites, shook her head. "What? Did your grandmother decide to ship you to the border? I actually wouldn't mind that as long as it's by the Torrentine."

Nymeria grunted again. "You would think that, harlot."

"Oh, you're one to throw around such an insult." Sitting up in the bed, Clarisse Dayne placed her hands on her hips - unintentionally drawing greater prominence to her bust, on display in the rather skimpy nightgown she wore. Likely not unintentionally, it seemed. "I know for a fact the various men and women that grace this bed when I am not at court."

"As far as I'm concerned, Clari, unless the Faith has allowed marriages between the fairer sex, there really is nothing keeping me from inviting others into my bed at my pleasure." She removed her outer robe, then dropped her trousers. All that was left was a form-fitting tunic, in which she sat on the bed next to her paramour - unofficially of course. "And no, I am not being banished." Her voice dropped its teasing lilt. "Grandmother says she's dying."

The twinkle in Clarisse's eyes disappeared, hardening into something more serious. "Oh." She pursed her lips. "How soon will your cousin hand over the Principality to Lord Wyl, then?"

If there was anyone truly politically astute in Sunspear, it was the heir of Starfall. "I'm surprised he won't just declare Wyl the Prince of Dorne so he can spend all his time fighting the Targaryens." Nymeria shook her head, pulling her legs onto the bed so she could lay down. "I love my cousin…"

"You think you should love your cousin," Clarisse corrected. "He's an arrogant asshole with delusions of grandeur."

Nymeria narrowed her eyes, but nodded. "Aye. He's got his head in the clouds thinking we can get a proper revenge on the dragons." She grunted something unintelligible. "The Wroth nearly destroyed us. A few more moons and we'd have broken."

Clarisse laid down next to her, taking Nymeria in her arms against the swell of her chest. Her heartbeat was quite soothing. "None who truly experience war ever hold realistic expectations of it. Tis why the most warlike of the sunset kingdoms never sought out battles. It was always the greedy or the proud that did so."

"Suppose we are the latter."

"I was referring to the Reach, but it applies to us as well." Nymeria gave her a sour look at the comparison, to which Clarisse found amusing. "You need not worry right this moment, sweet one. Your grandmother is still alive, and shall be for many more moons. Such gives you time, and I'll be here to make sure it's used wisely."

A grin. "I'm sure we'll find enjoyable ways to endure the tedious moments." Nymeria pressed a kiss to her lover's neck. "A pity. Soon we'll have to find husbands and this will have to end."

Clarisse pushed Nymeria to the bed, assuming the superior position. Usually the Sand Snake dominated, but after her heady day it was clear she needed to relax. "Who said they couldn't share?" She slid down her body. "If we bat our eyes and say, pretty please, they likely would."

"Certainly works for us now… oh… yes…" All other thoughts disappeared.

The Sept of Remembrance was filled with light. Candles burned brightly, joining with the sunlight streaking through the high windows in the rafters to bathe the antechamber in a glow of white and yellow. A chorus filled the chamber with beautiful music fitting for the day.

A day in which the new King would finally be crowned. A new page in the history of Westeros being written at the very moment.

Crown Prince Aenys Targaryen walked towards the altar. Shorn of the armor of his father, he wore a purple and red doublet inlaid with rubies and emeralds. A massive purple coronation robe was draped over his shoulders, the train reaching back nearly fifteen feet and emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of his house. He looked the mighty peacemaker, without the embellishments of war that so adored the conquerors his parents had been.

Truly a new age.

Surrounding him, bowing their heads in reverence, were the various Lords of the Realm. Ronnel Arryn and Loren Lannister. Theo Tyrell and Edmyn Tully. Manfred Hightower and Daeron Qoherys. Lord Hand Torrhen Stark and the Prince's own uncle Orys Baratheon. In the front were the royal family and the Most Devout, both bowing respectfully. Princess Rhaenys and her children, the future Queen-Consort Alyssa Velaryon and the children of the Prince. Prince Maegor and Princess Ceryse - and finally Dowager Queen Visenya, who shot her son a smile. 'I am proud of you, my son,' she mouthed, to which Aenys nodded.

"Lords of Westeros," stated Hugor. "Today, in the sight of the Seven who are One, we gather to consecrate the new ruler of Westeros. As the light of our King Aegon Targaryen, first of his name, has been extinguished yet another shall assume his mantle. To carry forth the will of the Father upon this earth." He took a deep breath, enduring this charade for the sake of the greater good. "Aenys of House Targaryen, please step forth in the light of the Holy Seven."

Thick robes heavy on his shoulders, Aenys nevertheless advanced to the altar. Dressed as a proper highborn noble and shorn of the scaled armor of a dragonlord conqueror, he looked the King of Peace he wished to be. "I present myself before the Seven," he announced.

Walking to where Murmison waited to the side, Hugor picked up the crown. Gone was the Valyrian steel circlet of rubies worn by the Lords of Dragonstone prior to Aegon's ascension. The new crown was of yellow gold, inlaid with the faces of the Seven in jade and pearl - a crown reminiscent of the one worn by Hugor of the Hill as he forged a united kingdom of the Andals - a proper crown for the ruler of these lands. It was perverted on the head of the dragonspawn but they would just need to bide their time.

Taking the crown in his hand, he approached the kneeling Prince. "Aenys of House Targaryen," he began. "Do you accept the mantle of your father, Aegon, First of His Name, and the solemn responsibility to serve as King? To protect and defend your subjects till your dying breath, and carry on the legacy of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men?

"Till my dying breath," came Aenys' reply, calm but steady.

Holding up the crown for everyone to see, Hugor lowered it to rest upon the silver locks of a the Targaryen King. "I now proclaim Aenys of the House Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." Hugor bowed as Aenys rose. "Long may he reign!"

"LONG MAY HE REIGN!" boomed the crowd, all falling to their knees before the new King.

Modest as always, Aenys bid them to rise. "My friends, honored Lords of the Realm, I hope not to seek to replace the good deeds of my father. Merely to continue his quest to bring prosperity and peace to the realm of Westeros. For too long has violence wreathed our peoples, Andals against First Men, Reachmen against Stormlanders, the Ironborn against those of the Trident. With the power of the Seven who are One behind me, I pledge to end this strife and bring a land of milk and honey to fruition, as promised in the Seven-Pointed Star."

Standing next to her son and daughter, gazing upon the last reminder of Rhae she had left in the world, Visenya could feel a coldness seeping in her. An ominous feeling at what her son was saying. His noble intentions she couldn't deny… but were they right? Were they the proper solution? She couldn't know, but feared the worst.

But her son did manage to surprise her sometimes, and definitely inherited Rhae's flair for the dramatic. "But I shan't possibly accomplish this alone. My father, the greatest man Westeros hath ever known, couldn't amass such a feat - the Iron Throne was forged not by his own flames, but the flames of himself and my mothers, one of whom blesses all of us with her presence today." He smiled warmly at Visenya, taking her hands in his and kissing her cheek. "I cannot hope to claim I can accomplish what my father could never, and I won't." He approached his brother, clasping his shoulder. "Prince Maegor."

Maegor blinked. "Your Grace?"

Aenys beamed. "My father, King Aegon, presented you with Blackfyre because he saw greatness in you, a greatness I also see."

What are you doing? The thought was simultaneous, both in the mind of Maegor and in the newly-christened Queen Consort Alyssa. The former worried about his brother showing weakness, while the latter additionally feared a rising influence of the younger Prince.

But the pleasing King had a stubborn streak buried deep inside him, and nothing would deter him that day. "Blackfyre, the sword of our father and of the Lords of Dragonstone before him has been called by the bards to be the sword of Kings. By rights it should be mine, but I am not fit to wield the great blade. It is yours, brother, yours to achieve the greatness I know is in your blood."

"Your Grace… I am undeserving of such an honor…"

"Nonsense! You are a Prince and my brother!" The newly-crowned King hugged Maegor close, kissing both his cheeks. "The sons of our father, proclaiming his legacy far and wide to the glory of all the peoples of Westeros!"

Stunned at the pronouncement, all the Prince could do was bow his head. He drew Blackfyre, kneeling upon the ground. "My sword is yours to command, my King. I am your faithful servant."

But Aenys pulled him up, laughing merrily. His next words made Alyssa's blood boil while warming Visenya's heart. "We shall rule this Realm together, you and I! No deed is nigh impossible for the great dragonriders of House Targaryen!"

"Long live House Targaryen!" cried out Lord Orys Baratheon, praising his nephews with a wide smile.

"LONG MAY THEY REIGN! LONG MAY THEY REIGN! LONG MAY THEY REIGN!"

Two sets of fists silently clenched, minds already whirring. This was going to be much harder than they thought.

Chapter Text

Not much could please Lord Lucas Harroway.

Food and drink were merely sustenance.

Gold was better served procuring things of need.

Women were more dangerous than pleasing.

Battle afforded only death rather than glory… and besides, he was never martially inclined. Lord Lucas was a talker, a weaver of words. Such was his strength, not the sword - something his father had always looked down on him for.

Well father, you're dead now and I'm in your place. Your 'weak boy' shall bring glory to us all.

Power pleased him.

Influence pleased him.

Seeing his daughter Alys trailing close behind Princess Rhaena among her companions as he walked through the halls of King Aenys Targaryen's manse pleased him quite greatly. Stunning to the man that raised them, but quiet little Alys was turning out to be his most valuable child. I should show her more affection as a reward for succeeding.

Who knew, it could spur his other children to aim higher and claw up a few more rungs. If there was anything he hated it was listlessness and torpor.

Ser Olyver Bracken marked the King's solar - had Harroway not known his way around the place, the white-cloaked Kingsguard would've given it away. His helm was off, exposing the balding head and bushy beard. "Harroway," he said with condescension. "Don't you have an inn to run?"

"Don't you have a horse to breed?" Harroway shot back. "Most likely by yourself?" Seeing Ser Olyver grow red with rage at the comment, he laughed to himself. Brackens were too easy to piss off and every Riverman knew it. Probably why the Faith hadn't truly gone after the Blackwoods. "Enough, I'm not here to waste time with the likes of you. The King is expecting me."

"His Grace is busy."

Lucas scowled. "I was told by Lord Hand Stark and Lord Qoherys that he was to see me at half till sunset… I am here as bidden."

"Like I said," Ser Olyver replied, smirking. "He is busy. Begone."

Before Lucas could respond with another scathing retort the door opened to reveal Lord Ronnel Arryn, ever dashing in his sky-blue doublet. While he had a wife, he didn't discriminate upon the status of any woman whom he fancied… at least such was what Lucas heard. The Arryn Lord recognized him immediately. "Ah, Lord Lucas, just who his Grace wished to see after myself. Go on, enter."

He shot a shit-eating grin to Ser Olyver, who silently glared. "I enjoyed our talk on horse-breeding, Bracken." Lucas swore he heard a vile insult muttered his way, but was too amused to care. Such amusement was immediately covered up and replaced with a respectful mask as he laid eyes on the King. "Your Grace." Lucas bent the knee.

Aenys was seated at his desk, gilded crown resting on a pillow off to the side. His hair was free-flowing, beard trimmed and looking pleasant. "Lord Lucas, please, sit down." He gestured to the chair. "I am glad to see you again. How are your wife and children?"

"They are fine, your Grace," Lucas stated, taking a seat.

"That Alys… she's such a dear. My Rhaena is so fond of her." Aenys sighed in sentimental joy.

Weak fool. But weak fools had their uses. "I am glad she can provide companionship to the Princess." Lucas was proud of himself for sounding so… amiable to someone he clearly didn't respect.

A minor Lord from the Riverlands, from the moment he watched his father bow and scrape before the frumpy old Black Harren for time to pay his taxes was the moment ambition burned hot inside Lucas Harroway. Never again would he allow such indignity to fall on his family. Years had passed as he scraped and toiled for Lord Qoherys' favor, and then more years scraped at junior posts within court. His blood - old and noble but not of the highest order - had carried him into the game but it was Lucas' own fortitude and intelligence that got him this far.

Lord Daeron had promised much and Lucas planned on collecting. "Forgive me, your Grace, but I was told by Lord Qoherys that he recommended me for a task?"

"Down to business, I suppose? Tis' fine, I can admire that. My brother is much the same way." Prince Maegor. He was one worthy of respect, whether rival or ally. " The Iron Bank of Braavos loaned a large sum of coin to us in order to finance the start of construction of the Dragonpalace."

"How much, if I may ask, your Grace?" Lucas bowed his head.

"Five-hundred thousand gold dragons… in addition to the million gold dragons the Crown also owes them and the Rogare Bank of Lys." Wars cost money. They were still paying off the debt of the Dragon's Wroth.

Lucas clicked his tongue. "That is a substantial amount, your Grace… but what would you have me do?"

He sighed. "The bank seems to think that I may not have the same trustworthiness as my father, so they're seeking to call in the loan in full. The treasury has enough to pay it in one lump sum but it would bankrupt us for future projects." I wonder why they wouldn't think you trustworthy. Aenys was an honest man, but even someone less than Lucas could see he was weak and indecisive. "I need someone to go there and negotiate a new structure for the loan. Lord Daeron recommended you from your work in finally putting to bed Black Harren's debts."

The Lord had done that. "He is kind, your Grace." Lucas thought about it quickly. It was a rather simple task but one the non-martial Aenys would appreciate more than battle. There was little chance of failure, Lucas figured. "I live to serve, and accept your humble offer, my King."

"Splendid!"

Another rung climbed on the ladder.

The chamber of the Holy Council was one of the few more modestly decorated rooms of the Starry Sept and adjoining palace complex. Only used by the leaders of the Faith, it needed not the gilded paneling or intricate murals that so graced the rest of the sept. But there was plenty of light from the windows above, and it was properly painted and swept of dust and filth. Not an unpleasant place to meet.

Raising his head, High Septon Hugor Flowers finished his blessings of the bread and refreshments the servants - novice Septas - had brought in for them. "Alright, under the light of the Father, shall we begin?"

Gathered in the chamber besides Hugor were ten others. Seven septons of the Most Devout, instantly recognizable by their cloth-of-silver vestments and crystal coronals. It was a varying group of men but all had two things in common. Each had given their entire lives to the Faith from a young age just as Hugor did… and all were personally appointed by the High Septon in his six years since ascending to the title.

All were loyal, and all were of a like mind on the issues that mattered.

"Is it true?" asked Archsepton Karol, a gaunt man with baggy robes. "Is the dragon dead?"

Hugor nodded. "He is." Karol was their lead in spiritual matters, and thus spent most of his time confined in his personal sept in some sort of fast. Matters of the outside world paid little matter to him lest it was needed.

"Visenya Targaryen isn't dead," stated Ser Morgan Hightower, Grand Captain of the Holy Guard - Hugor's personal unit of the Warrior's Sons - and youngest brother of Princess Ceryse. He loved his sister, but hated her marriage to the dragons. "Her exploits are legendary, and I would observe she is a more powerful warrior than the late King."

That drew chuckles. "A woman triumphing over a man. Ha!" Archsepton Martyn laughed. "We have all heard of her exploits, but that was on dragonback… or plying a child. Nothing that any non-addled person could accomplish."

"It is never wise to underestimate anyone, Archsepton," stated Archmaester Goodwyn, Seneschal of the Citadel. His chains were heavy and gilded, befitting his station as a highly learned man. The rather unassuming, handsome features belied a ruthless mind… it was why Hugor liked him. "Where is Queen Visenya, as of now?"

Clearing his throat, Barth spoke up - the youngest man there but seated directly to the right of the High Septon himself. A showing of the greatest respect. "Queen Visenya has largely departed for Dragonstone to mourn, Archsepton."

A snort. "Weak woman," muttered Archsepton Boniface, his crooked nose only highlighting the disdain in his eyes.

Barth ignored the comment. "She has travelled a few times to consult with King Aenys when he requests it, but largely she's busied herself with… spiritual matters."

"And what would those be? I hardly think that she'd be in the Sept more than necessary," stated ser Morgan.

"Valyrian spirituality, Grand Captain. Blood magic and the dark arts."

Boniface snarled. "We must trumpet this across the land! Demand that the abomination King surrender his vile mother for trial before the sight of the Seven!" Karol, Martyn, and a few others voiced their approval, while Goodwyn rolled his eyes, Morgan shook his head, and Barth sucked in a breath.

Hugor's word was law though. "We are not doing that, Boniface." The man looked crestfallen but stayed silent. He owed Hugor everything and was loyal… if loud. "Remember that title for King Aenys, for we can use that later… but as of now our entire position must include and outward display of loyalty for the Crown all the while we prepare."

"Prepare? We've already been training and expanding our ranks?"

"Take what you have and double it, Ser Morgan… and coordinate with the banners of those Lords you believe to be loyal. We will operate under a unified command structure as those that fought the dragons should've." Perhaps his father would still live had there been a grand resistance. "Meanwhile, Barth will be travelling and I request that the Citadel and Holy Sisters supply someone of stature to join him."

The only woman in the room, Archsepta Larella kept silent through the whole discussion. She was a hard-faced woman that nevertheless remained slender through her years in the Faith. Apart from Boniface and perhaps Karol, she was also the most committed to the cause. "What sort of Septa would you like me to make available to Barth?"

"Someone smart… and one that can spot another smart or competent person regardless of baser desires. We will need to get more talent than we currently have if we are to reclaim our place in the sun."

"Your Holiness," spoke a young guard at the door. "The visitor from Highgarden is in your solar."

Hugor's eyes perked up with a sparkling warmth that was rarely seen in those that knew him. "Wonderful, wonderful!" He rose, the rest of the Most Devout rising with him. "Continue without me. The rest is tedious and in no need of my presence. I must see to this."

They all bowed as he hurried off. "Your Holiness."

There was a spring in Hugor's step, bounding across the tiled floors three at a time in an almost youthful exuberance. Growing up a strong, clever lad that was nevertheless more drawn to the Seven-Pointed Star and the histories of the world rather than the sword, lance, or horse, he hadn't been shunned by his family but true bonds were hard to come by. His father was an accomplished knight and warrior King, and his half-brothers all inclined that way as well.

But one person of the royal household of House Gardener matched Hugor Flowers in his intelligence and devotion, the person that waited for him in his solar. The guards drew open his doors and let him in, revealing the visitor to his eager eyes. "Vivienne," Hugor announced, laughing like the happy youth he had once been.

Rising from her seat, Lady Vivienne Gardener threw open her arms and accepted the wide hug of her half-brother. "Never change, Hugor, never change." Three years his senior, the decades had added lines to her face, turned her hair grey, and left her with a cane but she was just as dignified and purposeful as she had been when their father rode off to his death at the Field of Fire. "They told me you were in a meeting with the Most Devout, you needn't have cut that short for me."

"Pfft," Hugor dismissed. "Those old farts can get along decently enough without me. Barth and Ser Morgan can keep them in line."

"Old farts?" Vivienne looked him over, raven's feet on the edge of her eyes deepening with her wry frown. "Last I've looked, we both fit that category."

Hugor raised his brow. "Now now, they say you're only as aged as you feel, so therefore I'm five and twenty." She didn't change her expression, and it wore him down. "Alright, five and thirty." Everytime he was with his half-sister, it felt as if they were back home in Highgarden - before the dragons torched their family and brought their tyranny and wroth. It… was bittersweet for both of them to varying degrees. Hugor wouldn't let seeing his sister after so long be torched by those memories. "How are you, dear sister? How's Theo?"

Vivienne sighed. "He's lucid. Been bedridden since arriving back in Highgarden from the coronation. The maester says he'll live to see the next harvest, but after…" She trailed off, biting her lip.

He shook his head. "Maesters. I deal with them daily. They aren't as smart as they say they are." He liked Theo. The lad made his sister happy and did his best to preserve the Gardener legacy, even if he was a loyal Warden for the Targaryens. It was how he and Vivienne survived. You soon won't have to continue, dear sister.

Taking his hand in hers, Vivienne gave Hugor a smile. "We all pass on to the afterlife, my brother. Theo's accepted it, as will I when the time comes. He's said his blessings in the sept and in the godswood."

To this Hugor frowned. "I hope this is finally the time that I manage to convince you to the true path, dear sister."

She smirked at him. "Nice try, Hugh. You couldn't do that when we were at our second decade and you can't do that now." Shockingly, almost scandalously for a highborn Princess of House Gardener and now Lady of House Tyrell, Vivienne kept the old gods. She prayed in the godswood like a northern barbarian, insisting on the customs of House Gardener of old. Most senior people in court knew of this, as did Hugor - he managed to keep it a secret from his handpicked Most Devout. Morrigan would use it against me, while Boniface would probably try and have her excommunicated. "You look troubled, brother. What's wrong?"

Blinking, Hugor shook his head. "No, all is fine. More than fine, sister."

Vivienne merely raised a brow. "What is it that you are planning?" She knew him well - better than any man or woman alive. She could read him even when he was at his best at deception.

"Nothing. Just celebrating the ascension of our new King." He didn't wish to bother her with his plans. Soon they would happen and soon she would be free.

But Vivienne didn't need to be privy to them to understand what he was up to. "Brother," she sighed. "I love you with all my heart. You are the last of my blood other than my children and the only bit of our family left… and I am asking you to simply let your bitterness go."

"What do you mean?"

"Please don't play stupid, I know you." It had been something she'd wrestled with, having been allowed to marry Theo and essentially ruling the castle her father ruled as King, but the dragons had also killed the entire male line of House Gardener. She held hate in her heart for so long, but years ago it simply vanished and she was all the better for it. "The dragons are here to stay. There isn't getting rid of them, unless you want rivers of blood."

Rivers of traitor blood or martyr blood. "No one wants that, sister." Technically true. I don't want any blood spilled but that of the dragons. "You simply have to trust me to do what is right."

Looking into his eyes, Vivienne nodded. "I trust you, Hugor."

He clapped his hands. "Excellent!" He rose, tugging her to his feet. "Now come with me. There's an interesting new invention from Volantis that has come to my attention. They call it a 'printing press' and I absolutely must show it to you." Holding her hand, Hugor guided her from the room, the two of them laughing and chatting as if nothing had transpired.

"Again!"

Sweat drenching her forehead - to the point where the salty droplets stung at her eyes and coated her lips - Rhaena nevertheless refused to break. Her muscles had long since replaced soreness with numbness, and by this fiftieth repeat of her basic swordsplay she could move without feeling like her arms and legs were being ripped apart from the inside. Lips pursed in a pensive line, she advanced forward in the correct order against an imaginary attacker. Block, shove, knee, slash, crouch, twirl, slash…

"Stop!" Ser Gawen Corbray gave her one of his two expressions, namely exasperation - the other was a gruff disgust. "You did it wrong. Again!"

Alright, this was starting to get to her. "What, mayhaps, did I get wrong this time?" Previously she could admit to herself - never to another - to some small imperfection in her form. But this time it was perfect. "I did exactly as you showed."

Ser Gawen looked at her as if she were an idiot. "Exactly, you did. Which is wrong."

She blinked. "That doesn't make any sense!"

Sighing, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, Ser Gawen proceeded to explain to the dear Princess - loved and treated with respect and admiration by all - exactly what was wrong in a tone that considered her a cross between a functional manchild and a silly girl. "Do you see me, Princess?" The title was not said in respect, but in condescension. "My thick arms and my powerful chest. My tall form. I can overpower my opponents quite well. You though…" he gestured to her, shaking his head.

Rhaena was affronted by that. "And what is wrong with me? Everyone says I'm gorgeous."

That made Corbray laugh. "If ye' want a life of pretty dresses and dancing and skipping around in the meadows then you have nothing to worry about. But you want to be a swordswoman like the Queen… you don't have my strength or even her strength so start acting like it."

She tried not to explode into anger… Ser Gawen hadn't shown any reluctance to discipline her as he would his own child. But it was still unfair. Her grandmother had been the most demanding teacher but she had learned plenty enough to be a skilled swordswoman. But after Maegor rather quickly mopped the floor with her before grandfather's death, Ser Gawen scrapped all that she had once learned and started from scratch. It was infuriating.

He didn't care about her feelings - Ser Gawen knew she would never quit and then used it to his advantage. "Now, get back to it."

"Can we at least use an actual metal sword?" Her wooden one was just embarrassing. She felt nine namedays.

"No."

Ugh… "I have Dark Sister as mine," she muttered.

He heard her. "You don't deserve Dark Sister, or any blade, until you get it right. Now." He clapped his hands. "Again! But less strength, more speed!" Huffing, Rhaena calculated the change in movements and began again.

That 'again' turned into another hour of drills and counterdrills, Ser Gawen having so wonderfully persuaded her uncle Maegor to persuade her father to block off her entire afternoon to train. Finally, as nightfall set over King's Landing, Rhaena bonelessly rested in her large bath. Her head lolled back as the soap formed a sudsy layer atop the superheated water. Finally, her aching body obtained some relief.

Hands kept well away from the ceramic amphora of water, Alys Harroway scrunched her nose at the steaming water she poured into the bath. "I've known of baths being comforting after a long day's work, but this is more akin to boiling a crab."

Rhaena's cousin Larissa snorted, blowing a strand of hair from her forehead as she lounged about against the wall. "Welcome to dealing with the dragons, my dear Alys. They can't burn, so they like their baths hotter than the fourteen flames."

Alys was glad to set down the warm pottery, taking her seat next to Larissa. "I suppose that makes sense."

The scene would have struck someone that only knew Rhaena before Dreamfyre as quite odd and out of character - the Princess bathing while her favorites were gathered around the tub chatting and passing gossip. All but her were clothed, and it was as if a normal tea in the gardens rather than some pimply boy's fantasy. Everyone was present except Elissa Farman, who had traveled back to Fair Isle much to Rhaena's displeasure, Tyanna, who was with Visenya on Dragonstone, and Samantha… who was somewhere that no one knew.

Looking at the exhausted Rhaena, Alayne Royce knotted her brows. "Can you even move?"

Rhaena cast her a glare, but she barely managed to lift her arm out of the heated bathwater before she grimaced and dropped it back in. "Apparently not, Alayne."

"This is perverse. You shouldn't be run ragged simply to learn swordsplay. Gawen Corbray is torturing you."

"He taught my uncle and he's amazing. I can't learn from anyone better."

"Didn't your uncle learn from Lord Torrhen's bastard brother?" Alys asked. When Rhaena nodded, she continued. "Wouldn't that mean he learned from him rather than Ser Gawen?"

A snort from Rhaena. "From what uncle Maegor tells me of him, he'd likely train me just as hard and then make me live in a hovel in the mud without anything but jerky and snowmelt for food and drink. Ser Gawen at least lets me live as a Princess."

Larissa laughed. "Fuck, you're all sorts of screwed. Specially since you gotta learn it all over again cause of your strength problem." Catching Alayne's eyes, the two of them burst into giggles that Rhaena didn't appreciate.

While Alys was lost in any discussion of arms or swordsplay, the new girl in the room wasn't. "Don't make light. Ser Gawen is absolutely fucking right in doing this." Nonchalantly eating an unpeeled apple, Melony Piper was as uncharacteristically highborn as her blood made her to be. Sister of the Lord of Pinkmaiden and the youngest of four siblings - all of them boys - she towered over the other girls of Rhaena's clique. At least half-a-head taller than Alys, the previous tallest, and instead of the willowy build was toned and athletic. Someone who could go toe to toe with a man in the sparring ground. Ironically, that was where she and Rhaena met and hit it off. "You're too tiny to go off trying to beat someone into submission, Princess."

"I'm well aware, Melony, thank you." Rhaena had been beaten down enough by her uncle and Ser Gawen to learn that lesson. "I wish I was as strong as you or Visenya."

"You shouldn't." Melony brushed a strand of hair behind her ears. "I may have a pretty face, but no one likes a woman that looks powerful. Be lucky for your fair and innocent Valyrian features… they'll disarm a man quite quickly… or a woman if they're so inclined." She chuckled.

"Are you so inclined?" asked Alayne, brow raised.

Melony snorted. "Wouldn't you like to know. Why? Would you like to go for a tumble?" Even Alys was giggling at the embarrassed flush of Alayne's cheeks at the comment.

Luckily for the poor Royce, the door to the bathchamber flew open and in walked… no, glided Samantha. She practically danced over the tiles, humming a cheery tune. "Oh what fresh hells is this?" muttered Larissa, burying her face in her hands.

Rhaena rolled her eyes - all her favorites had a flair for the dramatic. One of the reasons she liked them. "Samantha, what's got you so happy?"

"You won't believe it!" The girl was probably fairer than even Rhaena, golden blonde hair and pale complexion - it made for a pretty combination alongside brown eyes. "I've been betrothed to the most handsome man in the world."

"Maegor's taking a second wife?" said Melony with a straight face. Rhaena felt a surge of jealousy at the jape - Melony was kidding, but still. If anyone has him it's me. Gods, she was ashamed at how little shame she felt at such a thought.

"You're marrying Prince Aegon?" Some eyes were drawn to a blushing Alys.

But Samantha shook her head. "No, none of them can hold a candle to my beloved." She swooned, rising on the balls of her feet. "I am to be the Lady of White Harbor - the most beautiful place in the world."

"White Harbor?" Rhaena remarked. "You're to marry Ser Theomore Manderly?" At Samantha's nod, she pondered that. He is pretty comely and a good warrior. From what Larissa said he knew his way around a boat - a supreme compliment from a Velaryon. "Well I'm happy for you, Samantha, though I shall greatly miss you."

Alayne was incredulous. "You know White Harbor is fucking cold, right?"

Samantha grinned. "All that means is that I must use my husband for warmth." It was said sweetly, but no one missed the ribald undertone - surprising, coming from Samantha. From her cheeky grin, it was clear she meant it.

"Have you ever actually done that?" Melony remarked. "At least, something like that?"

"No, not at all. I am a virtuous woman," Samantha insisted.

"There are things you can do without giving your maidenhead. I mean there are things you don't even need a man to do." That made Samantha blush, which drew a laugh. "Me, I'm gonna wait a bit before settling down. You?"

Alyane thought for a moment. "Probably the same. There's no rush and my family isn't in need of any alliances yet." If that changed, she'd cross that bridge when she got to it.

"Opposite problem over here," Larissa sighed.

"Same," was all Alys said on the matter.

"So, that just leaves the Princess here." Melony looked closely at Rhaena. "You're the most beautiful of all of us and a literal wet dream for any man. Who're you gonna marry and when?"

Looking down at the bathwater, Rhaena bit her lip. It was a heady question - one that for now didn't have a happy ending in sight. "I always figured I'd have to marry Egg… my brother. Bloodlines pure and all that."

"Doesn't sound like you want to?"

She shook her head. "No, I fear my heart has…" Did she want to tell them? Did she trust them? Yes, I trust them all. "My heart has been taken by someone I can never have, nor do I think would ever love me back."

It took a moment for them to realize it. "Oh," spoke Alayne. The others were quiet, even Melony. Wishing for the exhaustion and aching over this feeling, Rhaena simply sunk further into the bathwater.

Nothing could be a better source of bonding than a shared dragonride. It deepened the love between husbands and wives, he had so seen this every time his parents departed on dragonback and returned with all smiles. It solidified the bond between parent and child - Maegor had never felt closer to his kepa than when Aegon took him on Balerion together. And now, gripping Balerion's spines as they gently dove towards the cliffs of King's Landing, Maegor looked over at Aenys atop Quicksilver not fifty feet off the Black Dread's wingtip and felt a new connection between him and his older brother.

He was the King, and Maegor was his brother and councilor. They needed such a solid, seamless relationship after so many years apart. The fact they were both eager to build it was but a delightful bonus.

'You're getting better, valonqar,' he heard Balerion say to him, a large wingbeat slowing his descent.

"Thank you, brother," Maegor replied. "It helps when you have a proper teacher doing most of the work."

A trill. 'Flattery will get you places.' While Arrax took the cake, Balerion was quite the preener with an ego to match. He loved getting it stroked. Oh, how the Citadel would bristle at the thought dragons have personalities. Grand Maester Gawen was many things, but he held no love for the magical arts when he gave lessons to Maegor's nephews and nieces.

Beating his wings faster at Maegor's direction, Balerion began to slow to a hover over the ground. Blades of grass danced with each flap of the immense wings. Air swirled about like a northern blizzard but Maegor held firm, he and his kepa's mount - now his - slowly eased themselves to the ground… jolting only slightly when the wings folded and the rear talons dropped to the surface. "I am getting the hand of this," Maegor chuckled, beginning to dismount. Blackfyre jangled by his side.

The Prince went nowhere without it.

Letting out a sigh of contentment as he leapt on the ground, Maegor looked to find Balerion curving his neck till his snout was close. The Prince smiled and stroked the warm scales. "We make a good team, you and I."

Balerion growled softly. 'In my centuries, I have never picked a rider unsuited for me.' His amber eyes twinkled. 'Time will tell if you are the exception.'

Maegor raised a brow. "Is that a challenge?"

'You tell me.' Balerion followed up by snorting a blast of hot air into Maegor's face. He could've sworn the dragon was grinning at him before he curled his head the other way to speak with Quicksilver. Cheeky firebreathers.

Brushing the wrinkles and flutters out of his crimson cloak, Maegor was greeted by Aenys… who threw his arms around his little brother in a crushing hug. "You are a natural at this, Maegor!" Ever sentimental… Maegor loved Aenys for it, always brought laughter and joy wherever he went. "For a moment I thought for sure it was poppa riding Balerion."

Sighing, Maegor nodded. "Feels surreal, riding kepa's dragon. At one point I think I shouldn't be there… yet another feels as if it's all meant to be."

"I feel the same way with the Iron Throne." Smiling softly, the King wrapped an arm round his brother's shoulder and led him back towards the Dragonpalace. He may have been slender, but Aenys was only a quarter head shorter than the towering Maegor. "There is something I wish to speak with you about, brother."

He gave his brother a curious look. "You mean to tell me that your idea for a dragonride was to butter me up and not a loving gesture between brothers?" Maegor asked with a mummer's outrage.

Aenys appeared affronted. "No, not at all!" It took a few moments before he chuckled. "Well, perhaps a bit."

"Just let it out, Aenys. You're boring me."

Thoughtful but sometimes indecisive, it took his brother's half-retort, half-bark to redirect Aenys back from the tangent. "Right… Alyssa and I have been going over the plans for our summit with the representatives of our trading partners and we've settled on inviting them for three moons from now."

"So soon? I'm impressed. Planning on letting the small council know on the morrow?" Aenys nodded. "Then why tell me now?"

"I need you to do another task for me."

Maegor blinked. "You want me out of the city?" Why did such scream to him of Alyssa pulling the strings? Godsdamn it, brother. Stand up for yourself.

As expected, the King moved to mollify him as best he could - ever the people pleaser. "No no, not that at all… I weighed the importance of you and Balerion to providing a powerful show of force now that Rhaenys has departed for Winterfell and muna is on Dragonstone, but Alyssa felt that your… run ins with the Three Daughters would ruffle the feathers of the Volentines."

"What do the Volentines have to do with this? They fucking conquored Lys and the others." Sure, Aenys could write their muna on Dragonstone and she'd come to lend Vhagar to the intimidation effort, but he was rankled at Alyssa's sabotage.

"Volantis is seeking to absorb them and consolidate their gains from what my whispers tell me and it would be wise not to antagonize them… but I was unsure of whether to do it till there was something else that came up."

"Oh? What of?"

Aenys sighed. "I've scheduled the first royal progress at the same time as the summit. Rhaena will helm it by journeying to Casterly Rock in my stead."

"Rhaena? She's still so young."

"I know." Aenys closed his eyes. "She may be my heir depending on which succession tradition I follow, so it's wise to expose her early… but she's my daughter and I need someone that I can trust to make sure she doesn't make any mistakes."

Now Maegor was following. "So that's me?" He was flattered, but things still didn't add up. "Why not wait until after the summit?"

His brother chafed in discomfort, the two of them stepping off the grass and onto the outer courtyard surrounding the great hall. "The Ironborn have called their banners."

"The Greyjoys? Fuck do they want?"

"No one knows for sure, but I want you in Casterly Rock in case they do something. A Royal Progress with you looking over Rhaena is a perfect excuse to send you there without ratcheting tensions." Aenys didn't tell his brother that Alyssa quickly shifted to oppose such a decision, but by then it was too late.

The King's attempts to please everyone oftentime just ended up pleasing no one.

Maegor was pleased though. Smart and thoughtful a decision, his brother made, and spending more time with dear Rhaena was something he never denied himself. "Who do you want me to bring in the know about this?"

"No one. Not even Rhaena or Ceryse."

"They'll be in harm's way if the Greyjoys do attack."

Aenys chuckled. "Well, I am sending Balerion the Black Dread to guard them." If there was any doubt that the King was the son of Aegon the Conqueror, such a comment blew it away.

Chapter Text

"Muna, do we have to do this?" Alaric whined as Rhaenys fixed the ties to his northern-style doublet. More practical than dressy as in the south, but with his black curls, purple eyes, and round face he still looked adorable.

Many highborns would have servants do this, but Rhaenys insisted on doing it personally. "One day you will be serving your cousins in King's Landing or your brother here, and when that is the case you will need to be ready to receive guests into your home or your keep."

"Yeah, Alec, don't be a baby," Aegon called out, throwing a leather ball up in the air.

"Quiet," Rhaenys snapped. "Don't tease your brother."

"I know this, muna… but Boltons bad people. I'd rather burn them with dragon."

"Burn with dragon, burn with dragon!" Little Saera darted about, holding her egg in her hands.

"Saera! Put that down!" Brandon walked in, absolutely gorgeous to Rhaenys in his armor. "That isn't a toy, and Alaric. You can't just hurt anyone cause you think they may be a threat."

He sighed. "Yes, kepa."

Walking to Rhaenys, he kissed her brow and hugged her. "I wish I could burn them with your dragon, though."

"Oh," she swatted him lightly. "You're such a square. Have a little excitement in your heart. We're making history here."

"I have something in my heart, certainly… more like indigestion." Rhaenys just rolled her eyes.

By the grace of the gods, the summer snows that plagued Winterfell this time in the seasons were nowhere to be found - nor were the torrential rains that left the ground in a state of muddy chaos. But as the horns blew and the gates opened the residents of Winterfell felt a sudden chill course through them. Feeling Brandon shudder beside her, Rhaenys took his hand in hers, weaving their fingers together. He squeezed it in lieu of a smile.

At the first glimpse of the Rogar's Cross sketched in the shape of a man decorating a banner, Rhaenys had knowledge of the deep enmity between House Bolton and House Stark. She wasn't nurtured with such a longstanding hate, mistrust, and fear deep in her bones as her husband and his people were for millennia.

Twice they overran Winterfell and twice the Starks reclaimed a burnt out husk of a keep. Even arriving in peace, all were wary.

To their credit, the Boltons marched into Winterfell without extensive show of force. Their infamous phalangites wore their shields behind their backs like turtles, merely carrying their sarissas in a loose, non-threatening manner. There only seemed to be about fifty of them, joined by over a hundred mounted cavalry and men-at-arms with swords sheathed. Not men drawn up for battle.

It should've reduced the tension, but Rhaenys could see few took the bait. She sighed. A lot more work to do, it seems.

Unlike most Lords that would insist on riding with the head of their column, Lord Rogar Bolton - the name of Rogar the Huntsman, the last of the Red Kings - was closer to the rear. Smart man. If the Starks were planning an ambush, they'd have to wait till his entire force was within the keep before having the chance to trap him.

But with Arrax flying above, any preparations they made would be futile… and from the wary looks on their faces the Bolton men knew that.

Lord Rogar himself was a tall man, lanky but not weak by any measure. Wavy black hair and a full yet non-bushy beard completed the look of a northern warrior, the flayed man-emblazoned gorget the only metal topping his boiled leather armor.

Dismounting from his horse, he was clearly not a man to be trifled with. Rhaenys knew his battle history, and witnessing him did little to contradict… but rather confirm it.

Before approaching them, however, Lord Rogar stilled next to a small palfrey. Atop was a young girl with red hair and a fair complexion. She giggled as Lord Rogar lifted her off with ease and set her beside him. A humanizing moment that made Rhaenys smile and Brandon begin to relax. The daughter we've spoken of? She'd soon found out.

"Lord Brandon," Rogar bowed, reaching the receiving line of Starks. "It is a shame that your father couldn't be here. I would've so much enjoyed seeing him again." His eyes were a milky blue, so light to appear translucent. Both warm and unsettling at the same time.

Brandon forced a smile, nodding his head to the Lord of the Dreadfort. "He sends his greetings from King's Landing, as well as the hope that you find our accommodations pleasing."

"But of course." Looking over at Rhaenys, he bowed again - this time lower. "Princess, you are just as beautiful as you were at your wedding, if not moreso." He took her hand and kissed the back of it.

She chuckled. "You are a flatterer, Lord Bolton. Keep it up." Playing the good Lady to the bad Lord of Brandon, she noticed her husband tense up, grey eyes flaring with jealousy. Keep it up for the bedchamber, my love… Rhaenys truly enjoyed it when the wolf came out to play. "Could your wife not make it, my Lord?"

Rogar shook his head. "Unfortunately not. She insisted on staying with my son Royce, make sure he didn't make any mistakes - first time ruling his future Lands, though I do not have to explain that to you, Lord Brandon."

"No, I do not." Besides the potentially condescending comments, 'Royce Bolton' was the name of both the Red Kings to sack Winterfell. A heady name, considering the history. A look from Rhaenys made him calm himself. "My children, Aegon, Alaric, and Saera."

"The famous dragonwolves, a wonderful mix of the two great bloodlines." He looked over Aegon. "You shall be a mighty Lord one day."

"As both my grandfathers were, Lord Bolton," he replied firmly.

"The enemies of your house will tremble for sure," replied Lord Bolton, his voice giving nothing away. The bat-like shape soaring overhead drew his attention. "Though I'm sure they tremble now, as well."

Rhaenys cut in with a smile. "Dear Arrax is my oldest child, and is quite friendly… unless one seeks to harm his family." The last was firm, contrasted with the still pleasant look on her face - her own form of sizing a person up. Her muna said it was the same skill that her namesake bore and she was proud of it.

To the confusion of some, Rogar merely laughed. "I give credit to Lord Torrhen, he knew what he was doing with the Pact of Ice and Fire. She is clearly worthy to be Lady of Winterfell one day."

"Hopefully that won't come anytime soon," Brandon added.

"No, I suppose not." Looking back, he motioned for the little girl from earlier to step forward. "Lord Stark, Princess, allow me to introduce my daughter Ryah."

The girl smiled, not a trace of the Bolton fierceness about her. "Greetings, Lord and Lady Stark," she said brightly.

Rhaenys bit back a giggle. Ryah Bolton reminded her of her niece Alysanne, and that was a supreme compliment. "It is an honor to meet you my dear." She leaned down, cupping the girl's face. "You do have the look of the Karstarks about you."

"My momma is a Kar-stark," she replied.

"I knew there was too much of a resemblance to be a coincidence." Rogar's wife was the sister of Allard Karstark, the current Lord of Karhold. Kin to the Starks, it gave some mollification to her and Brandon that the new generation of Boltons were more amenable to ally with than the older ones. "But let us leave this muggy weather for food and drink inside. We have set a proper feast for your arrival."

Lord Bolton nodded. "I can never say no to a feast." While some of the gathered household whispered more vicious variations of what a Bolton was likely to eat, most seemed slightly less off guard. This Rhaenys and Brandon did notice and found acceptable for her and Lord Torrhen's hopes for an alliance.

What Brandon didn't notice but Rhaenys did was how Alaric stared stunned at Ryah Bolton, and her smiling shyly at him. She was sure electricity did flow… but the moment was soon over before it began and the girl scampered after her father. Placing her hand on Alaric's shoulder, Rhaenys guided her dear son towards the keep.

There were few times where Alyssa saw her husband dig his heels into anything. He possessed a seemingly indefatigable ability to appear open minded on all subjects, inviting counsel from many sides before agreeing to a consensus decision… it was both a strength and a curse, the Queen had found. "I am still uncomfortable with this, husband."

Sometimes though he was adamant, and refused to be budged even by her. "Lyssa, I love you but you will not change my mind. Rhaena needs this if she is to be my heir."

"Aegon is your heir."

"Rhaena is my firstborn, and though I find myself increasingly likely to betroth her to Aegon as my parents were before me, I hope for her to rule together with him as did my parents… and us too." He was dressed impeccably as always, purples and golds showing off a gentle regality with a three-headed dragon pin upon his lapel reminding all comers of who he was. "Besides, you know my true intentions in regards to this."

Alyssa frowned. "If this were just a royal progress, I wouldn't truly give objection if Rhaena was provided companions to give proper counsel, but putting her into what may very well be a war zone is where I draw the line."

Aenys sighed. "She is a dragonrider, quite a skilled one at that, and will be escorted by Ser Gawen Corbray." The knight's reputation should discourage most would-be attackers. He was worth more than the two hundred men he detached as escorts, though not as much as the dragons. "Besides, Maegor will be joining her."

"That doesn't assuage my reservations, husband," she replied with a frown.

"Come now." He laughed and pulled her onto his lap, a move which startled Alyssa with a yelp. "I know you and my brother don't see eye to eye…" Putting it mildly. "But he is a hardened warrior and loves Rhaena dearly. Nothing shall happen on his watch, my sweet seahorse."

His words of affection, not to mention the rather assertive gesture of possession, tempered Alyssa's ire. She liked dominant men, and her husband was being that right now. Alyssa smiled at him coyly. "Alright, I shall allow myself to trust your decisions for now." He matched her grin and their lips met in a passionate kiss. Perhaps the dragon will be awoken, finally…

They didn't notice the door open until a gasp filled the solar. "My gods…" Rhaena was flush with embarrassment, her eyes wide. "I'll come back another time…"

The King pushed Alyssa off, equally beat red. "No… no, my dear daughter, please return." Alyssa huffed, trying to hide her ire. Of all the times for her daughter to be punctual… "Do forgive me," Aenys consoled, leading Rhaena to a seat across from them. "I'm afraid the moment got away from me."

"While I'm comfortable with having a younger sibling, I'd rather not witness it happening."

"Oh no, that was not what was going on," Aenys stammered, looking humiliated and… eminently apologetic.

Gods, be a dragon. Alyssa couldn't be completely irritated, though, for her daughter's snark… it reminded her of Maegor.

That made her worried again of letting her depart with him…

Rhaena bit back a giggle and sat upright, hands on her lap. "So what did you wish to speak to me of, kepa?"

"Right…" Aenys adjusted his collar. "You are growing into a confident young Princess, my dear. With the Realm in the hands of your mother, uncle, and I, it is time that you and your siblings began truly learning how to rule as our parents did for us." She listened intently, not allowing herself to interrupt though she brimmed with an eagerness to find out what adventure awaited her. "With that being said, you shall take the first step into the wider world. I am dispatching a royal progress to Casterly Rock and you shall be the one to lead it."

Her eyes widened. "Truly, kepa?"

"Are you pleased?" Alyssa asked.

"Of course, muna," she replied brightly. "It would be delightful to bear witness to the Sunset Sea… and to see Elissa again. Who is to accompany me?"

Aenys looked quite delighted at her reaction. "Your uncle Maegor and three hundred household guards, just for your dear father's piece of mind."

While Rhaena had been happy to get this assignment, she noticed at the mention of her goodbrother, the girl's eyes glassed over and her smile was… radiant. The Valyrian beauty on full display. "I shall feel very safe, indeed," was her final reply.

Clapping his hands, Aenys looked over the moon. "Wonderful. You shall depart at the end of the week. I shall write Lord Lannister, Lord Qoherys, and Lord Tully about making arrangements for you."

"If you don't mind, husband, I wish to speak to our daughter further." Alyssa stood, smoothening the folds in her dress.

"Oh, of course not. Go ahead, love."

Nodding to him, Alyssa draped her fingers around Rhaena's upper arm and led her to the gardens. Inane chit chat over random topics prevailed until they overlooked the crashing waves of the sea. "This is a great honor you have been bestowed with, Rhaena."

"I am aware and grateful, mother." Her look was serene - Rhaena truly was the Realm's Delight as her late goodfather often said. "Do not worry, I shall not let you down."

"Not once do I believe you will, but do humor your mother in hearing her paranoia out." They faced each other, Alyssa cupping the girl's cheek. "I am proud of you for all you have become, Rhaena, but those here in court are used to how Targaryens conduct themselves. Your grandmother and aunt were always fierce and willful and it drew them no attention, but those of the rest of the Realm expect certain… conduct."

She knotted her brows. "So I am to be a quiet maiden?" There was an edge to her voice.

That thought Alyssa vociferously killed with a shake of her head. "I did not say that, dear daughter. You are a dragon of House Targaryen and should never forget your might." The gaze softened at that. "But there comes a time to be mighty and a time for tact and diplomacy. Never let a person walk all over you and always be mindful, yet restrain yourself from any needless antagonization. Such is what got your uncle and aunt in considerable trouble over their many years and I fear your brother Jaehaerys has the same unfortunate attitude."

Rhaena giggled at thinking of her youngest brother's tantrums and prideful rants. It was still at an age where it was adorable and all one wished to do was pinch his little cheeks… not that it helped temper his anger. "Do not worry, muna. I shall not bring shame to our house."

"That's all I'm asking, my sweet." She hugged Rhaena close. You will not poison her, Maegor. She will not become your mini me if I have anything to say about it.

"The Unsullied have moved to Myr." Maegor pinched the bridge of his nose. "They were largely concentrated along the Demon Road before, so this is problematic."

Across his desk, Ceryse's finely styled brows knotted. "Relations improving with the cities of Slaver's Bay aren't unexpected now that the trade routes have resumed." Maegor knew this first-hand from fighting as a co-belligerent in Volantis' clash with the Three Daughters. Disruption of the slave trade caused many crises that sometimes almost boiled over into war, but the stability of the horrid institution again ensued peace.

That was welcome, but the movements of the Unsullied were not. "Any bad blood developing between the Triarchs and the Princes of Pentos?" Maegor wasn't aware of any such disputes… though greed sometimes was enough. With Pentos under their control, the middle and lower Rhoyne were under no circumstances fully secured by Volantis.

From how she sucked her lip between her teeth as she scanned the reports with her husband, Ceryse knew the stakes as well. "The Small Council needs a proper Master of Whisperers. The hodgepodge of different sources of information will bite us in the ass if we don't correct it."

"I'll be sure to bring it up to my brother forthwith," Maegor replied, and for a moment the two of them smiled at each other, eyes locking. This was what he truly missed. Ceryse, far from the besotted maiden, was quite smart and clever from growing up in the court of Oldtown. Early on she'd been indispensable to his role as the second son of the King and now continued in such capacity with him as Master of War.

He trusted her, and she him… at least with matters of state and form.

The moment was gone, however, as Ceryse broke away from him - what lightness had brightened her face disappeared as the coldness of their current relationship returned. "Will you be retiring with me, your Grace?" she asked without emotion. Never since that fateful night, the same night Maegor lost his father, did she express any sort of feeling in regards to their marriage.

Maegor didn't blame her. It was painful for him too - his expression whenever such a moment occurred was a tired, hardened scowl. "I will be busy with my duties."

"Of course." She knew his lies, but kept up the pretense for amity's sake. No one could deny she was a devoted wife and Princess. "Try not to wake me if you return to our bed." She curtseyed stiffly.

"I wouldn't wish to grant you discomfort, wife." Both of them knew he wouldn't be returning. Such was the way with many marriages, minus the guilt and regret in both of them.

Not that either could find a way around it. Watching her leave, Maegor rubbed the back of his neck and returned to his reports.

When he finally signed the last of the orders for his secretaries to dispatch to the royal rookeries, Maegor rose and retired for the night. Blackfyre at his side and Syndor trotting alongside him prevented the need for a Kingsguard, already stretched thin with the latest of Lord Commander Corlys Velaryon's health problems leaving him bedridden. Shoulders slumped from exhaustion, he entered his bedchamber to find it occupied. It didn't shock him. The arrangement was routine at this point.

"You look like shit."

A grunt. "Good evening to you as well, Ralla" he greeted his lover. "I feel like shit as well."

Clicking her tongue, she rose from where she had been resting on the bed. For a wildling it was strange to not be dressed for the cold, but in the heat of summer the gauzy Dornish-style nightgown looked heavenly on her slender figure. Ralla was sometimes nude, but this was a welcome treat - Maegor enjoyed unwrapping his gifts. "What fookin' southern cunt been bothering ya', mi'Prince?"

He could never mistake her for a highborn whenever she opened her mouth. He didn't mind though. "Nothing more than usual." He sat wearily, unlacing his boots and doublet to bring relief to his aching body. "Never thought being a quill-pusher would be so exhausting."

"Perhaps yer'd need some 'elp."

"Been getting it, though it doesn't give comfort."

Ralla understood. "Ah, the wife." At his nod she sighed, moving to bring him a cup of northern ale - wildlings found it the most tolerable of the 'southern drinks.' Having obtained an acquired liking for the bitter brew, he accepted it with thanks, gulping it down without haste. It felt wonderful after such a long day. "I've been told that yer southerners 'ave somethin' called an… ann… annul… ment."

"We do," he replied.

"Wanna go fer it? If yer' so unhappy?"

He shrugged. "I love her, Ralla, and she is blameless."

"Yer' also blameless, mi'prince."

Not so sure about that. Sometimes Maegor did blame himself for the miscarriages. Certainly felt like his fault, a husband that couldn't protect those most precious to him. "Perhaps," he merely said. "Ceryse has a place in my heart, Ralla, different than your place." The two knew the contours of their relationship so no offense was taken. "But sometimes it feels like such a place is but one piece of the puzzle."

A groan. "Gods, you southerners piss mi'off. Tings much simpler in the True North. Man wants more than one woman, he steals them. Steal yerself another one if ya want."

He looked to her with a sad smirk. "Not as simple as that."

"Of course not… stupid southerners." The conversation was clearly over, both could feel it. Ralla managed to grin, sensing the mood shift as she moved to tug at the remaining laces of his breeches. Maegor gave an appraising look, Ralla finishing and sitting in his lap. "Let me ease yer pain fer the night, mi'Prince."

Maegor brought their lips together, feeling a sudden need for the escape. Ralla was tough and hardened with battle and survival, but her touches were gentle. Sweet treats that he couldn't help but enjoy. She'd never judge him, nor did they hold tragedy between them. He grinned as he stripped her slowly, hands ghosting over her trim waist and ample breasts.

It wasn't that women didn't desire him, and while it was churlish Maegor didn't deny it was unpleasant a feeling.

They were horizontal on the bed, Ralla underneath him as the tough wildling melted at his touches. His kisses. This was an illicit yet undeniable need for the both of them and Maegor gave it his all. Touches he couldn't give to Ceryse out of their pain. Ralla moaned, Ralla mewled as he sucked at her neck - gasping as his cock slid between her lower lips. "Yes, mi'Prince. Fuck me…"

"You're good…" he grunted, setting a pace. Kissing her, eyes closed as he did so. Often he'd tried to picture Ceryse while doing this, allowing himself some sort of balm to ease the guilt of bedding a woman not his wife. It didn't work usually, but sometimes Maegor did manage to create a wonderful fantasy out of the drudgery of reality. Someplace where he wasn't a weak cunt that failed those most precious to him. This was one of those times.

But it wasn't Ceryse that he saw in his mind.

It was Rhaena - his niece's beautiful face and adoring gaze locking eyes with him as Maegor grunted, spilling deep into Ralla.

"You won't believe it, Jeyne! You just won't believe it!"

"Slow down, my Lady." Following Delena Rowan close behind, Jeyne Poore kept her hands joined in front of her simple blue dress that matched her eyes - one gifted to her by the Lady she served, who herself was dressed in an airy golden gown that hugged every curve. Chipper and carefree unlike Jeyne, what she found as unbelievable could literally be anything. "I seek leave to know what it is we shall face at dinner."

Delena clasped her hands over Jeyne's, beaming. "A most wonderful guest. Septon Barth."

"Barth? Never heard of him."

"Oh my dear," Delena giggled. "He's only the personal secretary to His Holiness."

Eyes bugging out of her head, Jeyne was completely stunned. "A member of the Most Devout, here?" Goldengrove was a major keep so it wasn't out of the realm of possibility, but to be invited to join the distinguished guest was something the daughter of the master-at-arms never expected to happen to her. "Thank the mother that you fixed my hair earlier."

"What did you think it was for, silly?" Delena laughed at Jeyne and pulled her along.

The private dining chamber of House Rowan was already packed. Lord Rickard Rowan sat at the head of the table joined by his wife on his left and his heir Ser Dickon two seats away on his right. Delena curtseyed to the guests and kissed the cheeks of her mother and father before sitting down across from her brother. With a tug, she motioned for Jeyne to sit beside her. The young lady could see her father sitting a bit away from her. Ser Garse Poore wore a frown - he usually frowned, and the deepest scowls were reserved for her.

It wasn't every day that one's wife bore seven sons and one daughter, and only the latter survived to adulthood. Jeyne endured that resentment every day of her life.

The chatter of the table went on around her, and Jeyne tried her best to blend in as she always did. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty, or witty, or held common interests with the vast majority of those here. With raven-black hair and the bluest of blue eyes, the crooked smile of hers wasn't considered classically beautiful but no man ever ceased in giving her the once over. But the truth was she simply enjoyed being on her own. Others… they bored her.

In the keep of a Reach Lord, the tourney knights and flower maidens dwelling within provided no stimulation. It took all her energy not to rip her own hair out.

Such was why her eyes fell on their guest. Septon Barth was famous… or infamous depending on who you asked. A prodigy, he had grown to a handsome young man with straight brown hair and an inquisitive gaze. He smiled and engaged others in witty conversation showing a sharp mind, but Jeyne could tell that he suffered from a similar lack of stimulation.

Her musings prevented her from hearing a call to her… "Hey, girl. You speak when you're spoken to," barked her father.

Blinking, Jeyne saw Barth looking at her. "Not a problem, Ser Garse. It's obvious that your daughter was simply lost in thought. Happens to me quite often." He chuckled to himself. "In any case, your Lady here says you are quite learned. Tell me, what was the last thing you enquired upon?"

That… wasn't a question she expected. "Um…"

"Answer the man!"

She gulped at her father's criticism. "I last learned of the tales of the Night's Watch. Piqued my interest after…" Jeyne swallowed a gulp of her wine. It… helped. "Learning of the First Men and their culture." Reading the room, she huffed. "Those savages could've greatly benefitted from Andal swords and culture."

"Oh? How so?"

"Based on the tales of the First Men as I have heard, forgive me my Lord but the library here isn't the largest." Lord Rickard merely laughed, not the most studious of men so not taking offense even as her own father silently seethed. "Our noble ancestors would've handled the demons of the past with skill. 'No man providentially armored with the spirit of the warrior and the mother shall knoweth the agony of defeat against the cold or the demons it spawns.'"

Barth, halfway through carving another cube of meat, stilled. Obviously impressed. "'In the shadow of the freezing death, only the light of the father and the fires of the smith can banish the darkness.' Quite good, Lady Poore." He smiled appreciatively at her as he ate. "You've certainly paid attention to your Septa."

Jeyne gave him a twinkling look in her blue eyes. "'Through the study of the word inscribed upon stone and leaf, only then can the glories of the Seven be established in man and wife.'"

That drew wide eyes from the Septon. "A rather obscure passage. Lady Jeyne, have you memorized the Seven-Pointed Star?"

"Oh, she reads it all the time, Septon," Delena giggled, looking at Jeyne as if she were silly. "Has her nose in any book she can get her eyes on."

"Forgive me, your eminence," Ser Garse commented. "My daughter has always had a queerness about her that truly shames me." Jeyne let her gaze drop to her lap. She should've been used to his words, but they still hurt. Delana squeezed her hand under the table, making her smile softly at her.

Sipping his wine - watered unlike everyone else save for Jeyne, which he also noticed - barth raised an eyebrow. "She's been studious for a while, Ser Garse?"

A snort. "Prattles on and on about this and that. Self taught herself Valyrian, the heretical cunt." He scarfed down a chicken leg. "Don't believe her when she says she's devout because of it. She'll never find any sort of decent husband, I guarantee it." Barth said nothing, merely continuing to eat as he digested what was said.

Jeyne was equally silent, praying to the maiden for dinner to end.

As darkness fell, Jeyne had just finished brushing Delena's hair and prepping her for bed when there was a knock at the door. Sharing a confused look with her lady, the girl made her way to open it - in Delena's state of undress she was in no position to do it - and found her father waiting for her. "Lord father," she curtseyed. For him to be here, intruding on Lady Delena's quarters, it wasn't good and she didn't wish to antagonize him.

"Jeyne," he said gruffly. His tone softened and bowed gracefully to Delena. "My Lady. Forgive me for my intrusion, but I must borrow my daughter. I hope it doesn't inconvenience you."

Airy as she was, Delena nevertheless read the tone of the words and gave Jeyne a sympathetic smile. "I can take it from here, Ser Garse. Thank you for your consideration."

The knight and master-at-arms bowed again before taking Jeyne's slender arm and yanking her out. To his credit, he didn't truly drag her… until the door shut and Delena couldn't bear witness. "Father, what is the matter…" Jeyne began to speak as they approached her chambers. As Dalena's lady in waiting, she was afforded small accommodations close by.

"Shut it," was the grunted reply. Ser Garse shoved the door open, followed by shoving her inside. "You're finally to be of use to me for once in your life."

Confused for a moment, Jeyne understood quickly. "You have found me a husband." It wasn't a question, more a resigned statement. She'd been expecting this for as far as she'd dreaded it. Some political match to elevate House Poore, forcing her to endure a fat old man of a sadistic twat.

She prayed daily in the sept for salvation, but the Seven didn't hear her prayer.

Ser Garse laughed. "As if anyone important would want you in their bed." His belittling came easy to him. Jeyne was used to it. "No, Septon Barth came to my chambers and offered me a talent of silver stags for your admittance to the Faith. Much more than you're worth but who am I to refuse such a deal?"

Jeyne was unsure that she heard her father correctly. "Pardon, lord father, but you are to give to the Starry Sept?"

"Yes, daughter. Lord Rowan cannot deny me this honor since Septon Barth personally asked for you… by name no less! He's the personal secretary to High Septon Hugor himself!" For once, the man seemed in awe.

Silent, Jeyne didn't know what to think. The Starry Sept, to be a septa. In spite of her devout faith it was not something she wished for herself, if she was to be honest. A different set of chains weighing her down as opposed to being married to some brutish highborn… and yet… if Septon Barth himself asked for her then there was undoubtedly something unorthodox he had in mind. The man was, as her father said, the personal secretary to the High Septon.

Plus in this, she wouldn't need to give her maidenhead to any brute.

"You will not deny me this opportunity, you little cunt," her father hissed. "Connections to Barth mean connections to the Most Devout, and they can rise me out of this shithole and a new standing in the Realm. I won't have any girlish dreams stand in my way."

Taking a deep breath, Jeyne made her decision. "I will leave with Barth, father. You need not worry of me foiling your plans."

He clapped his hands. "Excellent. I shall make arrangements for your departure. Get your things packed."

Closing the door behind him, Jeyne deflated and collapsed against the wood. At least I'll be serving the Seven… and getting away from that man. The girl didn't know which was more desired by her.

"It'll be wonderful to see Elissa again," chimed Alayne, the normally reserved girl chipper and excited for the trip… especially since she was selected by Rhaena as one of her two favorites to journey to the Westerlands with her.

"I'll get to stop by home again, so that's a plus," said Melony, also excited though she didn't show it. "Not to mention setting up camp with the hunk."

"Oh yes, that is gonna be wonderful."

Rhaena rolled her eyes. "Stop it, girls. My uncle's taken."

Melony nodded, faking scandal. "Forgive me, Princess. I didn't mean to stake a claim to your man."

This made her scowl. "He is not my man, ugh." You wish him to be, though. Sometimes she hated her inner voice. Perhaps if kepa and muna were here she could shirk these two until they were out of japes. But she had given her goodbyes at the manse, while the procession was gathering at the unfinished Dragonpalace.

"Sure, sure." The two giggled together, making Rhaena roll her eyes again.

Spotting her instructor, Rhaena smirked slightly and walked to him. "Ser Gawen." Ever formal, the wizened knight of the Vale placed a hand behind his back and bowed gracefully. "Princess."

"Such a shame that we must cut our training short due to this duty of mine. Regrettable, but I vow to train just as hard for when we resume upon my return."

"I wouldn't make arrangements of that, Princess," he replied as a servant brought forth a piebald gelding to him, already saddled. "I shall be joining you."

Rhaena's expression faltered. "Come again?"

Ser Gawen gave her a smile - may as well have been a hyena grin. "Your uncle spoke to me - Lord Commander Corlys has taken sick and the King is considering me to replace him… consider this… a test of my ability to protect you." He mounted his steed, swinging over the saddle expertly. "And the first prong of such a plan is to teach you how to properly defend yourself. When we make camp, we will be training."

Oh, seven hells… "I shall look forward to it." Rhaena did in a way… it was her knees and muscles that didn't and rebelled at the task.

As he rode away, Melony smacked her on the back. "Well, that didn't go as you thought. But don't worry, I'll make sure you rise at dawn as the rest of us do." It was getting close to the height of summer, so the days were long.

"Fuck you."

Melony chortled. "My my, the dragon has a thin skin. Not advisable for battle." Wise as she was sassy, her favorite made her escape to one of the wheelhouses before the dragon temper could be woken further.

Rhaena made her way towards the wheelhouse as she'd been conditioned by her mother - 'No proper princess acts as a knight or a commoner, they travel as befitting their status and earn respect for it' - she was stopped by Maegor, who placed a hand on her shoulder. "No, dear niece. You shan't ride in one of those things."

She blinked, confused. "Uncle?"

"You're a dragon, aren't you?" he answered back, chortling when she couldn't reply with naught but a look of bafflement. "Oh come now, you're not this dense, sweet niece. You'll hurt her feelings." With a gesture of his arms, he pointed to a pale blue dot in the sky… soon growing bigger as she flapped closer and closer.

At the roar, Rhaena's confusion evaporated. Dreamfyre… Oh, now she felt like such an idiot, blushing madly. "Dragonback."

"Aye, Dragonback. The Realm shall see you in all your majesty if I have anything to say about it." Truth be told, Maegor knew that his niece was seen in awe by the smallfolk. Radiant and mighty with Dark Sister clipped to her waist, he'd borne witness to such looks when he travelled across the realm in the years prior to his kepa's death. No, looking as Dreamfyre was followed by the far larger Balerion, he wanted to exercise his own dragonriding and didn't wish to be alone while doing so. Rhaenys used to oblige him before she left, and Aenys did so whenever he had the time, but he had yet to ride with his niece.

Not to mention her blush made Rhaena light up like the sun. Maegor forced himself to look away, hiding embarrassment for thinking such.

With a hoot, Dreamfyre landed with a series of powerful wingbeats. She extended her slender neck to come face to face with her rider. 'You forgot me, muna? Should I be insulted?'

Rhaena gave a sheepish grin and rubbed her blue scales. "Apologies, my sweet," she replied in High Valyrian, delighting in the dragon's rumbles of delight at the touches. "We are traveling with an entourage and a progression is only as fast as its slowest member." Beside them, the ground shook as Balerion the Black dread slammed into the ground.

Maegor was unafraid, striding straight to his kepa's mount - now his. "I wouldn't believe her if I were you, Dreamfyre. I can tell she's lying to you."

Balerion growled as Rhaena glared at him. 'Don't tease the hatchling, valonqar.'

"She makes it so easy, brother."

'The best trophies are ones needing struggle to obtain. Such is the same with quips and verbal jousts.' Apparently his dragon was as wise as he was fearsome.

Horns blowing, the procession began to make its way out of the keep. Maegor nodded, beginning to climb Balerion's spikes. In spite of starting before Rhaena, Dreamfyre was smaller so by the time Maegor swung onto his back the Princess was already snugly on her dragon's back. "So how are we gonna work this? Fly ahead of them?"

"No, we land where they camp."

"But that'll be worthless. We have the speed advantage."

"So we'll ride around in circles or take adventures," Maegor grinned. "Good practice for the both of us."

A smirk crossed Rhaena's face. "Speak for yourself, uncle. I'm a longer-serving dragonrider than you... I shan't make you look too green. Sovegon." Dreamfyre shrieked and vaulted into the sky.

Maegor shook his head. "She's too much like muna for her own good." He swore Balerion was laughing at him through their bond. "Just… ugh… Sovegon." He gripped the spines tight as Balerion's massive wings jolted him upwards.

Chapter Text

Hearing the purr leaving Dreamfyre's throat, Rhaena rested her head and upper body fully on the dragon's maw. "Oh, my sweet." Her hands rubbed the scales underneath the smoldering amber eyes, twinkling with an emotion she knew to be the gentlest of affection from the great beast. "Anything you want, I'll have it sent for. Anything at all."

Dreamfyre purred again, more like the rumblings of a dozen wagons than the sounds of a cat. 'Can we go back to the sea, muna?' She nudged up slightly, a whine leaving her throat. 'I miss seafood.'

"No, my sweet. I told you we need to travel to Casterly Rock. There's an ocean there but it will take a while." That seemed to disappoint her dragon, which made Rhaena roll her eyes. "Honestly, there's a massive lake right there."

'Freshwater fish, yuck.' The azure dragon opened her maw in disgust, tongue rolling out and letting out a blanch - it made Rhaena stumble back, though she managed to right herself. 'Besides, nothing substantial in there except for some dolphin. Small, disgusting dolphin.'

Hands on her hips and glaring at her dragon, a guttural trill from behind her caught Rhaena's attention. 'Forgive me, niece, but you raised a spoilt priss.' Balerion's jaw hung open, as if laughing at the two of them while he was curled up within the outer courtyard of Harrenhal castle. He let out a snort from his massive nostrils, showering the both of them with hot breath. 'Not impressed.'

Head rearing up, Dreamfyre let out an angered hoot. 'I am not a priss, old fart.'

'Right. Can't hunt a fucking auroch in the wild like I do, or Vhagar? Gods, Arrax is living in the middle of a snowy nowhere and he doesn't complain.' The smaller dragon just glared at her larger counterpart, breathing a puff of flame before settling back down. 'That's what I thought.'

"Ugh, must you be so hard on her?" Rhaena knew she must've sounded ridiculous to the stablehands and dragonkeepers darting about the grounds of the keep, but she kept a glare at her uncle's dragon - her grandfather's before him. "She's a sweet thing, let her opine for her favorite foods." Rhaena stroked Dreamfyre's neck, calming the beast down.

She could've sworn Balerion rolled his eyes. 'Keep coddling her, see what happens.' Tilting his massive head up, he looked at Kingspyre Tower and trilled. As if recalling a favored memory of the past. 'A coddled dragon is one that cannot deliver such magnificence as this, dearest niece. She better learn how to be fierce and powerful before trying and failing to replicate such glory.'

While Rhaena scoffed at the comments, she could hear that Dreamfyre was taking it to heart. Whining softly. "Don't listen to him, he's just ornery and eager to brag about his past battles." That drew another snort from Balerion but Rhaena ignored him. "Someday you'll put your mark in the history books with Kingspyre Towers of your own, my sweet. This I promise."

"Wow." Rhaena turned her head to see Alayne Royce staring at her with arms crossed. "If I didn't think Targaryens were any stranger, I just heard that."

"Quite interesting babe-speak, don't you think?" giggled Melony, though from her it was more of a throaty snicker. "Oh Dreamfyre, on the tree top, when the wind blows, we will breathe dragonfire…"

"That doesn't even rhyme," Rhaena remarks, shaking her head. That only made the two laugh harder. Even the dragons' eyes were dancing with amusement. Sighing, she straightened out her dress. "What do you two want?"

Grinning, Melony lifted up a full flagon. "Stole this from Ser Gargon's personal stash. Pretty potent Dornish red aged since before your grandfather's conquest."

She raised an eyebrow. "He let you have that?"

"I doubt he knew what day it was after I was done with him," Melony replied with a smirk.

Rhaena's jaw dropped. "No… you didn't? Gargon Qoherys?"

"She did," Alayne shook her head. "I asked her why her mind was addled, and she's tight lipped."

Giggling, Melony swished the flagon in her hand. "Maybe after a bit, I'll tell you."

None of them had any goblets, so they just downed swig after swig from the glass flagon itself. The vintage was quite potent, so it didn't take much time till they were all completely hammered and giggling like seven-nameday olds over this or that. "So you're telling me… hic…" Rhaena slurred. "You slept with Gargon to find out what it was like?"

Belching, Melony nodded… though she almost pitched over as a result. "You hear things of a man with fierce appetites and you think… his pecker is probably pretty small and he has to compensate. Turns out… nope, nuh unh." She holds out her hands, measuring something about seven inches long."

"No… shut the fuck up," Rhaena replied. "He's not that big."

"Oh, he is… skilled too… but he's still a right fuckin' cunt. Nearly kicked me out of his bedchamber before he passed out from too much drink. Stupid fool." She dissolved in giggles yet again.

Alayne, swaying slightly, could still perform a mean frown. "You realize… hic… that's what… hic… what you are close too. Passed out from too much drink."

"She's got you there." Rhaena's brows scrunched in thought, thinking of something only a drunk mind would ever vocalize. This time, she was very very drunk so it worked out. "How big are most men's cocks? Like… Gargon big or less."

A snort from Alayne. "My sister says her husband's is like half that. Explains why he's… hic… such a cunt all the time."

"I bet Prince Maegor's is the size of Balerion's tooth," chortled Melony.

If the Dornish red hadn't made her flush, Rhaena would've turned a beet red at that comment. "Let's not talk about my uncle."

"Why? He's utterly gorgeous." Melony drew out the last word.

Struggling, Alayne smirked. "Aye. What I wouldn't give to have him tied in my bed completely bare…"

"Enough!" Rhaena screeched, eyes blazing… if glassy. "We're not talkin' bout my uncle!"

Biting her lip, Melony shared a look with Alayne, who nodded. "Um… Rhaena… Last time all the girls were together back in King's Landing, we… um…"

"Spit it out."

Alayne cut in after Melony was seized by a retch, voiding off in a pile of hay. "You told us that… you loved someone who could never love you back. Was it… your uncle that you meant?"

"What?" Rhaena laughed… though this was a nervous laugh. "No, I'm not in love with my uncle. You mad?"

While he failed to move even a single inch, Balerion's eyelid drew back ever so slightly, hearing latching onto the hatchling's words with interest… if only because she was so loud.

Alayne just stared at Rhaena, her grey eyes hard in spite of the significant amount of alcohol they had all downed. She was joined by Melony, green around the gills but still pretty intimidating a woman. Rhaena, a dragon, stood her ground but the swirl of emotions and her inebriated state simply wore her down. "Alright! Yeah, it's true."

If the beast could vocalize surprise, Balerion would've at that moment.

The two young highborns were not so restrained in their surprise. "What?!" Melony was dumbfounded. "How did this happen?!"

"Well, I can understand why it happened, Mel," murmured Alayne. "How do you feel, Rhae?"

Burying her face in her hands, Rhaena shook her head. "How do you think I feel, Ally? I love him so much - this is beyond a girlish crush, I think. He's always been my hero and the one that brought my dragon side out and gave me Dreamfyre." Only the beast's warmth allowed her to maintain her composure. "I heard my grandmother had tried to betroth us long ago. Ironic," she chuckled painfully. "The perfect man was almost mine and I never knew it."

"It's not too late… hic." Alayne stood and sat… well, collapsed next to Rhaena. "He has no kids and I heard his marriage is unhappy."

"No," Rhaena murmured. "I won't destroy his marriage. Even if I will stay a maiden for the rest of my life…" She just dissolved into tears, too drunk and too emotional to speak further.

Balerion's mind was whirring a mile a minute. The hatchling loves valonqar? I can't believe it.

'Of course she loves your valonqar you dolt.' Dreamfyre was just as blunt as he had been earlier. 'Don't you see the way she looks at him?'

'I figured it was admiration, like how you always looked at me when you were still adorable and could recognize true greatness.'

While neither of them moved or spoke as the girls drunkenly comforted the sobbing Rhaena, Balerion could've sworn Dreamfyre growled at him in annoyance. 'Even now you're both a self-centered cunt and an idiot. Are you sure you were born in Old Valyria?'

'Enough.' Letting his one open eyelid fall close, Balerion found that he rather liked the idea of his niece with his valonqar. Those with the good scents deserved each other. Hmmmm...

"Stop… that tickles!" Giggling, Saera collapsed into the grass, holding the body of her little grey direwolf pup as it licked her face. "Stop, Frosty, stop."

Young Ryah Bolton bit her lip as she watched the tiny pups play with the Stark siblings. About ten feet off was Aegon, tossing a stick for his direwolf - Snowstorm - to follow. Equally boisterous as Frosty, while the black Shroud was calm and quiet. Nestled in the arms of Alaric as they sat upon a fallen log.

Hard to imagine these cute things would become like Lord Stark's wolf… massive and scary.

Playing with her thumb, Ryah made her way to sit down next to the quiet Stark. "Are they… danger...ous?"

"Dangerous?" Alaric asked, only to see Ryah's eyes fritter to Shroud, then to Blizzard, and back to Shroud. "Oh no, only to people that hurt us. Here." His arms were tingling being so close to Ryah - Alaric had no clue why - but he mustered his courage to defend his darling. He dropped the pup into Ryah's lap. "See."

Trembling, Ryah watched as the pup merely yawned and settled into her lap. "Just like poppa's hounds," she said with a small smile.

"Hold out your hand." Ryah did so, and Shroud began licking it. "He likes you."

Giggling, Ryah nodded. "I can see."

While the children enjoyed their furry companions' boundless affection for them, under the watchful eye of both Stark and Bolton guards and a flying beast high in the sky, the adults sat together - enjoying the remnants of a feast. "I must say," Lord Bolton stated, finishing off a leg of boar. "The hunting here is much easier than in my lands. Fresher forest… less open field and rock."

Rhaenys smeared some fruit jam onto a roll with butter before daintily eating it. "I would hope you don't overhunt."

He shook his head. "Oh no, I make sure poachers know not to hunt on my lands… preserve nature the way it should be." Finishing his meal, he tossed the bones to Blizzard. Already chewing on the bones of his master, the direwolf happily dove at the fresh meal with his jaws. "Animals are a treasure to be protected - you can always take the mettle of a man by how he treats his beasts. My bloodhounds are the most pampered princes in the north," he laughs with affection.

Giving him a curious look, Brandon drinks from his mug of ale. He didn't peg Rogar Bolton as an animal lover. "And our fellow man?"

His milky eyes went listless. "I find that men fall victim to terrible sin that animals do not. They are pure, whereas we often aren't."

"No truer words, Lord Bolton," Rhaenys said, finishing off her roll. The picnic was an idea she suggested, getting the families out of Winterfell for a more… informal setting to discuss pressing business. And easier to show off Arrax if things get tense. Her muna was famous for that tactic and Rhaenys adopted it for herself.

But enjoying himself though he was, Rogar Bolton wasn't naive. "Princess, while I am honored to be such a guest at this fine keep by my lieges, there still exists the unfortunate reality that what stands before us is the second reconstruction of a keep twice destroyed by my family." He said it so nonchalantly that it may have been the discussion of a meal he had the day before. "Blind I am not, especially with the histories of my house and yours, so may I have leave to ask what was the purpose of your invitation of me?"

Catching her handsome wolf mutter something unintelligible under his breath, Rhaenys did her best not to giggle. "You are a worthy adversary, Lord Rogar. I pray that such is all we'll be, rather than foes."

He nodded. "I can second that prayer, Princess."

"We have spoken, namely my husband, myself, and Lord and Lady Stark who are still stuck in King's Landing helping my brother's reign begin."

"The first time the united realm passes along in a transfer of power and crown… There aren't many recorded events of such gains surviving past the death of those that gained them. King Lancel Lannister's conquests lost by his son Loreon, Osgood Arryn's conquest of White Harbor lost by his son Oswin, the two Arlan Durrandons that found their descendents losing their own conquests… I'm afraid the histories don't look kind on transfers of power in a storm."

To this, Rhaenys narrowed her eyes, ire rising. "I would watch your words, Lord Bolton."

"Why? We're just speaking about history." Lord Rogar wasn't a man that made insults on a whim or for the hells of it. They were calculated, trying to probe out their true mood. "Your father is in the south, Lord Brandon, alongside Prince Maegor so his Grace has good counsel."

"My father proves that the old saying 'Direwolves don't fare well south of the Neck' to be a lie."

A snort, followed by a smirk. "Aye, I suppose so."

Uncomfortable with the tricks and games, Rhaenys moved on. "You are right about one thing, Lord Bolton. We do seek something from your house." He waited, merely watching her. "An alliance."

"An alliance? I'm afraid I've already bent the knee to House Stark. My banners are yours to command."

"Isn't it as you said? Blind are you not to the history between our two houses?" Brandon clasped his hands together. "You are our bannermen yet we are still rivals. Worried as I am by instinct that you'll plunge a knife into my stomach any moment…"

"Unlikely, for if your wife's dragon doesn't burn me, your direwolf will rip out my throat." Blizzard was resting in the grass, but his eyes never left Lord Bolton once. A silent readiness. "At this moment you should hold no worries."

She and Brandon, Lord Bolton across from them. Each powerful and perfectly ready and willing to make a final duel for the North… it gave a sense of mutual respect to both sides. A must for any alliance. "House Stark has determined that it is in our best interests for the North to be united during the reign of my brother," Rhaenys broke the silence. "A combined alliance between House Stark and House Bolton is the perfect manner in which to proclaim it to the world."

"You hold a good grasp of politics, Princess, and I am not saying no." His milky blue eyes gave away nothing. "But I will need to know the terms."

"A marriage pact between my son and heir and your daughter."

Bolton smiled. "Ah, so that's why you asked for her by name." He looked over to where Ryah was playing with the three Starks and their direwolves. Everyone laughing and having a good time. "Dragonriding grandchildren would sound tempting to any man, but I cannot in good conscience allow my daughter to marry a hostile stranger."

"That is why we offer to foster her once she reaches ten namedays."

"Reasonable, though I shall require more."

Of course he does. "Name your price then, Lord Bolton."

"Allow me leave to construct an anchorage at the Dreadfort. I conduct a significant amount of trade and would reap larger profits if I could give the goods directly to the merchants rather than employ barges to transit to White Harbor."

Rhaenys wanted to chuckle. "You are a bold man, Rogar Bolton. Understandable request, but one we cannot hope to accomplish given our longstanding ties to House Manderly."

Lord Rogar stroked his beard. "Fair point. You wouldn't be proper lieges if you didn't take your bannermen's consideration under account…" He paused, chewing on a bread roll as he thought. "Alright, Lord Brandon, permission to build an anchorage with a fifth of White Harbor's capacity, priority on construction of a road connection to the Kingsroad, and one other matter that will involve your brother, Princess."

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. "I cannot offer any assurances to any request you make to the Crown will be honored by his Grace."

"Oh, you misunderstand," chuckled Rogar. "I mean, I was speaking of your other brother, Prince Maegor."

"What of him, Lord Bolton?" Brandon was naturally suspicious. What could you want with my best friend?

"I ask that he take my son and heir as his squire when the time comes."

That, neither of them expected. "Looking for a knighthood for him?" Rhaenys asked.

"Not particularly, but if our family is to enter a stable alliance with yours I would like him to make his own connections and alliances in the South. I may be sworn to you but I shan't be dominated by House Stark."

Both eyed Rogar Bolton, looking for a sign of hostility or insincerity. Brandon's suspicions were ingrained in how he was raised, but Rhaenys could see that while Lord Bolton had the same such suspicions, he could be taken as not making an overt threat. "I can speak to my brother, but only after Lady Ryah passes into our care."

He nodded. "Of course." Something else came to his mind. "One last request, when war starts I wish to hold the most senior position in your command."

"Come again?" Brandon blinked. "What war?"

A nonchalant shrug. "Some people are optimistic and think everything will be fine. I am not so sentimental. The unfinished tensions from the Conquest still are felt and House Bolton will end up having to endure the after effects."

"How so?"

"An emboldened Faith, Princess? They might seek to accomplish what they didn't seven hundred years ago. And we won't have the luck of disunity this time." He leaned back, sipping on his ale. "The dragons are our hope, and you are my connections to the dragons. Grant me second in command and our alliance is assured."

Looking at each other, Rhaenys' eyes told Brandon everything he needed to know her opinion. "You drive a hard bargain, Lord Bolton."

He smiled. "Better to spar with words than how our houses were known to spar."

Brandon laughed in spite of himself. "As long as my father agrees, we have a deal."

"Splendid." Rhaenys raised her goblet of wine. "To our new alliance." Both men clinked their ale mugs with her.

Hopefully this would be as momentous as it felt.

"Uncle," Rhaena laughed, a smile on her face. "Come, let us dance."

From where he was seated at the head table of the Great Hall of Casterly Rock, Maegor could witness the entire assembly that Lord Loren Lannister had assembled to greet the Targaryen guests at the focal point in the royal progress. He had rolled out the welcome wagon, a fully armed company of Lannister household guards in their imposing armor as well as the entire chapter of the Lannisport Warrior's Sons led by Joffrey Doggett. Maegor could've done without all of this, especially the five course banquet complete with dancing and wild beast shows, but he had to admit the food was superb.

Seated next to their host and the jovial but airheaded Ronnel Arryn, Maegor wished to depart with Rhaena for some good times and greater conversation… "Forgive me, niece, but I must decline."

The Rhaena of a year ago would've pouted, but this time she only frowned. "Please, uncle. You danced with Lady Lannister."

Lady Ellyn Lannister - nee Tully - had been a working dance, one Maegor didn't truly enjoy. Unlike most of that family, the late in life second wife of the Lord of Casterly Rock was a snake. Worse than her vicious brat of a son or schemer of a husband. A worthy opponent, but not one he actually wanted to have to face. "Perhaps later, dear niece. I must have business to speak of with Lord Lannister first."

"I'll hold you to that, uncle." Walking away, Maegor could see Rhaena head back to Elissa Farman, Alayne Royce, and Melony Piper. She and the former spoke for a moment before Lady Farman hugged her with a laugh. To be a fly on the wall for that conversation…

"You know, my Prince," spoke Lord Ronnel. "It is an insult to our host if you decline to enjoy the festivities of a feast under his roof."

The Lord of the Vale was not one Maegor thought highly of, but he was Aenys' close friend and member of the small council. Technically of the same rank of responsibility, Maegor had to be cordial. "I'm sure Lord Lannister doesn't mind." He looked to the old lion.

Face wrinkled and beard a pure white rather than the golden blonde it used to be, Loren's green eyes hadn't lost their sharpness. "Not at all, your Grace. I know the look of a man with his mind on a mission, as I always say." His platter was sparing, some braised pork, a smattering of greens, and very watered sweetwine. There was a reason he was still kicking at such an advanced age. "The Greyjoy wishes to speak with us over the matter." Maegor rolled his eyes but nodded, letting Lord Lannister bid the man forward. "Your Grace, Lord Goren Greyjoy of Pyke."

"Lord Greyjoy," Maegor regarded, his lips curled in a scowl. Goren Greyjoy was a hard man, fit and handsome but still hard after four decades of life. The Prince regarded all Ironborn as scum for their ways and their history of opposing the dragons. Lord Goren was no different, his family having once been some of Black Harren's strongest bannermen.

But this one wasn't a lickspittle. Maegor wasn't arrogant enough to assume such - he had put down several conspiracies to try and usurp his reign once his father Vickon passed away, so wasn't one to be underestimated.

Maegor still didn't like him though.

For his part, Goren bowed. "Your Grace, I am honored with your presence…"

"I'm not," Maegor almost growled, surprising Lord Arryn and Lord Lannister, but to which made Ser Gawen smirk. "Let's make it simple, I would prefer it if I shared as few words as possible with an Ironborn cunt."

There was a pause, the high table growing quiet as they waited for the Greyjoy to respond. Lord Goren merely grunted. "I should speak the same about a Valyrian cunt."

The pause continued, many in baited breath, until Maegor belted out a chuckle. "Well alright then, one cunt to another." Everyone relaxed as even Lord Goren smirked softly. "Bring a chair!" He clapped his hands, the servants darting about to find one, to which Maegor made Lord Arryn slide away to make room. Grabbing a chicken leg and loaf of bread, Goren took the proffered seat. "I shall assume you care not for banter and would rather get down to business."

"You assume correct, my Prince," Goren grunted, scarfing on the meat.

"Indeed." His muna and Lady Stark instilled in him proper manners. "Why are there grumbling s of rebellion in the Iron Islands?"

The Ironborn shrugged. "Your father allowed Septons into the Islands. People don't much care for that." He downed a big helping of arbor gold.

While criticism of his kepa drew Maegor's ire, being a Valyrian fostered among the First Men gave him sympathy for those encroached on by the Faith. "Anyone having taken up arms, yet?"

"Not yet."

"Then what are the rumblings I've heard?"

"Some madman washed up on Great Wyk or some shit like that, who the fuck cares?" Goren certainly didn't worry about mindless details. "He calls himself Lodos."

"Lodos?" Loren Lannister scoffed. "The same idiot that filled his robes with rocks and entered the sea to communicate with your god."

Goren snorted. "One in the same, hence when I called him a madman. Whatever followers of his that ended up on Pyke were put to the sword, but many of my bannermen aren't so blessed with foresight as I am and he's been gathering followers and ships."

Maegor pursed his lips, nodding. "You think he's planning to take control?"

"The original Lodos sought the Driftwood Crown at the Kingsmoot before we claimed it," Goren replied. "It would be rather shoddy an impersonation if this one doesn't reassert the claim. I would've attacked them already but decided to wait for Royal assent… and a favor from the Crown."

"My brother has authorized me to dispense with certain gifts to ensure your cooperation, Lord Greyjoy. Aside from Dragons, we provide no men or ships to this cause and wouldn't impose on our hosts to furnish a fleet." Loren narrowed his eyes at that, anticipating some sort of insult. When Maegor said nothing, the former King of the Rock took the comment itself as an insult but said nothing.

"I only ask for one, my Prince." Beady grey eyes met striking violet. "Allow me to expel all septons and septas from my lands and I shall do all the fighting for you."

Ronnel Arryn choked on his wine. "Your Grace, you cannot." He thumped his chest to clear his throat. "Vickon Greyjoy acceded to request of the Faith as communicated by your father decades ago."

"I advise against this course of action, my Prince," added Loren Lannister, an… odd look in his green eyes. "The Starry Sept would not take kindly to their representatives being encroached upon…"

Maegor held a hand. "Give me the head of Lodos in a jar and I'll request to my brother that he grant your request… as long as the Septons and Septas are unharmed and allowed unmolested passage back to Oldtown."

"I wouldn't dream of allowing any different," Goren agreed, satisfied with the terms. "You're more of a reasonable party than I expected a greenlander Prince cunt to be."

"Same sentiments to you, Lord Goren." Maegor sipped on his own wine - finding it impossibly sweet but he had long since been seduced by the acquired taste of a northern ale. Bran would laugh at me if he saw this. Probably his sister as well. "His Grace is a generous man. You'll find relations with him to be mutually beneficial." Goren said nothing, only dipping his head in respect.

Perhaps the Ironborn could be worked with… certain Ironborn at least. "Can we count on dragon support?"

"If you need it."

"Fair enough."

As the minstrels continued into another tune to dance to, Maegor smiled. It was a Valyrian tune, one that reminded him of the dance he and Rhaena had partook in the night of the Jubilee - one of the few good memories of the day his kepa passed. Maybe it was time to take her up on the offered dance? Looking for her, his smile changed to a frown as he couldn't find his niece. "Ser Gawen? Do you see the Princess?"

"The Princess?" The Corbray knight looked for her. "No, it appears she isn't in the great hall."

Maegor muttered some expletives. Where did she go? "Can you find her?"

He nodded. "Aye. Waters!"

A man-at-arms clicked his heels. "Ser Gawen?"

"Send your men about the keep and find Princess Rhaena."

"We can assist, your Grace," Loren insisted. "She shouldn't have gone far." Maegor agreed. You better haven't gone on a nighttime dragonride without me...

It had been an ordeal to slip away from her uncle and her guards, but when she emerged onto a balcony overlooking the Sunset Sea, Rhaena was glad she did. The fresh air of the coastal night invigorated her, the moonlight above beautiful and arranged with a panoply of stars twinkling in the sky. Gods, she loved it.

The majesty was even greater on dragonback, flying above the clouds to see the constellations unmarred by clouds. Closing her eyes, she reached out to Dreamfyre, only to find her dragon hunting at sea for a meal somewhere off Fair Isle. It made her giggle. Elissa is here, my sweet. She didn't know how much she missed her friend till they reunited in the ballroom of Casterly Rock.

When they embraced, Rhaena swore she felt something stirr inside her - a feeling only her uncle had drawn before - but it was fleeting. She didn't think of it again.

Dragon or no dragon, even without her friends she was glad to be in the fresh air. The ballroom was stifling, the home field advantage of the Dragonpalace, Dragonstone, or her kepa's manse not present in the halls of House Lannister. She shuddered at all the false smiles, the coy dancing around thinly veiled insults and politicking among the Lords and Ladies. Rhaena heeded her muna's words, but that didn't mean they didn't leave a vile taste in her mouth - especially Ser Tyrion. Gods, how slimy can that boy be?

Her uncle felt the same way about these things, so at least they could share the misery together.

My uncle… She, Alayne, and Melony didn't speak again of what they had drunkenly shared at Harrenhal… until Elissa was back with them and everything just spilled out - without the cover of wine to ease the tension. Elissa had been… surprisingly alright with the state of affairs and openly called on Rhaena to pursue, but the Princess demured. How can I sully his honor so? How can I hurt my family's alliance with House Hightower?

Your grandparents were married three…

But she shook her head. No. Impossible. Perhaps she was always meant to love Maegor from afar?

"A beautiful night, isn't it, Princess?"

Rhaena jumped slightly at the sudden intrusion, turning to see a young man dressed in a red doublet of a knight. A sword was clipped to his belt, but among the warlike Westermen it wasn't surprising. "Oh, forgive me," she said. "I didn't see you enter, Ser…"

He chuckled. "Lyonel. Ser Lyonel Lorch." He bowed. "It is an honor to meet you in person, Princess."

"Thank you, good Ser." She replied, politely holding out a hand for him to kiss. Rhaena was familiar with House Lorch, landed knights in the service to House Lannister. This particular specimen was quite young, likely only slightly over two decades. He was handsome enough with wavy brown hair and a chiseled chin… but there was something about him that Rhaena found… unsettling. "Do you like to gaze up at the stars as well?"

"Hmmm… oh, they never interested me." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Did you find the feast unsatisfactory?"

Her own line of conversation dismissed, Rhaena said nothing for a moment. This was growing a bit uncomfortable but nothing she couldn't handle. Many tried to suck up to royals for influence, and she would just need to learn how to navigate it. "I just needed some air."

"Too deep in your cups? Tis fine. I don't begrudge a woman drinking."

While it wasn't overtly rude, Rhaena took insult at his insinuation. "I am not drunk, Ser. Watch your tongue."

"Of course, Princess." He didn't believe her.

Looking up at him, Rhaena realized why she was unsettled. His eyes, they were… lecherous but calm. It was not a feeling she enjoyed. "Perhaps I should get back to my uncle and ladies..."

As she tried to head towards the doorway back into the keep, Ser Lyonel's arm shot out, stopping her. "You are very beautiful, Princess. Practically the Maiden made manifest."

A complement, but Rhaena was only disgusted. "Thank you, Ser." It came out as a grumble, gliding out of his hold. "I must be going."

"Are you a maiden?"

She stilled, turned around with an almost gaping shock. He has the gall… "You know not your place, Ser. See that you stay there."

He wasn't cowed. "A beautiful woman as yourself shouldn't be unknowing of a man."

"And you think such a man I admit into my bed should be you?" Unable to help herself, she laughed. "I wouldn't dirty myself with chits and live in such a way." How Ser Lyonel suddenly gre red with anger amused Rhaena. It was vicious, but this fool had goaded her. "My mother and father consider great knights as Tyrion Lannister or my cousin Rogar Baratheon as my husband… not some landed knight." Waving him away, she reentered the keep…

Only for her wrist to be trapped by Ser Lyonel. "No woman," the word used as an epithet. "Walks away from me."

She writhed, him not letting go. "Unhand me lest you lose yours." This time she thrashed harder, but he refused to budge. "You wretch!" Rhaena slapped him about the face.

Ser Lyonel let go, hand flying to his reddened cheek in shock. Rhaena hadn't a moment to even turn before she was backhanded by the powerful blow of the Manticore knight. Wincing as she slammed against the stone wall, Lyonel was on her, pinning her there. "You think you're so might with your dragon and your title… you're nothing but a whore." He shoved his hand into her crotch, her dress all that blocked him from her heat.

Freezing, her eyes were wide with fear. "No… please…"

"You won't be such a cunt with my babe in your belly." He punctuated his claim with a harsh kiss on her lips, one that was sloppy and made Rhaena nauseous. She fought against his grasp, but he was too strong. One hand pinned her wrists harshly on the rough stone, chafing the skin. The other groped her breasts hard, making Rhaena scream…

Finally, one hand freed itself and slammed into Ser Lyonel's temple. He howled in pain and pulled back, allowing Rhaena to try and escape. But she slipped on the floor, falling on her front. Heart pounding, the Princess tried to crawl and scrape away before his hands were back on her. "No! Help!"

Flipping her around, a punch to the stomach made Rhaena gasp and cough. "Shut up!" hissed the knight, hiking up her dress. He punched her face, making her see stars. "I'm gonna enjoy this." He moved to unlace his trousers.

Rhaena closed her eyes, trembling violently. Uncle… someone… help me…

"Oi', fucker!" Ser Lyonel turned only to find the hilt of a sword to slam into his face. The blow was powerful, knocking him out and leaving a pretty large gash on his forehead. Pitching back, his still form crumpled to the floor.

Eyes still closed, Rhaena refused to move, trying her best to hold back tears before a hand nudged hers. It did not go well. "No!" She screamed, thrashing about. "Get away from me!" Her fingers clawed at the new attacker…

"Your Grace. Your Grace!" Her eyes opened and she saw a thickset man built like an ox but with an innocent, kindly face. He wore the colors of House Targaryen, but wasn't a knight. "I mean you no harm."

Seeing the unconscious Ser Lyonel crumpled against the wall, Rhaena's frantic mood began to temper. "Did you…" Her trembling hand pointed to him. "That?"

"Aye… barbarous cunt." The man shook his head. "Can I give you a hand?"

She nodded, allowing him to haul her up. "Thank you…"

"Dick. Dick Bean."

"Thank you, Ser Dick."

He shook his head. "No Ser… I'm not a knight."

"Thank you all the same."

A voice called down the corridor. "Rhaena? Where are you? Rhaena?!" Elissa appeared and gasped. "My gods, what happened here?"

Seeing one of her closest friends, the strong dragon Princess broke down and threw herself at Elissa, sobbing. "Oh, Lissa…"

"Rhaena… what?" She noticed the unconscious knight, and Rhaena's state of battery and rumpled everything. A woman knew. "Fetch the kingsguards!" she barked at the two Farman men-at-arms that followed her. "You, stand guard over this… this thing."

"With pleasure." Dick kicked him in the stones, drawing a whimper from the unconscious Ser Lyonel.

"I want my uncle…" Rhaena murmured through her sobs.

Elissa sighed, kissing Rhaena's temple affectionately. "I'll take you to him."

"Now! Take me to him now!" She needed Maegor… she needed the man she secretly loved. Elissa said not a word, knowing that the Prince was the only one that could truly comfort her in a time like this.

Chapter Text

Boots clicking on the stone floor, guards and servants stepped protectively to the side as they bowed. Fury was something oft seen among hot-tempered, martial lords of the Westerlands, but never something so aflame as that written on the face of Prince Maegor Targaryen. It seemed as if the Prince was alight in dragonfire as he stalked down the corridor.

No one could blame him if they knew what he knew. A dreadful business.

But some were fools… or had their priorities elsewhere than the Prince. "Your Grace, please slow down…"

"No." Maegor whipped around, finger in the face of the trembling Lord Arryn. "You gave your opinion and it's an insult to myself and all of House Targaryen!"

"Think about this," replied the Master of Laws to the Crown - beside him, Ser Gawen and Lord Tybolt Reyne watched silently. "You're intruding on the right of Lord Loren to judge crimes committed in his keep…"

"Committed against a member of the Royal family! My niece!" Maegor's hands clenched so hard he swore he drew blood. "I will not let them slap him on the wrist."

Running a hand through his hair, Ronnel looked to his compatriots. "Ser Gawen, you must understand my position. Help me."

The Corbray knight crossed his arms, Lady Forlorn prominently displayed at his hip. "I agree with the Prince."

"Tybolt, please."

The Reyne knight shook his head. "I as well, but my Prince. Be careful. You are intruding on something held sacred by the Lords of the Realm. Had your father taken away their right of pit and gallows he likely would've had to burn far more to win his realm."

Maegor shook his head. "I would burn it all to protect my niece." And with that, he shoved aside the guards and threw open the double doors to the great hall.

"And it was then I found…" All voices stopped as Maegor strode in. The Lords of the Westerlands were assembled, standing off to the sides or seated in chairs to watch the spectacle. Seated on the High Table were Lord Loren, his wife, Ser Tyrion, and other senior Lords of the Westerlands. Two boxes were set up for the accused to stand in, with another box for witnesses… both Ser Lyonel Lorch and young Dick Bean were posited in the former, Bean looking a bit roughed up.

Ser Lyonel was untouched apart from a bruise on the forehead.

Taking a seat next to Elissa Farman, Maegor leaned back and crossed his legs. "By all means, continue." He was oddly calm. Ser Gawen sighed. Oh, he is ready to burst…

Nodding, Lord Loren motioned to the witness - a guard of the keep. "You may go on, Hill."

The bastard guard gulped. "As I was sayin', mi'Lord… I found the man-at-arms hunched o'er the knight. The Princess… she had her gown rumpled and was pantin' on the floor."

"See!" Ser Lyonel proclaimed. "This monster interrupted my tryst with Princess Rhaena…"

"Speak the Princess' name again and I'll kill you!" Bean bellowed, moving to lunge at Ser Lyonel but restrained by the guards. His loyalty outweighed his brains it appeared.

Lyonel laughed. "This trial is a sham. He all but confessed to attacking me. The Princess was begging for my cock!"

"Liar!" screamed Elissa, only for her father to squeeze her arm in warning.

Ser Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Lady Elissa, you gave your testimony. Sit down and shut it."

"No! I will not!" She stood, pointing at the high table. "You scum are covering up this monster's attempted rape and I won't stand for it!"

Lord Westerling laughed. "And who are you to make demands of us?"

"She cannot make demands, but I can." Maegor stood, drawing murmurs from the crowd as he stood forward. "Firstly, you have no authority to try my sworn sword. Bean, go sit by Lady Elissa."

Bean made to do so, but was stopped by the guards. "This is my keep, your Grace. I can try him if I wish." Lord Loren was firm… but surprisingly wasn't resolute. It wasn't like him.

Maegor wouldn't look this horse in the mouth. "He is my man and it is my wroth he would face if he disobeys. Bean, get over there and if you men stop him I'll feed you to Balerion, understood?" Pale, the guards didn't restrain him and Bean did as bidded. "As for the rest, this trial is a farce. Only one witness needs to be called and she is Princess Rhaena."

"This is a trial to determine if she was attacked by Ser Lyonel," scoffed Tyrion. "If she was, then a woman - weak and frail creatures they are - would be far too emotional to render proper testimony."

Narrowing his eyes at the heir to Casterly Rock, Maegor felt a perverse satisfaction at seeing him flinch. "As is my right as a Prince of the Realm, I appoint myself as judge of this proceeding. Bring forth Princess Rhaena."

Even in his anger, the Prince had prepared himself for this. He knew that the trial would be a sick joke - that Joffrey Dogget of the Warrior's Sons was on the tribunal and not even one man from the small council said as much. As such, he had sent Ser Crane and both of Rhaena's ladies to bring her. Through a side door she entered. Her gait was firm, but the bruises on her face and neck told a different story. Maegor's soul plummeted into grief. Seeing her hurt drove him to the greatest sorrow he felt besides the death of his father…

And only fueled the fire at Ser Lyonel. Once Rhaena was at the witness stand, he clapped his hands. "Princess Rhaena, what happened to you on the night of the feast?"

She simply stared ahead. "I had enjoyed myself at the feast, even seeking a dance from my Prince uncle." Maegor winced at that. Perhaps had he accepted her dance this would've been avoided. "Needing air, I walked to the balcony, and Ser Lyonel joined me." Her gaze drifted to him, and fury blazed in them. "We talked, and when I tried to walk away he grabbed me, pinned me to the ground, and attempted to rape me."

"Lies!" Ser Lyonel screamed.

"I would've lost my maidenhead to his demon seed had Dick Bean not saved me."

"You wanted my seed you whore!"

"SILENCE!" A dragon roar shook the keep, alarming the onlookers. "This trial is over," Maegor said.

"We have more testimony to wade through, your Grace," insisted Maester Desmond, shifting through his copious notes.

"I've seen enough," Maegor declared, drawing Blackfyre from its sheath. "Bring me the block, Ser Gawen. I shall carry the sentence out now."

The accused suddenly paled, seeing the seriousness in the gaze of the Prince and the lack of response from the others in the hall - he was clearly expendable. "Your Grace… we cannot sentence him without a proper trial," warned Lord Loren, though his words were half-hearted. As if spoken for merely the sake of uttering his mind. "And on charges as extensive as this, more time must be granted to properly investigate…"

Twirling his blade, Maegor looked coldly up at the high table. From outside the keep, powerful wingbeats and a shriek echoed through the great hall, causing quite the alarm - many here were survivors of the Field of Fire, and no one was keen to play the part of House Gardener. "My Lord, you don't seem to understand the authority here. I, as Prince, hold the right of pit and gallows wherever I go. That I choose to use it sparingly doesn't mean I won't employ it at the right time." His deathly gaze found its way to Ser Lyonel, who visibly cringed. "Between the word of a smarmy, lesser lordling and that of the bruised Princess Rhaena, I take the latter each time. Ser Lyonel dies now."

Arriving back, Ser Gawen had quickly found a block of wood. With a flourish he smacked it on the ground. The smack echoed through the great hall for everyone to hear.

Terrified, Ser Lyonel cast a pleading look at Lord Loren. "My Lord! You can't let him do this! I am innocent!"

A deep, dark chuckle left Maegor's throat. "If you're innocent and my niece a liar, good Ser, then why not present your claim to the gods and let them decide?" He'd rather kill the fucker here and now - glimpsed first hand at Rhaena's deep anguish and needing to end it - but a part of him wished to inflict true suffering. A darkness within his soul, fiery and urging proper vengeance.

Take the bait… take the bait you insolent fuck…

That darkness got its wish. "I… I demand a trial by combat!" Lyonel's voice was halting at first, but grew more confident and bold as he spoke. "Seems I cannot get a fair trial from a woman and her dog-dragon of an uncle. The gods shall prove me right! For my champion I call…"

"Oh no. You aren't some weakling," Ser Gawen announced, reputation tall and powerful even with the Westerlords. "You must accept the challenge personally and face her Grace's champion, since she is your accuser."

Sucking in a breath, Ser Lyonel found no defense from his peers and lieges. Reluctantly, he nodded. "Let the bitch name her champion."

"Your Grace," announced Dick Bean, his young features contorted in affront. "Allow me to dispatch this monster."

"No, allow me, your Grace," asked Ser Symond Crane of the Kingsguard.

Androw Farman also strode forward, urged by his sister. "None would be more honored to fight for you than I, Princess." A half-dozen knights and Lords offered their services, some out of loyalty and others out of simply seeking the favor of the Crown.

Gulping, Rhaena was still only just keeping herself together. Face to face with the man that nearly tainted her with his seed, she fought a shudder that would brand her as weak before the entirety of the martial westerlords. "I…" she spoke, clearing her throat. "I thank you for your loyalty, fair Sers." Her inner dragon began to stir as she spoke, seeking out the one she held in the most esteem - if instinctively. "But there is only one that can deliver proper justice."

Lord Loren saw where her eyes traveled, and shared a look with Joffrey Doggett. Both smirked softly in triumph.

"I name Prince Maegor Targaryen as my champion."

Grinning, Maegor pounded his chest and leveled Blackfyre dangerously at Ser Lyonel. "I accept."

She woke up to the roar of the dragons… not that it scared her anymore. Lady Tyanna had long gotten used to it, with being intimately around dragonriders for years now. Rhaena was off and Aegon now flew among the gods, but her mistress was still present on Dragonstone alongside Vhagar… as was the beast residing in the Dragonmont. A wild dragon, untamed and fierce.

That was likely the set of roars she had heard earlier. The wild dragon and Vhagar squabbling over territory yet again. Hell of a life. Swinging out of bed, draping a robe over her bare form, she began to quickly brush and style her hair in the looking glass in preparation for the day.

Her hand drifted to the little necklace draped round her neck. A little arrowhead of dragonglass, not worth much as a diamond or ruby, but priceless for her. Never did she go without it, even if it disappeared underneath her clothing.

Thick black hair cascading in waves down her back, Tyanna had dressed in a black dress with grey lines, something as northern as it was Valyrian that had been the trend in capitol fashion two years previously. Around her, the servants - mostly local stock since court hadn't relocated here - nodded their friendly greetings. She smiled back, as opposed to the more hateful or lustful stares that came her way elsewhere.

Smallfolk and retainers here had grown up with the magic of Old Valyria… it didn't scare them, nor did Tyanna scare them. She found it welcome, especially from being without her dear friends.

The stablehands and maids that shared her bed just didn't give the same sense of companionship. If it wasn't for her mistress, Tyanna swore she'd have died of boredom. Luckily, the two black and red-coated Targaryen guards indicated her presence in the Lord's bedchamber - wouldn't be a slow morning, thank the gods.

Dowager Queen Visenya was as Tyanna expected, dressed in her riding leathers. "Good morning, your Grace," she said, curtseying.

Visenya turned, hair sticking out every which way in tangled knots. "Ah. Morning, Tyanna." The Queen chuckled, emphasizing the dimples on her cheeks. "No matter how tight your braid, when you have an eager young dragon all of it ends a mess."

"I wouldn't know, your Grace," replied Tyanna, smirking slightly. "Though I've had the same trouble with horses from time to time."

"Not nearly the same, but close." Taking a seat by her vanity, Tyanna picked up the hairbrush and moved to tame the dragonrider's unruly silver mane. "I oft wished to cut it short like my husband, but Egg always refused to let me. Said he couldn't stand to see me parted with my hair."

Tyanna clucked. "Few men can order you to do anything, your Grace."

A snort. "Egg especially couldn't, but I chose to let him have his way. That look of rapture and lust when I swayed my hair at him… couldn't get rid of that." She sighed dreamily, like a maiden rather than a powerful dragonrider… only for her melancholy to return. "Have you ever been in love, Tyanna?"

That paused her efforts, only slightly. "Um… no, I have not." She bit her lip, to which Visenya noticed but said nothing. "I've known the touch of men and women before, but not love."

"Men and women?" She couldn't help but pry a bit. "I've heard the giggles of the maids when you walk past them, though I haven't seen the same attitudes in the stablehands or men-at-arms."

"Women… they are graceful and sweet. I'm much more… discriminating in the men I allow into my bed. One cannot fall with child with a woman."

"Do not be as sure… Aegon and I shared our bed with fiery ardor, and I only fell with child twice." She sighed, regret in her tone. "But I pray you do not outlive the one you finally do fall in love with, Tyanna. I've outlived both my loves and all it brings me is pain. Without my children and grandchildren needing me, I would contemplate simply ending it where I stand."

"Your Grace… do not speak of such things."

Visenya looked saddened. "I know I shouldn't, Tyanna, but it's grievous to wake alone in my bed after so long with warmth. And I am too old to sleep against Vhagar anymore - that's a young woman's game."

Laughing at the jape for Visenya's sake, Tyanna finished off the last tangle before beginning to rebraid the silver hair. "Take it from me, your Grace, as a baseborn girl to someone of high rank, the acquisition of duty is one fraught with peril and limited options." After her father took her from her mother's corpse, Tyanna was sure she'd have grown up into a courtesan on his behalf, until Visenya saved her from that life. "With your mind still sharp and your children still loving, you have much use to the Realm."

A mirthless chuckle. "I used to think you reminded me of myself, Tyanna, with Rhaena as Rhaenys - but recently I've seen the opposite to be true. Testament to my continuing industriousness, I suppose." Her frown was gone, replaced with a soft smile. "Besides, I received a raven today." Visenya gestured to the dispatch opened on the bedside table. "My son, requesting my presence in court. He is about to take a moons long tour of the Free Cities with my gooddaughter and wishes that I help young Egg oversee the ship of state." She was confident in her son, so didn't see this as a crutch for him. "I've already sent a reply accepting."

"Are you sure you can handle it, your Grace?"

"Aegon… my love would not want to see me suffer." Suffer she did - while the pale, fierce beauty Visenya was known for hadn't disappeared, age had begun to creep up. Her face was more wrinkled, body more spindly. Rheumatism was starting to affect her limbs, though constant dragonriding and exercise staved that off as much as possible. "I am still the third-head of the dragon, fierce and proud."

Nodding, Tyanna fixed the last of her hair into a simple braid. "Of course, my Queen. And you'll have me always by your side."

A smirk was cast her way - Tyanna could see through the looking glass. "I'm sure you would jump at the chance to see your friends… including my niece once she returns from the Westerlands."

"A happy coincidence," Tyanna replied, though she couldn't hide her smile.

Dismissed to her quarters after breaking their fast, the Lady in Waiting to her Grace the Queen Dowager immediately made for her personal effects. When Queen Visenya made travel plans, she made them to travel nigh immediately. Forget a day's notice, they were likely to fly to King's Landing before supper. She stuffed the clothes she wished to take in a large saddlebag that would be strapped to Vhagar's back. Several dresses and a pair of red trousers for when Rhaena insisted they do something unladylike.

The sweet girl she had met several years prior did little of that aside from interacting with the animals, but as she grew and Dreamfyre grew, Rhaena grew more and more adventurous. Like her grandmother, she was - and it was said that Queen Rhaenys was much like that in spite of the characterization of her in court as a perfect, if spirited, lady.

Moving on to her personal effects, Tyanna found the stack of letters she kept with her. The most recent correspondence with all her friends. Updates on court from Alys and Larissa, a bubbly letter of the most unadulterated joy from Samantha about her new home in White Harbor - Tyanna lamented that she wouldn't be able to attend her wedding to Ser Theomore, though that was only the beginning of her grief there - dry annoyance about the balls of the Westerlands from Elissa, and humorous reports of the journey along the Goldroad from Melony and Alayne.

And then there was Rhaena. Her letters were the most precious of them all for the quiet, secretive girl far from home. Far from the one person that actually cared about her in her life. Their correspondence was in High Valyrian, 'You could always use the practice,' Tyanna had told Rhaena in one of her more silly moments. It worked, Rhaena was now fluent in it.

I don't know what to do, Tyanna… I suppose there isn't some sort of love potion or something you could grant me? Damn, it's pointless. I love being here, yet also I don't and wish I was home where all of you could give me comfort.

Never love, Tyanna. It isn't worth the heartbreak sometimes.

"Have you ever been in love?"

A sigh. Looking at Visenya, at Rhaena… the foreign-born bastard daughter of Old Valyria could only agree with the both of them - though perhaps… it was too late for that.

No matter, she had duties to attend to.

"She's not here?" Maegor frowned at that. He wanted her present when he delivered justice in the sight of all the gods - both true and false.

Sighing, Alayne shook her head. "She and Melony remained in Casterly Rock… we thought it was best." Both the Royce maiden and Elissa Farman were present, the former to bear witness and the latter because she was of the Westerlands. Every major Lord of the Westerlands and their family had crowded upon the dias set up in the great Square of Lannisport - on top of tens of thousands in the crowd eager to watch. It wasn't every day that a Prince fought personally in a trial by combat.

Looking over to Ser Gawen, the man shrugged. "You shouldn't begrudge her pain."

"I don't… fine. I will still deliver justice for you." Maegor knew he should go to her. Comfort her as she deserved… but she needed justice as much as she did comfort. Watching the monster strutting around like a proud knight of the songs, his blood boiled. "Time to finish this."

Clearing his throat, the old Septon was uncomfortable about this. Granted, a trial by combat against an accused in which the Seven would decide guilt, but with the massive dragon of the late King resting menacingly in a corner of the square… This did not seem in the proper tradition of the most sacred tradition.

He had heard one Targaryen lord naming his dragon as his champion in one of these. Perhaps the Septon should make thanks that Prince Maegor would fight himself - though what sort of choice was that?

"Children of the Seven," he announced to the gathered crowd. "We are here to see justice delivered under the auspices of the gods. The wisdom of the Father flows combined with the strength of the Warrior to decide the truth of whether the accused, Ser Lyonel Lorch, is guilty of the crime of attempted rape upon Princess Rhaena Targaryen. Ser Lyonel will be representing himself before the gods, while Princess Rhaena's champion is decreed to be Prince Maegor Targaryen."

Trying not to visibly seethe, Maegor could hear most of the crowd cheering the manticore knight. 'Shall we burn these bugs, valonqar?' he heard Balerion growl.

Maegor was sorely tempted to give Balerion the go ahead, but merely scowled. 'Don't, some support Rhaena.' While outnumbered two to one, there were a strong minority that howled abuse at Ser Lyonel. 'I'd rather not have them burned.'

'You don't trust my precision?'

'No… I don't.' He could feel Balerion's annoyance and it made Maegor relax a bit, grinning softly. Ser Lyonel stared at him with half-disgust, half-puzzlement. He must think I'm mad.

'Let him. You'll benefit.' Balerion had fought more battles than namedays Maegor had been alive, so he would be a fool to refuse his advice. 'Just remember to…'

'I know, I know…'

'No one hurts my niece without me finishing things.'

Luckily for his anxiety, the silent conversation with his dragon allowed Maegor to avoid the majority of the long-winded sermon from the Septon. Merely enough to catch the tail end of it. "...And we ask the warrior to grant his blessings to these two champions. Ser Lyonel, Prince Maegor, may the Father's sense of justice channel themselves through you so as to find the truth and lies of your stories. In the name of the Seven, I consecrate this field of battle." Making a seven-pointed star with his fingers, the Septon scurried off, leaving only the two of them and their seconds.

"No showboating, my Prince," ser Gawen said blithely.

"I shall try not to."

"If you do, I'll have Lord Snow brought down from Winterfell."

Drawing Blackfyre from the sheath that Ser Gawen held, Maeger looked perturbed. "If you do I would rather die here and now." They shared a mirthless chuckle before Maegor turned away… sparing one last glance towards the massive form of Casterly Rock looming over the city. For you, niece. This is for you.

The two champions moved to the center of the courtyard, Lorch smirking and Maegor scowling. "They say you're good," the Manticore knight began. "Fighting against savages North of the wall must've been hard."

"It was." He owed this monster no explanation.

"You don't fight in any melees or tourneys. Something to hide?" The smirk widened. "I'll give you a chance to just give in right now - accept that the Princess wanted my cock."

It took everything in Maegor not to strangle this cunt where he stood. "Before the day is out my dragon will snack on you." With that, he roared and attacked. His thrust was only just parried by Ser Lorch, the latter swinging at him and driving Maegor on the defensive.

"That's it?" Alayne was incredulous. "He's already being driven back."

Ser Gawen snorted. "You don't know how the Prince fights."

Maegor knew he could've ended this without much effort. Lorch was skilled but a tourney knight. He hadn't been trained by the best warriors in the realm. He hadn't been exposed to the harshest of elements, hadn't fought for his survival against the most brutal of men. With only a roar and a push he could end this puissant in front of him…

But he wanted more. The fire in the pit of his belly… in his very blood wanted the cunt to have hope. To have confidence in victory only to have it dashed away. Such was even more agonizing than physical pain, Maegor knew from serving under Brandon Snow. Lorch would suffer this pain, endure the agony that tore through one's soul.

And so Maegor feigned retreat. Drawing Lorch back and back, giving ground in a defensive flurry to take Lorch's attacks. The knight smirked underneath his visor, thinking the Targaryen Prince was off his game. His greatsword met Blackfyre again and again, a sudden burst of energy emerging to overcome the massive weight to hack downward in a quick frenzy. Crash, crash, crash did the steel meet, each time seeming to weaken Maegor's parries. Grinning, Lorch put all of his power into a final chop that would certainly send Blackfyre clattering to the floor and leave the child of Aegon and Visenya a bloody corpse upon the ground…

Only for Maegor to twirl out of the way in a maneuver more in common to dance than combat - the burly Prince far more agile than any could imagine him to be. Never did he fight in melees so all but Ser Gawen were watching in surprise.

Lorch's hack was unopposed, crashing onto the stone floor and cracking it - sending him stumbling. Maegor was far quicker on his feet, finding his footing and slashing at his foe's side. Drawing blood and sending it sprinkling the ground. The knight snarled and lashed out. Just what Maegor was hoping for.

He leapt back, waited for the thrust to shoot towards where he had been, and then swung Blackfyre down in a hack of his own. A collective gasp came from the crowd at the winning move.

Clutching the stump of his arm, blood spurting through the severed blood vessels of Blackfyre's clean cut, Ser Lyonel screamed at the top of his lungs. As if it would lessen his agony. Above, Maegor kicked away the sword… his foe's hand still clamped on the hilt. Circling the knight, his lips were curled into a deep scowl, eyes blazing with hate. "Look at me." When Ser Lyonel just kept screaming, Maegor kicked him in the chest. "Look at me, you shit!" Slowly, hesitantly, the defeated Lyonel complied.

Sighing, Lord Loren rose from his seat. "In the sights of the gods and men, the champion of Princess Rhaena has triumphed, indicating the accused's guilt on the crime of attempted rape. His sentencing shall commence forthwith."

"There can be only one sentence," Maegor bellowed, causing Lord Loren to blink. "Death."

"Your Grace," blubbered the septon. "Lord Lannister has the right of pit and gallows in the lands that he surveys."

"And I am the Prince of the Realm, ordained by my brother - your King - to proscribe justice where I see fit!" His fiery gaze cast directly at the Lords of the Westerlands seated on the dias. Apart from the Farmans and Crakehalls, all were either in disagreement or disbelief. Some outright disgusted. He did not give a shit. "Never will I let you sentence this scum to the black… or to some form of imprisonment. Only death is worth what he has done!"

The knight was shaking in terror. "Please, your Grace! Mercy!"

"Mercy?" He was incredulous. "Mercy!" Sword slashing through the air, another scream rang out as he severed Lorch's foot. "You don't fucking deserve mercy!" Setting Blackfyre on the stone ground, Maegor knelt and grabbed Lorch by the collar. "You deserve to die!" He punched him, mailed fist breaking the man's nose. "You deserve to suffer!" Another flurry of punches, breaking his teeth. "YOU DESERVE TO BURN!" he roared like the dragon he was.

"Father," Ser Tyrion whispered to Loren. "This is madness. Stop him."

Loren shrugged. "He is the Prince. It is his right."

"Ser Lorch's fate is yours to judge."

"Not while he's here." It was time Tyrion learned how things actually worked… hopefully it would focus him to what needed to be done.

Rising, Maegor grabbed Blackfyre and held it menacingly. "In the north," he proclaimed to the crowd. "They have a saying - he who passes the sentence must swing the sword. I pass the sentence of death upon Ser Lyonel Lorch for the crime of attempted rape upon Princess Rhaena. For my sword, I call upon my bonded dragon, Balerion the Black Dread!"

A roar nearly shook the entire city of Lannisport. Many flinched, quite a few booking out of there as fast as their legs could carry them. 'Now we're talking, valonqar.' Roused from his place, Balerion ambled forward, smoke seeping from his nostrils and maw.

The Septon stood. "Your Grace… I must protest! This is not the traditional sentence of death…"

"It is the death rapists deserve."

"You say you must swing the sword, yet have your dragon do it!" Tyrion challenged, essentially calling Maegor a coward and a hypocrite.

Maegor didn't take the bait. "The bond between a dragon and its rider is beyond your comprehension, Lannister. He is an extension of me and I of him." Cheeks burning, Tyrion sat down to a smirk from Maegor. Looking down at Ser Lyonel, Maegor cocked his head. "Any last words?"

'Just let me burn him, valonqar.'

Realizing his fate was already ordained, Lorch did his best to scowl through his agony. "I only regret I… didn't put my bastard in her belly."

'He won't burn! This fucker will die slowly!'

Maegor's rage mirrored Balerion's. "Eat him, brother."

Roaring at the top of his massive lungs, Balerion clamped down his jaws onto Lyonel's legs. If his pain was unbearable before, this was excruciating. With a flourish, Balerion tossed the condemned knight into the air, reveling in his screams before chomping down. Puffing a tiny blast of flame into his mouth and then swallowing.

So ended Ser Lyonel Lorch.

"Let this be a lesson to the lot of you!" Maegor proclaimed. "All rapists will meet the flames, by my order and the authority of Aenys Targaryen, first of his Name, King of all Westeros and Shield of his people!" Glaring once more at the trembling Westerlords, he sheathed Blackfyre and climbed upon his dragon. "Sovegon." Balerion hooted and beat his wings airborne.

Gazing through the spyglass, Rhaena felt herself shudder at seeing her uncle take to the sky. She had seen all… and felt the heat course through her body and core at the entire sight.

It wasn't often that young Viserys saw his father as anything but the loving man that so cared about him and his siblings. Always jovial and eager to please them in whatever manner necessary, not that Viserys asked beyond his station. But, seated off to the side in a meeting of the Small Council, the more reserved figure of King Aenys I Targaryen was one he was unfamiliar with… but one that he watched with awe. "And the preparations have been set, cousin?"

"Aye, your Grace," replied Viserys' uncle Aethan, the Master of Ships. "A fleet of fifty ships, all centered around the great galleass Balerion's Might. The deck is large enough for Quicksilver to land upon, small and agile that he is."

"Excellent, quite excellent." The King clapped his hands, showing his pleasure with the situation.

Curious, Viserys raised a hand. "Father… may I ask…"

"Don't bother father, Vis," Aegon replied, seated right beside Aenys with their mother on the other side.

But the King stilled his eldest son with a raised hand. "Egg, if your brother wishes to ask a question, he has the right and the duty. This is why he is here, to learn how to govern - Viserys could be your Hand one day." Chastened, Aegon nodded, crossing his arms. Aenys then smiled warmly at his middle child. "Yes, Viserys?"

Biting his lip, the taciturn prince forced his way through his inclination to quiet. "Father, it would be faster to simply fly you and mother to Essos on Quicksilver." He was intimately familiar with the sweet dragon, Aenys having never spared letting his children watch, pet, or speak with the beast. "You could cover a lot more ground that way."

Aenys laughed warmly. "Aye, my son. We could definitely cover more ground in less time with the dragons, and in an emergency I would do just that, but this is different." He leaned forward, gesturing with his arms. "A royal progress, especially to a foreign land, must show off all of our might and prosperity. The glory of the Realm shall be displayed upon the conclusion of receiving the ambassadors, so as our rivals and allies can see we are thriving even after your grandfather's tragic passing. Do you understand?"

Viserys nodded. "I think so."

"Good boy." He smiled. "Additionally…" It was clear he was speaking to the entire small council. "I shall be requiring Lord Butterwell to join me alongside Lord Aethan and the Queen for the entirety of the journey."

Alton Butterwell, Master of Coin, nodded his head. "It is a great honor, my King." He was a competent administrator, but quite fawning. Not one that Viserys held in high esteem.

Neither, it seemed, did his mother. "Your Grace, is that necessary? With Lord Arryn and Lord Reyne in the Westerlands, having the small council be so fractured could have adverse effects."

"You worry too much, my love," Aenys replied. "Lord Stark and Lord Strong remain." His eyes flickered to the Hand of the King and Master of Whisperers, the latter retained for his experience even after the council reshuffle upon Aenys' ascension. "And my mother returns from Dragonstone this afternoon." He looked pleased with that eventuality.

So did Viserys. He loved his grandmother.

"Besides," Aenys continued. "I need Lord Butterwell for the dealings with the Iron Bank and Rogare Bank. Lord Lucas reports negotiations proceeding well but the Master of Coin is required for the final ones." Alyssa sighed, but conceded the point. "Now, to other business. My son, how is progress on the Dragonpalace?"

Since prior to his coronation, Aenys had been responsible for the building of the Dragonpalace - as a result, with great pride he gave the new responsibility to his eldest son. Aegon, puffing out his chest, was determined to repay his father's trust. "I have replaced the master builder in charge of the project, father."

A raised eyebrow. "Why, my son? He is an expert architect."

"I know that, and plan on rehiring him in the future." The last was tacked on quickly - Aegon hadn't intended it. "But I felt it was more important to build up the walls surrounding the High Hill before we continue with the remainder of the buildings and keep within."

Nodding, Aenys patted his son on the back. "Good job. You have your mother's good sense, Egg. How goes progress on the walls."

Aegon winced. "Forgive me father, but the cliffs and uneven ground are making progress difficult. I want the walls to be siege-proof, and thus more stone has to be quarried in the Stormlands and Vale. May take an entire year before we have enough, but I've started on the gatehouses."

"Try to expedite it, Egg. You must do better."

The gentle reminder made Egg bristle, but he got over it… at least overtly. "Father… may I speak with you and mother in private after the meeting?"

Aenys blinked, but agreed. "Of course. We're done with pressing business anyway. Dismissed," he told the rest of the council. When Viserys rose, Aenys motioned for him to sit. "You're family, you may be present." Once the last councilor left and Ser Maladon Moore shut the door behind him, the King looked at his son. "Yes, Egg?"

Aegon took a breath. "Father, it has been many moons since you became King and still I have not been named Crown Prince."

The jovial expression on the King's face changed to a neutral one. "You have presumption to demand this of me, my son."

"I do not demand anything, but merely state the truth," Aegon replied. "I am your eldest son, and by all the laws of this realm I am to be King after you."

"That is simply by the laws of the Andals," replied Alyssa. She thought Aegon should be King, but respected the position of Aenys - Rhaena being the heir and Aegon marrying her to become the consort was plenty fine with her. "We seek to operate differently if we so choose."

The Prince looked incredulous. "Our subjects are Andals and we follow the Faith of the Seven. A woman is not equipped to inherit any land or title ahead that of a man…"

"Do not disrespect your sister that way," Aenys insisted, his voice raising. "I have yet not decided of which path to follow, and you will not try to undermine Rhaena simply to get your own way. I will not tolerate it."

"She will be my Queen when we marry," Aegon insisted. That only seemed to ire their father more.

Ser Maladon then entered. "Forgive me, your Grace, but an urgent dispatch from Casterly Rock."

Raising his eyebrow at that, Aenys took the letter and opened it. All color drained from his face. "Husband?" Alyssa asked, only receiving the letter. "Oh gods…" she clasped her mouth, tears in her eyes.

Viserys was concerned. "Father?"

"Saddle Quicksilver!" he ordered the Kingsguard. "We depart in an hour!"

"Father, you cannot go so quickly," Aegon insisted. "We still have to discuss this…"

"The matter is closed!" Aenys thundered, surprising both of his sons. He was never enraged, let alone like this. "Speak of it once more and you have no chance of being my heir!" The King stormed out, followed quickly by their shaken mother. Neither Prince had anything to say.

Two hours later, Viserys had long since heard the roar of Quicksilver as his parents journeyed towards the Westerlands. No explanation was given to him… or anyone else in the Red Keep apart from Lord Hand Torrhen Stark, who looked grim. Jaehaerys and Alysanne were concerned as expected, but the prospect of their grandmother arriving later that day calmed them.

Aside from that, Viserys was also puzzled as to the last conversation between his brother and his father. So much so that his normally vigilant self was distracted in his lessons. "Your Grace, please pay attention," Grand Maester Gawen responded with a curt tone.

"Forgive me," he said sheepishly. "What was the question?"

"The House words for House Lannister."

"Um…" By the gods, he was stumped. "A Lannister always pays his debts?" he replied.

Gawen shook his head. "A common saying, but not their true sigil. Again."

Viserys wracked his brain. "Ours is the Fury."

"That's House Durrandon, adopted by House Baratheon." Gawen sighed. "You seem to be distracted, your Grace."

Only able to nod, Viserys slumped in his chair. "Grand Maester, why do eldest sons succeed their fathers upon the latter's death?"

Confused as to why it was asked of him, Gawen was smart and figured it out. Aegon is the eldest son yet not the eldest child… he must've asked. This sort of conflict was foreseen by the Citadel and Starry Sept. "Prince Viserys, such is the tradition of all tribes in Westeros, besides the Rhoynar of Dorne and the Mormonts of Bear Island. Absolute male primogeniture… and if there is no direct male of the name, then the male child of the female line will take the name of the house and rule."

"I know that, but why do women not inherit?"

"How can I explain this to you, my Prince." Viserys was young, and thus not aware of the vagaries of the differences between the sexes. "Women… they are emotional creatures. While a man is ruled by his logic and his sense of honor and boldness, a woman is ruled by her desires. That makes them fickle and hard to predict." He would've preferred a septon explain the next, but felt confident enough to delve into spiritual matters as well as scientific ones. "The Faith teaches women to be pious and serve as the moral guardian of hearth and home, but in ruling, there cannot be a risk of emotion clouding one's logical judgement. Do you understand?"

Blinking, Viserys hesitantly nodded. "I think so… but my mother and grandmother serve the crown closely."

"They can be advisors, but full authority must rest with the man and man alone. You'll understand when you're older why this must be." Hopefully the lad would engrain this and be an ally against his sister should the latter try and usurp the throne.

Wondering why it needed to wait till he was older, a loud dragon roar echoed over the city. Grandmother's here!

Attempting to close the door behind her, Elissa jumped with a yelp as a finger tapped her shoulder. Turning, she immediately lowered her head. "Prince Maegor."

The Prince looked as if he had heard at least some of the conversation within. His face was contorted in worry and sorrow, clearly driven to the limit now that vengeance and justice had been achieved… the anger was gone. "How is she?" he asked.

Elissa sighed. "As well as can be expected, but as her friends Melony, Alayne, and I can only do so much."

"She needs her blood." It wasn't a question, but a statement.

"Her parents aren't here, nor are her siblings or aunt. You are the only one that can truly comfort her, my Prince." She knew what Maegor meant to Rhaena - he was probably the only person other than maybe Queen Visenya that could truly balm her friend. Elissa wouldn't betray such truths without Rhaena's approval, but she had to make him know. "She asked for you… only you after I arrived."

This caused Maegor to blink. "I… I didn't know."

"Why didn't you go to her."

"I knew the Lannisters would try to sweep it under the rug, so that drew all my attention…" It was a strong defense, but he still felt like shit.

A soft smile formed on Elissa's lips. "You're here now. You care." She began to leave for her guest chambers, but only turned the corner when she saw Maegor go in. You should've been betrothed to her.

Entering, Maegor's heart broke at the sight. His beloved niece, head buried in her pillow and sobbing softly. She was so gentle, so innocent underneath the surface of the fierce dragon. What that monster did… no, he had gotten his vengeance for her. Now was time for love and comfort. "Niece?"

She was up almost immediately. "Uncle," she choked out. Her eyes were bloodshot and lined with tears - when Maegor opened his arms, she ran into them desperately. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm so sorry…"

Rubbing her back, he was suddenly confused. "What on earth do you have to be sorry for?" His hold never slackened even in his incredulity.

"I'm sorry… I couldn't stop him… I'm weak and no dragon…"

"No!" He hugged her ever tighter, squeezing - making sure she felt safe and protected. "Don't say that, dear niece. This was not your fault."

"Ser… Ser Gawen trained me. I… I should know how to fight," she sobbed, face still buried in his chest.

Moving his hand to cup her cheek, Maegor made Rhaena look at him. "Niece." Their eyes met, and he felt a surge of affection for her. "You are ten and four. No one begrudges you if you need a guard for protection." That didn't help, leading to a minute of tears and trembling to which he patiently just embraced her. He changed tactics. "Did you know this happened to your grandmother?"

That truly surprised Rhaena, looking up at him with shock. "Grandmother Visenya?"

"Aye." She had told him long ago, when he was just starting to pursue the opposite sex. To warn him about the out of control lusts of men - the lessons had been taken to heart. "She was set upon by a knight in Oldtown when she was only slightly older than you are now."

"Did she kill the man?" she said through her tears.

"She did… but it was a close run thing." He sighed. "We all have to struggle, dear niece. I struggled and had my ass kicked for years in the North, not just by Lord Snow. By the gods, we all escaped true injury and suffering and we must be thankful for it, but never can we allow it to happen again. You will be just like your grandmother, fierce and merciless against those that attack you, but only if you stay strong. Do you understand?"

Sucking in a breath, Rhaena nodded before resting her head back on his chest. "Thank you, uncle. I… I love you."

He smiled. "I love you too, sweet niece."

Rhaena sighed in a sense of relief, savoring his touch. "Thank you… for killing him."

Maegor's face darkened. "He deserved worse for what he tried to do to you."

"Still… thank you. You're my savior along with that Dick Bean."

I'll have that lad knighted when we get back to King's Landing. Nevertheless, it felt wonderful… the praise of his niece. Maegor had been praised before, but only that of his parents or Ser Gawen and Brandon Snow could compare to Rhaena's - he didn't know why. He wouldn't question it though. "I am glad to be of service to you, Rhaena."

The way he said her name, she couldn't help but shudder. It was sweet, loving - said with the best of care. Was it perverse that she was turned on by it? That her core pulsed with desire? Rhaena still barely knew what such feelings were and now she was having them. Calm… calm… "People say you're a brute… but you're not. You're the most wonderful, kind, strong man in the Seven Kingdoms."

His eyebrow rose. "More than your kepa?"

She giggled. "Well… mayhaps he's kinder." They both shared a chuckle at that before Rhaena frowned slightly. "Uncle?"

"Yes, niece?"

Rhaena bit her lip. "I… that monster, he was my first kiss."

"Oh." Yet another justification for feeding him to Balerion. "I'm sorry, niece, truly." While it hadn't gone anywhere, Maegor didn't regret his first kiss with Lady Wylla Poole, the Winterfell Steward's daughter - she was sweet and kind, much like Rhaena but in a more wild northern way. "Such is supposed to be an amazing thing."

Still chewing on her lip, Rhaena fought a blush. "Can you kiss me?"

He blinked. "Me?"

"Aye… you're the only one I trust. Please, uncle?" She was not averse to batting her eyelashes innocently.

Was it wrong? It's just a kiss… But this was his little niece, the babe he had held in his arms after she was born… 'Just do it, you idiot!' he heard Balerion practically growl. Ah, hells with it. Maegor leaned forward and pressed his lips gently on hers.

It lasted but a few seconds, but when they pulled back… Rhaena blushed madly, tilting her face away and averting her gaze. Not that it wasn't good… That. Was. Incredible. She wanted it, every day. Stronger, harder, sloppier kisses that would make her toes curl - and only from him.

"Well…" He rubbed the back of his neck. It was just his niece, and Maegor didn't intend to be anything but innocent, but there was for an instant a spark. One never felt for Ralla, and not felt with Ceryse since their first miscarriage. He didn't know how to place it. "Was that satisfactory?"

Doing her best to compose herself, Rhaena only nodded. "I liked it, though I've only had two. Not fair to make a judgement without more to compare to." She grinned in spite of herself.

He frowned, then laughed. "There's my dear niece." She had her grandmother's dry humor and he found it refreshing. Perhaps she would soon get out of this.

A banging on the door revealed Ser Gawen. His lips were pressed into a thin like. "Your Graces, we need you to mount the dragons."

Maegor raised a brow. "What for?" Rhaena looked nervous.

"Lodos the twice-drowned, his fleet approaches Fair Isle."

Chapter Text

It was like nothing she could've imagined.

Sitting on the lap of her grandfather, hearing his heroic tales of battles and conquests long past, Rhaena had noticed his eyes full even as he related some heroic deed or mighty dragon attack to her giggles and cheers. She hadn't understood it at the time.

By the Seven, she understood it now.

Below, the smell of burning wood and flesh reached her even as Dreamfyre kept high in the sky. The Ironborn rebels had struck the first blow… a raid on Fair Isle, Elissa's home. Undoubtedly to draw legitimacy with their people by notching a victory against the Westermen - a traditional foe.

Unfortunately for them, she and her uncle Maegor were at Casterly Rock, and he led her into battle.

"Stay high! Dreamfyre is still small enough to be killed by their siege artillery."

"Uncle…"

"Wait till I loop in the air, then dive, understood?!" She could only nod.

Seeing the loop Balerion made below her, Rhaena remembered her uncle's words of tactics, now it was safe enough to dive, and yet she hesitated. 'Muna… we must attack…' Dreamfyre reminded her.

Gripping the spines of her dragon tightly, Rhaena took a deep breath. Could she live with herself if she simply waited here and let Maegor finish them off? Not a chance in all the seven hells.

I'd be exactly what they thought I was… what he thought I was.

Rhaena gave the silent command, Dreamfyre roaring and with a beat of her wings making the plunge. Something she had endured before and greatly enjoyed but this was different. No longer was this a game. It terrified her.

It shocked her.

It made her feel alive. The fire coursing through her blood hotter than it ever was.

You are a dragon.

You are a dragon.

You are a dragon!

"I am a dragon!" The Ironborn ships, marked by the fiery projectiles of the catapults as they hurled death at Fair Isle - the home of her dearest friend - grew larger and larger against the backdrop of the sea. Fury burned hot inside her, overriding every sense of fear or reluctance. She was a dragon. She was fire and blood. "Dracarys!"

The heat blasted back against her in a superheated cloud of shimmering air and noxious black smoke. While nothing like the massive gouts of flame Balerion enveloped entire triremes with, Dreamfyre showed she was no pushover in the words of her rider's house. The tongue of dragonfire shot out and bathed an Ironborn trireme along half the length. It's sail burst into an inferno, screams heard from even her perch astride the lilac beast. Eyes red with the fury of the dive shallowing out, Rhaena strained as Dreamfyre beat her wings, pulling up to careen over the battlefield.

All over, Balerion's relentless assaults had turned the largest behemoths into incinerated hulks of fire atop the water. Smoke shrouded the coastline, marking the funeral pyres of hundreds of sailors.

Rhaena felt naught but contempt for them. Traitors and rapists all… she'd heard the stories. Rapists… There were still many longships, the smaller vessels gliding through the water and engaging the Farman vessels and shore defenses with arrows, small ballistae, and javelins. "Dracarys, girl. Kill them."

'Kessa, muna. With pleasure.' Her eyes were slight with flame as Dreamfyre resumed her attack. No longer was she a mere maiden.

She was a true dragonrider.

Time blurred. Rhaena knew not how many minutes had passed nor even the number of longships she turned into burning specks of debris upon the blue-green waters of Elissa's home. It wasn't even a fight, arrows batted away by Dreamfyre's thickening skin as if they were pinpricks. She was covered in soot and her hair had blown loose from her braid, but Rhaena was untouched.

Was this what her grandmother felt like at Gulltown? At the Field of Fire? Rhaena knew she should feel numb from taking countless lives beneath and she didn't relish it… but that mattered not to her. She felt nothing but the triumph of her realized destiny.

A roar drew her from her reverie, head swiveling to find Balerion alongside. Her uncle Maegor grinned at her, waving. Motioning towards Fair Isle. She blinked, only to look at the water. No ship remained. All were destroyed.

They had won.

Finding her uncle again, Rhaena matched his grin. Awkward and tired at first, it grew until she was close laughing. Whooping in exhilaration. The dragons joined their riders with roars of their own, banking away as they headed fir the keep of House Farman.

House Targaryen had met its first test of the new reality… and through Prince Maegor and Princess Rhaena it had triumphed.

"High. Side. Forward. Thrust. Thrust… good show, your Grace."

Lips in a tight line, the eight-named at old Prince Jaehaerys whispered something rather untoward under his breath - a word he learned from Aegon when the latter was too deep in his cups with the other boys of court. Not one he'd want his father or mother hearing him use, but neither were here. "Not good enough."

Ser Marden Karstark smiled, what on any less soft-spoken man would've laughed. "You are too hard on yourself, my Prince."

"I am sloppy," Jaehaerys replied. "Nothing like my uncle." Maegor was a beast with a sword. The young Prince watched often as he sparred with Ser Gawen or the Kingsguards and took notes… he wasn't anywhere close to as fluid or furious as the rider of Balerion and it rankled him. "I need to be better."

"You're young. Focus on mastering the proper form." The northman - appointed to his position by Torrhen Stark as part of the increasing influence of the largest kingdom in the realm - kicked at Jaehaerys. The boy quickly leapt out of the way, but his stance was weak and he stumbled against a column. "See, so brash and impetuous. Need to learn the basics, my Prince."

Gritting his teeth, Jaehaerys felt humiliated. "I ought to request a different instructor."

Karstark chuckled softly. "Sure, sure. Be known as the Prince who couldn't handle a barbarian from Karhold." Blinking, Jaehaerys glared and resumed his stance… only realizing later that he had fallen for the master-at-arms' bait.

Several bruises and sore muscles later, Jaehaerys poured over his notes as he sat next to the hearth where his dragon egg blazed - he found it the most calming place in the Red Keep besides the library. "What am I missing?" he whispered to himself, studying the various sketches he made of his uncle in combat. "Why can't I be like this?" He copied the movements, but where his uncle excelled all he got was aching muscles.

The bronze-scaled egg seemed to crackle in the hearth, drawing his attention. Shut up. It was as if his dragon was mocking him.

"Hiya, big brother!" He winced, changing to an irritated scowl as the ever bubbly Alysanne skipped into his chambers, blue dress swishing upon the stone floor. "Hatch the dragon yet?" Anyone else would've made fun of him, but his baby sister was too innocent for that.

He simply rolled his eyes. "No, Ally, I didn't hatch my dragon yet." If I did, I wouldn't be here - I'd be trying to find grandmother. "What do you want?" Ever since his lashing out at her, Jae made sure never to raise his voice at her.

She shrugged, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Just bored. Whatcha doing?"

"Trying to figure out how our uncle is so good at fighting so that I can be like him."

"You're a good fighter. I've seen you spar."

He smiled in spite of himself. "You're sweet, but don't lie. I can't swing my sword like he does… I keep trying, but it tires me out."

Blinking, Alysanne peeked at the sketches and then studied him. Her lilac eyes sparkling. "Maybe it because he has big, thick arms. Uncle Maegor is built like a bull!" she said, giggling.

"Come now, Ally, it's not as simple as…" Pausing, Jae thought about it for a moment. Remembering the thick muscles of his uncle… and the toned muscles of Rhaena and his grandmother on top of it. "Seven hells," he murmured, looking at his scrawny limbs and slender frame. "You might be on to something."

"I do?" At his nod, she grinned. "See, you should listen to me more!"

"Perhaps I should," Jae murmured, his mind whirring. He just needed to build his body and then he'd be able to learn the proper skills to make him like his uncle in battle…

But Alysanne had other plans, tugging at him. "Come, Jae, come. Let's play in the gardens!"

"I'm busy, Ally."

"But no one wants to play with me. Our cousins aren't here, and kepa's not here. And uncle Maegor's not here." She sniffled. "No one wants to play with me…"

Ughhhh… How could he say no to that? "Fine. Half an hour in the gardens." Her entire face lit up like the sun and she kissed his cheek. As Alysanne pulled him out of the chambers, Jaehaerys felt that the minor inconvenience was worth his little sister's happiness.

The loss of their grandfather taught them the value of happiness.

Loyal Kingsguard watching over them - having grown up with them, Jaehaerys wasn't fazed by their presence - the two royals rushed towards the gardens… only to nearly run into someone. Jaehaerys only just managed to skid the both of them to a halt. "Oh… sorry, uncle Daemon."

Daemon Velaryon chuckled and ruffled his nephew's head. "Don't you worry, nephew. Tis alright, you have a pretty girl to impress." He wriggled his brows.

It took a bit for Jaehaerys to understand, and he blushed when he did. Ally and I? "Uncle…"

"What?" Alysanne was confused, especially at the person in discussion with Daemon. "Who are you?"

The man, older than their sister Rhaena and quite solidly built with thick muscles a trimmed black beard, bowed his head. "Forgive me Princess. Rogar Baratheon, first son of Davos Baratheon and future heir of Storm's End."

"Uncle Orys' grandson?" Jaehaerys knew of the merry man with the one hand… Rogar looked like him now that he thought about it, but his blue eyes held an almost… dangerous glint.

He didn't like him.

"The one and only. Was hoping to see your father, only to hear he departed."

"He should be back soon," Jae replied. "It was a pleasure, Ser Rogar," he lied.

"Of course." Rogar bowed as Jae took Alysanne and led her off. I hope father sends him away.

She was a Princess. She was a Targaryen. She was a dragonrider that fought atop her mount as her grandmothers before her. Still shrouded within the foreboding keep belonging to one of her ancestors' greatest foes, everything within Rhaena told her to remain firm. The presence of her stalwart uncle steadied her, as did Dark Sister sheathed at her side.

But when the familiar cream form of Quicksilver circled overhead, the Princess sucked in a breath as her eyes watered. When the dragon landed and the familiar loose curls and fair, silver features of her dear father slid off his back, Rhaena lost her composure and ran to him. "Kepa!" she cried.

"Daughter!" Aenys lifted her in his embrace just as Rhaena launched herself into it. Father and daughter hugging close, latter seeking comfort and former begging reassurance. "Thank the gods you're alright." At his brother's letter, there was no keeping him from heading to Casterly Rock - his daughter was more important than anything.

"Rhaena!" Her muna pushed herself into the hug, encircling her waist from behind and making the Princess feel all the more secure. "Whomever tried this will feel our fury," Alyssa said, half a hiss and half a sob.

She wanted to cry, to pour her heart out, but did Rhaena wish to cause her kepa the same pain her uncle endured in dealing with what happened. Best to bury it. "He already has, muna. Uncle Maegor saw to that by his own hand in a trial by combat."

Breaking the embrace, Aenys made his way to Maegor, hands grasping his shoulders. "Brother… thank you…" He embraced Maegor, clapping his back. "You protected her, saved her life."

"You'd do it for me, I know it." But Maegor pulled back. "However, I merely granted my niece justice. She was saved by another." His eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't have been as merciful."

"Who did save her, then?" asked Alyssa, eying Maegor suspiciously.

Rhaena looked at a young man standing ramrod straight off to the side. "He did, muna. One of our men-at-arms."

"A man-at-arms?"

"Aye, was nearly punished by Lord Lannister before I stepped in."

Aenys was then made aware of the simple man-at-arms standing to the side. One hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword while the other dangled to the side, face uncovered by his helm. He looked… indistinguishable from all other men-at-arms in Targaryen service and Aenys knew that on any other occasion he'd be easily overlooked. The King felt a bit of shame, knowing what this man did if Maegor was to be believed. "You are?"

"Bean, your Grace. Dick Bean," he replied, moving to bend the knee only for the King to stop him.

"You saved my daughter, my brother says…" Aenys' voice caught. "You… protected her innocence. In this you have my everlasting gratitude."

Dick Bean only bowed. "Been servin' 'Ouse Targaryen all mi'life, like mi'father before me. Only mi'duty, yer Grace."

Aenys shook his head, knowing exactly what this man deserved for protecting Rhaena. "Nonsense. You must be rewarded. Brother?" He motioned to Maegor. "May I have Blackfyre."

Maegor caught on and approved. "Of course, brother." Out came the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, forged in Old Valyria and carried through centuries of battles. "Kneel before your King, Bean." The man-at-arms, not close to as simple as most highborns would regard him, stared with wide eyes but complied - falling to his knee and bowing his head.

What was given away as a matter of course to those born in a keep took a greater significance to those born in a hovel or servant quarters. Aenys could sense Bean's near trembling, but this was absolutely earned. "Dick Bean. In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Do you so swear?"

"I so swear, yer Grace."

"Then arise, Dick of House Bean, knight of the Seven Kingdoms." The newly christened knight, still in his armor of a Targaryen man-at-arms, met the eyes of his King as Aenys handed Blackfyre back to Maegor. "Ser Dick, name the post you wish to serve. You shall have my leave for any, unless you wish a white cloak… unfortunately all positions are taken." He laughed merrily.

Bean chuckled politely, though he still felt near numb from the new title bestowed upon him. "If it pleases yer Grace, I'd like to serve the sworn sword to the Princess."

That was slightly surprising, though Rhaena's smile and Maegor's nod… and a lack of disapproval from Alyssa indicated he hadn't made a mistake of form. "Why is that?" Aenys asked.

"Know little bout be-in' a knight. Best stick to what I's good at - protectin' her Grace from the monsters that'd hurt her… if it pleases her Grace that is?"

Blushing, Rhaena beamed. "I could not be more honored to have you by my side, Ser Dick."

No one, not even the lowliest wretch, knew not of the sacred vow of a sworn sword. He bent the knee again. "I offer mi'services, yer Grace. I will shield yer back and keep yer counsel and give mi'life for yers if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Rhaena brushed her hand on his helm. "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise."

Kissing Rhaena on the forehead, Aenys noticed the Lannisters assembling closer to the gate and his eyes narrowed. "Excuse me, I must have a word with Lord Lannister about his trial procedures," he said with a particular venom completely uncharacteristic of him. "Come Rhaena, I want you to witness this."

The two of them, flanked by Ser Bean and other guards, headed towards the Lannisters and left Maegor and Alyssa side by side. The Prince sucked in a breath. "Goodsister."

"Goodbrother," Alyssa replied, her face tight… but unexpectedly she reached out and took his arm. "Thank you. For what you did."

He blinked, momentarily stunned at how… gentle she was being, but quickly recovered. "She is my blood. I did so gladly." Her tone, it brought back memories. Not ones overtly unpleasant, only so through context. "I would do anything for my family, no matter how much it hurt me."

Alyssa sighed, biting her lip. "I know, Maegor. Gods, do I know." Was this what it could've been? Her and him? A fierce and powerful man protecting his family? Yes, this was what she'd always wanted and after what Maegor did for her daughter… Alyssa couldn't muster her loathing of him. As such, they walked together, the silence welcome… but strange. "I presume you defeated the Ironborn attacks?"

"Aye, Fair Isle is secure." He smiled in spite of himself. "Rhaena acquitted herself well in her first combat flight."

Her eyes widened. "Rhaena fought on Dreamfyre?" At his nod, she smiled. "I was prepared for this when Queen Visenya called Rhaena her future 'dragonlady' I believe was the word she used."

"Sounds like muna. You shouldn't be worried, she is skilled."

"I'm not." Politics reared their ugly head, though. "Is the threat dealt with?"

"Militarily yes, but the leaders of this rebellion still need to be dealt with. Lord Greyjoy will handle that."

She frowned. "Can we trust him?"

Maegor shrugged. "As much as one can trust an Ironborn."

It was a smell that any Ironborn was accustomed to. Theirs was a hard life, from the most wrinkled sea dog to the richest highborn - they were born with salt, steel, and blood in their nostrils, and there was plenty of that filling the air on that sunny morning on the coastline of Great Wyk.

Goren Greyjoy watched atop the bobbing longship as yet another stupid soul found his neck severed from the blade of one of the kraken-sigiled bannermen of his. It was ironic to him - they had the stones to attack the fuckin' Westermen and the dragons that defended Fair Isle, but they ran like cowards when his own reavers disembarked from their longships into the shores of their islands. Thousands flocked to the calls of the traitors.

Thousands now met the hard steel of the Iron Price.

"How does it feel, you fool?" Lord Goren asked the bound man beside him. The idiot who styled himself a Holy Man… as Lodos the Twice-Drowned. The original Lodos was an idiot too, so it fit. "Barely lasted a day against my men. I suppose that's an improvement though. You didn't last two hours against the dragons."

"You do not scare me, heretic!" bellowed the fanatic imposter, holding himself high as befitting a proper Ironborn… least he wasn't lying about that. "I am Lodos the Twice-Drowned! I am tasked by the Drowned God to bring our people to triumph and riches! Let go of this idolatrous traitor, before it's too late!" he beseeched the reavers surrounding him on the longship.

None replied, the two reavers watching the supposed holy man instead tying iron weights to his ankles with steel chains. Goren, a smirk on his lips, got into the face of 'Lodos.' "You call yourself Lodos? Well, then show it! Show these men that you are worth following!"

The man looked confused. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Goren laughed. "The original Lodos said the Targaryens would be defeated by bringing the Drowned God from the sea to fight them back with an army of krakens. He departed into the sea in order to bring him to save us… so go save us!" Motioning to his men, Goren clapped his hands as they picked up the holy man and hurled him into the sea, rope tied around his shoulders.

Thinking back to that moment, Goren looked at the sack-covered jar with a smirk at the memories. The poor schlub had been as much a holy man of the Drowned God as the original Lodos had been - he didn't begrudge the dumb as rock superstitious smallfolk of his domain for their susceptibility to such frauds, but it was a stain on him.

Things had to change if the Ironborn were to survive, but first he needed to make sure his authority was absolute. Today would hopefully do that.

"Presenting!" announced the herald. "Lord Goren Greyjoy of Pyke, Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands."

Kraken sigil glinting atop his breastplate - a fine piece of armor he insisted on wearing even aboard ship, though not in battle - the Lord of Pyke walked into the great hall of Casterly Rock a mighty conqueror… or at least acting like one. Other Ironborn would've dreamed of doing this with the Kings of the Rock bending the knee before them, but he was content to bend the knee himself before the Targaryen King currently holding court here. "Your Grace, I pledge my everlasting fealty to you."

King Aenys I Targaryen bid him to rise. Seated beside him was Queen Alyssa, with Prince Maegor on his right and Princess Rhaena to her left. A powerful family, one that Goren was wise to be wary of. His father Vickon had been right on that regard. "Welcome, Lord Goren. I was told you have a gift for me."

Nodding, Goren rose and motioned to his men, who brought forward the covered jar. "Aye, your Grace." He removed the sack, revealing a head pickled in brine. "I give you Lodos the Thrice-Drowned."

"Thrice-Drowned?"

"Aye… apparently he drowned again trying to seek help from the krakens of the sea… they didn't come I don't think." He noticed Maegor snorting a laugh, while Princess Rhaena smiled in spite of her better instincts. "The rebellion is crushed, your Grace. The Iron Islands are yours to command."

Clapping his hands, Aenys smiled widely. "Excellent, Lord Greyjoy. Simply excellent. One vicious sore cauterized before it began by yourself and my uncle and daughter." He beamed at the both of them, ever so proud. "That was my daughter's first dragonride, Lord Goren. She acquitted herself amazingly."

"She undoubtedly has the dragon's blood, your Grace," Goren replied tightly - the Ironborn hadn't had the best relationship with dragons, though the lesson to be learned was to be their allies, not their enemies. "The major lords of my domain are here to swear fealty to you. I can bring them now."

But Aenys shook his head. "Later, later. You have done well, Lord Goren, and I am a generous sovereign to those that serve me well." Of this he knew… everyone knew. "You've earned favor from me, and with our pasts quite… unpleasant, name your request and I shall grant it to ensure peace and comity between House Targaryen and the people of the Iron Islands."

Goren had been planning on how to broach this in private, but he couldn't believe his luck. Damn him to the Seven Hells if he wasn't going to exploit it. "Aye, your Grace, there is one thing. Your father mandated my own father admit septons and begging brothers of the Faith into the Iron Islands to convert my people… this was one of the reasons many flocked to Lodos the Twice-Drowned, feeling that their culture was being taken away from them. Allow me to expel them and restore the religious right of the Iron Islands to worship the Drowned God in peace."

At the conclusion of his request, the usual suspects began to uproar. "Your Grace, if I may," said Ser Joffrey Doggett, his handlebar moustache drooping down his sides. "This is a horrid request… seeking your favor in order to harass and likely brutalize innocent men and women of the Faith? Repulsive, but what can one expect from an Ironborn."

He heard his men grumble and hiss, but Goren restrained himself. "We only ask that you reward our proactive actions by granting us the same privileges that the Faith awarded to the Kings of Winter after the defeat of Argos Sevenstar at the Battle of Weeping Water by King Theon Stark - a privilege renewed by your illustrious father King Aegon."

Aenys stroked his beard. "He did assume such a treaty for the Crown." The North was free of activity by the Faith of the Seven outside White Harbor itself, and in there only limited to one sept and a skeleton staff. It was… fair. "Alright, your wish is granted - but harm one hair on a begging brother's head and there will be consequences."

Thriving on the glares of the pious Westermen, Goren bowed and smiled. "You have my oath that I shall see them unharmed, your Grace."

"Good, now let us feast and be merry tonight, for tomorrow we return to King's Landing."

Hand being shook by his bannermen for his victory, Goren was soon approached by Prince Maegor. "You're a bold motherfucker, I'll give you that," proclaimed the Prince.

"A compliment, I'll take it as. One cunt to another."

Maegor grinned. "Aye, one cunt to another." There was a slight silence. "But your request was far beyond what my brother was duty bound to give you. He might be generous, but the both of us know it."

Goren cocked his head. "Are you making demands of me, my Prince?"

"Not yet," was the reply. "But I'll certainly remember one day that you owe a debt, and I'll expect it to be paid when the time is right."

"I am not Black Harren, I pay my debts."

"With stolen loot perhaps… just make sure it's stolen from our mutual enemies."

"Those are terms we can live with." No love lost between them couldn't mean that House Targaryen and House Greyjoy couldn't be allies, after all. "To peace."

"To peace."

Chapter Text

Her fists balled up, the newfound wrinkles in Visenya's face growing deeper and she seethed in anger. "That little cunt…" The Dowager Queen had heard plenty of rumors, but wanted the truth from the source about what happened in Casterly Rock. Rhaena was not an option, as Visenya didn't wish to traumatize her more, so that left Maegor. "I pray you made him suffer."

"Balerion and I both did, muna," Maegor replied, his voice hard.

"Good." The Queen still trembled with a fiery rage. "Rhaena may look like a combination of her Valeryon mother and my beloved Rhaenys, but deep down she's more like me than people realize." It was a sense of pride in Visenya, seeing herself in her children, even if this wasn't one she didn't wish to repeat in them. "Strong women, they lure weak and evil men to want to beat them down - abuse them in order to fill some insecurity they feel. That's what happened to me in Oldtown before I even married your kepa."

"You killed that one, didn't you?"

"Aye, cleaved him in two with Dark Sister. I feel satisfied even to this day." Visenya made no apologies of her strength and resolve. "Rhaena was unlucky that I was already ten and eight and well-trained. She's just starting with Ser Gawen in real combat training…"

Maegor took Visenya's hand in his. "From what he told me, she'll make it there. She has talent, and Gawen is the best there is or else he wouldn't be Lord Commander after cousin Corlys died."

"I wouldn't have asked him to train you if he wasn't, my son," Visenya smiled, letting Maegor lead her through the gardens towards where the dragons were kept - a platonic version of how she and Aegon used to stroll. "You're so much like your kepa, my son. He would be so proud of you, riding Balerion and giving justice to rebels and those that harm our house both."

The Prince hung his head. "I sometimes feel I am disappointing his good name."

Visenya looked at him incredulously. "Where does a son of mine have the gall to say such nonsense?"

"Muna…" He sighed. "Your love for kepa and his love for you was legendary… as it was for my other muna, the one I never knew…"

"She would've loved you so much, Maegor, you must know that."

"I hope so… but regardless, he gave everlasting love to both of his brides, but I can't even make my own wife feel cherished… I can't even give her a child."

Shaking her head, they had reached the dragons but Visenya looked him in his eyes. "Maegor, there is nothing wrong with you… and too many people heap blame on the woman but I do not think that Ceryse is the problem either. You're a good man and just because you're worried about your wife shows that."

"And yet we're still childless. Aenys and Rhaenys have their broods and I have none."

"You will have many children, do not doubt yourself. You are a dragon, after all." Tugging his arm, she led him to the dragons, hoping that they'd improve his mood. From how he immediately rested his head against Balerion's snout, it was clear she was right.

Both Maegor and Visenya finally departing, Dreamfyre let out a tiny whine. 'By the gods you were named from, are they all so clueless?'

Balerion dropped his maw ever so slightly, the draconic expression of amusement - much as direwolves let their tongues out and cocked their heads. The Black dread knew more than he ought about direwolves being Maegor's mount. 'Believe me, I've been ridden by the most illustrious of dragonriders and been around dragons and their riders with higher pedigrees than ours. They're all the same.' Dreamfyre responded by snorting out her nostrils, mirroring almost a petulant human youth. Quite, quite amusing for the last remnant of Old Valyria remaining on earth.

Vhagar, the second oldest dragon - not counting Cannibal, though the less any of the three thought about that savage the better - looked between her former mate and her daughter. 'Is there something I am missing here? I hate it when you keep me out of the loop.' Even when his rider was her muna's mate, Balerion would do this and Vhagar wished she could burn him alive at times.

Puffing out a cloud of smoke just for the stress relief, Balerion stretched his neck. 'Young one? Wish to tell your mother or should I?'

Not rising from where she laid, Dreamfyre nonetheless addressed Vhagar. 'My muna is in love with her uncle.'

It took a moment for Vhagar to put it together. 'What… really? Our valonqar in love with Rhaena?' The dragon had bonded greatly with her niece when she resided on Dragonstone with muna and kepa, and Vhagar had a soft spot for her - a sentimentality that Balerion shared but refused to admit to as Vhagar did. Thinking for a moment, the dragon bobbed her head. 'Many things make sense now.'

'My muna would make a far better wife than that fish he's married to now.'

'Come now, she isn't so bad… smells funny, but all humans without the blood smell funny.' He didn't know how Arrax could stand being among the smell of the First Men. Balerion was glad he would likely never have to journey to the North again. He looked at Vhagar. 'They could do what kepa and munas used to do?'

Vhagar growled lowly, menacing to the humans but the dragon form of a contemplative purr. 'Possibly, possibly.' Rhaena and Maegor… they'd be a powerful pair, no doubt. Perhaps what the family needed, since Quicksilver's rider was loved but not nearly decisive enough in her opinion. 'I'll need to think on this more.' She looked over to see Balerion with a twinkle in his amber eyes. 'What now?'

'Oh nothing… just that if valonqar marries our niece, then Dreamfyre will be my mate.' Both dragons breathed a puff of fire on him for that comment.

"I do love this place, Lucas. I truly do."

Lucas Harroway's smile did not reflect his mood, but only the best mummer-readers would notice it. "It is rather beautiful here, your Grace." Objectively, the city of Braavos had its charm. Light buildings of cream, gold, and faded red built for aesthetic pleasure rather than intimidation or aweing guests. Braavos was founded by runaway slaves from the Valyrian Freehold… Since Valyrian architecture was dark and foreboding, not to mention grand and designed to intimidate, the more gentle layout of Braavos made sense.

Discounting the Titan that guarded the harbor, but Lucas understood very well the temptation of size in the dick-measuring contests leaders liked to engage in with each other. The massive statue seemed to be a child of that.

Regardless of Braavos' origins, the Valyrians were here in the form of King Aenys, First of His Name, and Queen Alyssa, the two of them being led by Harroway, Lord Butterwell, and a large component of Targaryen guardsmen towards an austere yet grand building near the center of the city. "Wouldn't it have been marvelous if I flew Quicksilver into the square?" Aenys asked, chuckling. "It's certainly big enough, and the entrance would've been the best."

"My love," Alyssa spoke, her voice light. "You don't do that in King's Landing, let alone here." In all honesty, it was something she could see Maegor doing - such elicited several emotions, the largest of which was revulsion.

"Her Grace is right," Lucas spoke with due care. "And you know the history of the city. Best keep our dear cream friend… scarce while we're here."

Aenys was puzzled for a moment before his eyes widened in understanding. "Ah…" His cheeks reddened in embarrassment. "Perhaps I should have Gawen brush me up on my lessons in the histories when I return home?" He gave an amused, sheepish smile, which drew laughs from his companions. Lucas made sure he was seen laughing merrily… yet not too outlandishly. Just enough for the King to be appreciative.

Even the most mundane could serve a person well… let alone the greatest of deeds.

And the Lord of Harroway's Town was sure this would be one of the latter.

Austere though their building was, the home of the Iron Bank held a greater importance than its aesthetics suggested. Unlike the beautiful Sealord Palace or Great Hall, the Iron Bank pretty much housed the real rulers of the city… the ones that Lucas Harroway had been negotiating and treating with for moons now. Finally he, with Lord Butterwell to provide the official seal of the Six Kingdoms' treasury, could bring the King over to conclude the final negotiations.

It was mundane and nothing compared to the glory of a battlefield victory in the matter of popular prestige, but Harroway wasn't a warrior - but he could do this and do it well. Getting ahead is what matters, not how one gets ahead. The matter of the crown's debt to the Iron Bank weighed heavily on the King or else he wouldn't have sent an envoy to deal with it personally.

The Iron Bank wasn't a country but it may as well have been. As such, their welcome for the King of Westeros was extensive, many high officials and hired mercenaries all standing respectfully… leading to the board of directors that ran things. "Your Grace," bowed a thin man with a clean-shaven face, dressed in a fine silk doublet. "I am Rodrigo Nazarin, Grand Plenipotentiary of the Iron Bank. Welcome to Braavos."

Aenys nodded his head respectfully. "Thank you, Lord Rodrigo. It is always a pleasure to visit your fine city. One day, I would be glad to host you in King's Landing once our dealings are concluded."

The banker smiled widely, though only Lucas noted the sincerity was absent - not a problem, they came to work out business, not feast and be merry. "But of course, I am honored by your invitation… however, as Lord Lucas here has undoubtedly told you, there is business we must discuss and finalize. Would you like some refreshments, or take care of it now?"

"Yes, yes, I would not wish to delay. Cannot enjoy myself with this sword of coin hanging over my head." He laughed at his own jape again, and again Lucas forced himself to join in. Thanking the Seven above when Nazarin guided their party towards the conference chambers.

And as alluded, all that was needed to do were the necessary formalities. The massive loan owed to the Iron Bank by the Crown was restructured to a higher rate of interest, but in exchange the demand for repayment in specie was done away with - as well as the time frame extended from seven to fifteen years. Lucas voiced his belief that trade goods such as fine wines from the Arbor, excellent iron ore from the Vale, and Ironwood trees from the North could serve as payment and such was agreed to by Lord Nazarin, who could easily sell such here in Braavos for a tidy sum.

"A fine job you did, Lord Lucas!" Aenys announced later in his quarters at the Sealord's palace, clapping the man on the back. "The treasury will rejoice as its burden is lessened. The Dragonpalace will be finished on schedule, and we can pour more funds into the road networks that shall only increase the wealth and prosperity of the realm."

"You are a visionary, my King," Lucas replied. Most Kings talked about their conquests, but not Aenys. It was something the not martial Lucas could admire… if he weren't such a trusting fool. "I shall be sure Lord Stark will look favorably on the extra funding for the Kingsroad and Wolfsroad, though that his ironwood forests in the Wolfswood and around Ironrath shan't be untouched anymore."

Aenys waved off the concerns. "Don't worry about the Lord Hand, Lucas. I shall make sure he agrees. All but a small price to pay for the glory of the Realm. He's been angling for my younger nephew to gain a keep of his own, so I'll grant him the right to build a seaport at Sea Dragon point. That'll mollify him." Such was the greatness of Aenys Targaryen, the ability to please people.

Yet, if you pleased some you displeased others, and in that category was Lucas Harroway. "No doubt, no doubt." Not that he'd ever show his displeasure. "It was my honor to serve you in this capacity, my King." He bowed. "If you need me again, I shall be in my keep…"

"No, no…" Aenys shook his head, the smallest of smirks forming on Lucas' face as he rose… changing back to a confused expression. "You have shown yourself so valuable to me, and I shall reward you with a position at court… perhaps on the Small Council itself."

In this Lucas' eyes widened. Not in his wildest dreams… not this soon. "Your Grace." He fell to one knee, grabbing the King's hand and kissing it. "I am greatly honored. You shall never regret your trust in me, I promise."

Smiling back, Aenys bid him to rise. "Lord Lucas, you mustn't be so modest. No one else could've arranged for this to work out the way it did, and I need a man such as that on my council. I'll arrange for Lord Stark to make a place available for you after this journey is completed, for you will travel with me and see if your magic can work on Volantis and the Dornish. Gods know we will need all our wits with them."

"Of course, your Grace." Lucas couldn't contain his glee. A whole journey across the Free Cities with nary anything keeping him from influencing the King. The gods were truly smiling upon him…

Provided that Lord Stark didn't ruin everything, but Lucas wasn't worried. How did the old saying go…? Oh yes, wolves don't fare well south of the Neck. Older than Aegon the Conqueror, Torrhen Stark was closer and closer to fulfilling that promise than ever before.

Lucas simply had a feeling.

"No, no, no." Frowning, Aegon moved in, his hands moving to Jaehaerys' shoulders. "You're too tense up here. Loosen them, it'll make you more flexible to react to an opponent's unpredictable attacks."

Following his elder brother's advice, Jaehaerys complied. It was a struggle to go against his body's instincts, but in going through the exercises he did feel his flexibility improving. "Like this?"

Aegon grinned. "Perfect."

But Rhaena shook her head. "No, not just yet." She then moved in to the grumbling Jaehaerys, trying not to giggle at how her youngest brother moped and brooded. He looked like their uncle while doing so, which to Rhaena endeared himself to her. Uncle… No, she wouldn't sigh like a besotted maiden.

Which was what she supposed she was.

"Now, don't grumble like that. You're shoulders and chest are good, but look at your legs. They're too stiff and close together. Spread them out but bend your knees."

"But I'm not as firm," he complained. "People will knock me off."

But Rhaena disagreed. "Jae, when you hit a wooden board hard enough, what happens?"

"It breaks," he answered without hesitation.

"Very good, and what happens when you punch wet clay? Can you break it?" He shook his head. "Exactly. A little give will give you more protection, not less. Work at it." Now that it was explained to him, Jaehaerys copied both of his siblings' advice… and his form greatly improved.

Aegon beamed and kissed her cheek, hugging her with one arm about the shoulder. "Look at us, our grandparents come again!" Rhaena smiled at the thought. "Perhaps we'll train you to be a warrior like our sister, Ally."

Alysanne, playing about the flowers in the gardens of their kepa's manse, looked up with curiosity. "I don't like blades! I like dragons!" She ran to Rhaena, her silver curls bouncing up and down. "I can't wait to see Dreamfyre again. She's so sweet."

Seeing Larissa look at her with insistence, beckoning her over, Rhaena sighed and cupped her sister's cheek. "Forgive me, valonqar, but I need to depart for the time being."

Alysanne's seven-nameday old eyes filled with sorrow and tears - perfectly befitting the sweet, innocent princess that was the darling of the entire family. "No… you spend time with Egg and Jae. We promised to go see the dragons." Her lip pouted, testing Rhaena's resolve.

In all honesty, nothing that Lord Commander Gawen could inflict on her even compared to the assault Alysanne's look made on her. But Rhaena apparently had a spine of Valyrian steel… that bent like a thick sail. Chuckling, she kissed her sister's cheek. "Tell you what, if you can handle staying with Jae or your governesses for the time being, before supper I'll take you riding on Dreamfyre."

Her eyes bugged out. "Really? For true?" All sadness morphed into excitement.

"Of course. One must ride their dragons at least once daily and I'm afraid I haven't done so today," Rhaena replied, looking sad at that. "What do you say?"

Squealing, Alysanne hugged her close. "You're the best sister." Rhaena was surprised at her perfect High Valyrian, but beamed and hugged her back. The girl would be a beauty when she grew, with her sweetness would be the envy of the entire court in a way even Rhaena couldn't be. Looking at Jaehaerys, watching them curiously, she wondered if something would brew between them.

They are always so close.

Finally, after repeating the promise thrice over, she managed to disentangle with Alysanne and joined with Larissa - the two of them walking through the gardens to the residential quarters of the manse. "It will be nice when the Dragonpalace is completed," Rhaena commented. "This place is lovely but not something befitting a Targaryen like Dragonstone."

"I never saw the appeal of Dragonstone," shrugged Larissa. "Too dark and gloomy, nothing like Driftmark, though that's not better." She shuddered. "My brother Corwyn always says that he'll build a new keep that doesn't flood all the time, but perhaps he's just blowing smoke."

"How is your brother, by the way?" The oldest of Larissa's siblings was never one to be tied down - an adventurer, traveling all over the coasts of Westeros, even to North of the Wall. Rhaena admired it, but even though Corwyn clearly fancied her he never compared to her dashing, powerful uncle Maegor in her mind. He'll easily find a woman to adore him, handsome that he is.

"He's alright… trying to find a proper husband for me." She laughed. "Lately he's been trying to pressure Lord Orys for a betrothal to his grandson Rogar. That boy apparently has refused every offer made to him and it's causing consternation in the Stormlands."

That was news to Rhaena. "Really? Odd, then." She hadn't yet met Rogar Baratheon, but according to her brothers he was a constant presence at court since she was gone. "Couldn't be a worse choice for whomever he picks than Tyrion Lannister. Gods, what an insect - to think kepa ever thought him a choice for me." Thinking about his hands on her during the jubilee dance made Rhaena's skin crawl.

Larissa shrugged as they entered the manse itself. "No one knows what Rogar wants, though I suspect he has high standards. House Baratheon is close to your family due to Lord Orys being your father's half-uncle, but once he departs then they will slowly lose favor. Why do you think my family and yours keep marrying into each other after a few generations?"

"So Rogar is ensuring his own standing by seeking the best alliance he can? Wouldn't his grandfather make that a priority?"

"No, Lord Orys can never understand being away from court given his relation to your grandmothers and grandfather. He married within Westeros to expand his reach, not to buttress an existing bond."

Turning towards the chamber Tyanna resided in - a quiet refuge since it was away from the courtiers that often tried to cozy up to the royal family, being but the lowborn lady in waiting of the Dowager Queen - Rhaena realized something. "You don't think he has his sights set on me?"

Larissa shrugged. "It would be a safe choice for your father, though your brother Egg is the safest."

"Egg?" She began to remember his drunken accosting at the jubilee, not that Rhaena thought of it much since. "I… I love Egg, but I can't see myself marrying him."

"Because he's not your uncle," Larissa smiled, gently. "They both have the Valyrian look, but are otherwise different. Build and personality." Seeing Rhaena bite her lip, her cousin hugged her. "Don't worry, I shan't judge. The two of you should've been betrothed as your grandmother thought."

Nodding, Rhaena didn't wish to think on it. "Let's see what Tyanna is up to. Maybe she can give us a glimpse of the future so as to ease our minds." Reaching her door, Rhaena opened it without knocking as she was used to… only to gasp and freeze upon doing so…

The raven-haired girl was moaning, her eyes fluttered shut. "Kessa… right there…" she murmured in High Valyrian. "You're wonderful, Elissa…" Lids slightly opening, suddenly they peeled back widely at spotting Rhaena staring at her bare form. "Rhaena!"

"By the Seven!"

Knelt between Tyanna's legs, equally naked, Elissa screamed and grabbed for her dress… trying to cover herself. Spotting the scene, equally shocked but not as addled as Rhaena was in the moment, Larissa grabbed the door and shut it - giving the girls time to dress. "Well, we now know why Tyanna refuses the attention the knights give her," she chuckled dryly.

"What… what was that I just witnessed?" Rhaena murmured. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"Really?" The girl laughed. "I would assume since you spent a lot of time around your grandmother… you know what, I'll let Tyanna and Elissa inform you of it." She did not want to get into this. "Are you two decent?!" she called through the door.

"Yes," Tyanna replied. "Come in."

Smirking, Larissa led her still flabbergasted cousin into the chambers. Thankfully, Elissa and Tyanna had thrown dresses on, though both were flushed and rather disheveled. "You know, the doors have locks on them."

The fiery half-Valyrian scowled. "You know, something called knocking exists!"

"Semantics, semantics." Larissa laughed again, but quieted as Elissa now glared at her. "I didn't realize you two were each other's lover."

Elissa bit her lip. "Well, I wouldn't say that. It's just…" The free-spirited highborn girl from the Westerlands was shy for once.

Tyanna was a bastard, so aside from her friend Rhaena and her mistress Queen Visenya, she held no modesty. "We're not lovers. It's just… scratching an itch. Don't want to pop Elissa's maidenhead and I prefer women to men anyway, so this was a logical option." It was not wise to flaunt deviancy so openly at court, since this wasn't Dorne or Essos where it was more common. Brothels were an option, but who knew where those women had been? A friend with similar desires like Elissa was the best choice and Tyanna made no apologies.

Just that she wished Rhaena hadn't seen it, and her composure broke and she blushed madly at her friend's look.

There was still a block to Rhaena's mind. "Wait… what is this? How can you be lovers? You're both maidens." There was a silence before both Larissa and Elissa started giggling at her - Tyanna, for her part, was too embarrassed under her gaze to join in. "What's so funny?"

Still giggling, Elissa moved to hug her friend. "Oh, dearest Princess, for a dragonrider that sits on the Small Council you are still a bit naive." Her parents, grandmother, and uncle largely sheltered her - not well enough considering what happened with Lyonel Lorch - and Queen Rhaenys being dead for so long removed any personal exposure to such things. "See, some women hold desires for other women as well as those for men."

Rhaena gaped incredulously. "No… that's fantastical."

"Believe me, it's more widespread than you think," Elissa patted her friend on the cheek. "Men do it too, have desires for other men."

She clutched her forehead. "You… you're not trying to jape me. How did I not know about this?"

"That is what concerns me, since you were friends with Tyanna for so long and she only likes the fairer sex - well, practically only likes them." That only made Tyanna blush a brighter crimson. "How else do you explain the marriage of your grandparents."

Floored… she looked at Tyanna closely. It certainly seemed to explain… no, Rhaena was in no mind to dwell on those things. "Well… if grandmother and grandmother Rhaenys engaged in such, then it is not my place to pass judgement. Just… put a string on the door-handle next time so I don't walk into anything. I would rather not see either of you in that way again."

Her words made Tyanna cringe slightly, pained, but the bastard Pentoshi composed herself. "Don't worry about that." She smiled softly. "You know, I'm glad it was you and not Melony. She'd never let me live it down."

"Who says I'm not going to tell her everything?" Rhaena replied, mood improving. All the girls laughed together, discomfort forgotten.

It hadn't been the case for over a century. Not since the great mercenary force of gallant knights departed for the disputed lands to fight for the independence of Lorath and Myr against the Volentenes during the reign of Garth XII Gardener was a triumph held on the streets of Oldtown. The tens of thousands of revelers gathered in the large Thieves Market and Ragpicker's Wynd to cheer - peddlers and stalls making fortunes selling to them. They passed by the Citadel, whose bells atop the towers rang continuously in celebration for the heroes as they marched towards the Square of the Faithful.

Two thousand men assembled in good order, marching to the thrown flowers and cheers of the onlookers. In the van were dozens of Warriors Sons in their full regalia - rainbow cloaks fluttering behind them without a single smudge. Their armor were gleaming plate shining almost like silver, reflecting the sun, while their helms were topped with crystal spikes that glittered colorfully. But these were not tourney knights, but battle-hardened veterans that knew how to use the swords sheathed at their waists. With the clatter of their armored boots, no one could deny this.

But the Warrior's Sons were known to be powerful… the Poor Fellows were anything but. Famously poorly equipped and essentially rabble with weapons, an observer not familiar with them would've found their jaws slack at what followed the van of the Warrior's Sons. Certainly, the trappings didn't change. They were still less richly dressed, adopting a red seven-pointed star on their surcoats in contrast to the rainbow sword for their knightly brethren. But here the similarities ended.

Each man marched in perfect formation with standardized mail armor and wide-brimmed iron helms. Spearmen carried pikes and halberds high, while men-at-arms had their swords sheathed and shields ready, as if the command to form a shield wall were given. Archers and crossbowmen looked proficient in their task and each man wore a look of confidence. Professional soldiers they were, the Poor Fellows.

And now, they had tasted battle and they had won.

In front of the Starry Sept, Hugor opened his arms in welcome to the arriving Stars and Swords. "Children of the Mother, we gather to our heroic servants of the warrior, returned from fighting the godless Ironborn horde." The crowd roared, and Hugor drank it in, bathing in the glory of his plans bearing fruit.

The reality was a raid by rogue Ironborn captains taking advantage of their Lord being distracted by the Lodos revolt. Lord Greyjoy was not amused and tipped off Oldtown, which led to three dozen war galleys and the two thousand Faith Militant to deal with the raiders off of Brightwater Keep. The victory was total, and while it wasn't a major threat the newly trained and disciplined forces proved themselves worthy of the best armies in the world.

They were ready for battle, a sentiment Hugor boasted to Barth later that day, prior to the celebratory feast they would hold in the Hightower. "The time will soon come, my dear Barth. Soon we will be ready." He laughed, holding up something one of the Warrior's Sons had given to him. "They're even handing this all over the city. 'Maegor the Cruel,' they call him for killing that fool Lyonel Lorch!"

Barth's eyes twinkled. "Yes. They…"

Hugor caught that quickly. "Hmmm…" In a world of illiterates - sometimes even among the Most Devout themselves - Hugor had been an oddity at learning how to read at three namedays. Queen Visenya was rumored to have been as precocious, though that comparison was not one the High Septon liked to make. As such, he read the cheap pamphlet easily. "Maegor the Cruel, eh?"

Barth grinned. "Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

"I hope that you had nothing to do with printing this," Hugor said… mostly for propriety's sake.

"Of course not," the young Septon replied. "I may have come from humble origins, but from the seedy alley next to Ragpicker's Wynd that I heard these things come from? I wouldn't dare wander into such dangerous ground."

"Good, good." Hugor allowed the pretense to drop. "And it does roll off the tongue. What Ser Lorch did was reprehensible but the lusts of base men are why the world needs the Faith." He pointed to the pamphlet. "If that means making a rapist the martyr to our movement, then we must do it. You did your duty in coming up with this."

Barth shook his head. "You flatter me, but the moniker didn't come from my mind."

Hugor was surprised. "Oh? And who did come up with it then?"

Clapping his hands, Barth summoned his personal clerk from outside. The same novice septa entered and curtseyed to the High Septon, lowering herself near to the ground. "Your Holiness," she murmured - rather a pretty face now that Hugor got a better look. Unconventionally pretty, but pretty nonetheless. "You summoned me, your Eminence?"

The young septon grinned at the use of such an august title by the girl. "I just wished to introduce you to the High Septon, Novice Jeyne. Your Holiness, this is Jeyne Poore, a girl I found sired by a knight at Goldengrove. A rare mind, one cannot find too often, regardless of whether the mind bears a cock or not."

Hugor nodded - while he largely ascribed to what the Seven-Pointed Star thought of women, no man that found himself in the court of Sharra Arryn failed to learn that the fairer sex could be just as cunning as men. "And you conjured up the moniker of 'Maegor the Cruel.'"

Slightly intimidated by the High Septon, it took a gesture from Barth for Jeyne to nod. "Aye, your Holiness. These things… they need to be simple and pithy for them to stick. I… I truly wish that we had more than a rapist to use as a martyr, but anything for the Seven who are One will earn my devotion and zeal to the cause."

"Good words, my child," Hugor replied. "I smell another Barth on you, Novice Jeyne. He will be the next High Septon after I if I have anything to say about it, and you should expect similar rewards if you so please me as he did." Jeyne curtseyed again, with a faint blush at the praise, before Barth dismissed her. When the door closed, Hugor turned to his protege. "Have you bedded her? If you did, I don't care, just don't let it be known."

But Barth shook his head. "No… believe me I wanted to the moment I saw her, but there's something special about this woman. She'll be far more than simply me, I just know it. This girl will give us victory… or at least play a part."

While he raised his brow, Hugor had to admit that Barth had long-since proven his intelligence and worth. He trusted him with his life. "Alright, just do not be late for the feast tonight. You always are and I cannot have Lord Manfred asking me where my star protege is."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of missing it - simply a shame that his Grace hadn't decided to start with Oldtown on his tour. I would've quite enjoyed seeing him."

"Considering what you've been up to, that would've been awkward if I didn't know you." Hugor and Barth shared a laugh before he left, again looking at Jeyne once more.

Barth was right… this woman had an air of something special about her.

He had been a King once - never did he remember it to be this… exhausting. With Aenys and Alyssa journeying across the Free Cities and Dorne, as Lord Hand Torrhen sat at the head of the table in the small council chamber, leading today's meeting. The first one in many weeks. It had dragged on for hours, greatly fatiguing him. Perhaps it was just being old, but Torrhen also knew the fact that previously he only had one Kingdom to govern… now it was six.

A daunting task even for a dragonrider.

The full complement was present - even Lord Butterwell, recently returned from Braavos after the conclusion of the dealings with the Iron Bank. Such had taken up much of the first half-hour of discussion, especially the King approving so much of the work of Lucas Harroway that he decided Butterwell's input wasn't needed for the rest of the trip. Harroway is a snake. Brilliant, but a snake nonetheless. Torrhen would have to keep an eye on him.

On one side sat his wife, Jocelyn, right next to him. Joining her on the left were Master of Ships Daemon Velaryon, Septon Murmison, Master of Laws Ronnel Arryn, Butterwell, and Princess Rhaena. Across on the right was Lord Commander Corbray, Prince Aegon, Master of Whisperers Tybolt Reyne, Grand Maester Gawen, Lord Blackwood - returned to the Small Council on Torrhen's initiative - and finally Dowager Queen Visenya, ever proud and strong. At the far end of the table was Prince Maegor, Master of War. Steely eyed and intimidating - had Torrhen not knew him like a nephew at Winterfell, the new epithet "Maegor the Cruel" that came out of the Westerlands would've seemed confirmed to him.

Some remnants, some young up and comers, the royals themselves, and Aenys' favorites. Not the strongest, but not the worst by far.

And yet now, with the discussion turning to the revolt of the False Lodos the Twice-Drowned, an argument broke out. "We have not the funds to conduct the kind of thing you propose!" Aethan Velaryon accused.

Prince Maegor scoffed. "Why don't we ask Lord Butterwell of our situation with coin."

The Master of Coin cleared his throat. "Well… given the better arrangements of our loans with the Iron Bank, we have a healthy reserve for crises."

"Exactly, and this is a crisis!" Maegor insisted.

"There is no crisis, just some Ironborn being as much fools as they usually are," laughed Prince Aegon, only to quiet as his sister glared at him. They used to be close… Was there some love lost between them? Torrhen looked at the Dowager Queen, but she looked as confused as he did. "I… I think this is an isolated incident."

"I agree with the young Prince," stated the Grand Maester. "While the rumblings Lord Reyne discussed were troubling, nothing to be concerned of or to overreact to…"

"This was just the beginning, Grand Maester," Maegor insisted. "They were zealots, aye, but they could've revolted during my father's reign and didn't. Many will seek to test my brother and we need the banners called as a precaution. The dragons can provide quick reaction but not of the nature we truly need."

Even as a younger man, Torrhen wasn't inclined to drink too much. Perhaps a mug of ale at dinner and perhaps half that for his midday meal, but not to excess except on a few occasions. But as the various councilors debated, quarreled, and gesticulated at each other he found his mouth growing dry. His head aching. The Hand reached for the flagon of Arbor Gold left for all of them to partake in and poured himself a goblet - filled to the rim. No one noticed but his wife. Jocelyn raised an eyebrow and he merely shrugged, sipping at the sweet liquid.

It helped. Not much, but the warmth helped.

"I'm telling you!" Maegor shouted. "The Ironborn saw an opportunity and they pounced! Even if we annihilated them more will see blood in the water!"

"And what would you have us do, my Prince?" replied Gawen, voice softer but no less full of steel. "Mass slaughters? Taking Lords you think may one day plot against you and feed them to the Black Dread."

The other Gawen, Lord Commander Corbray, smacked his hand on the table. "That is quite enough, Grand Maester." Beside him, Princess Rhaena's cheeks burned red with anger.

Maegor, for his part, merely scoffed and crossed his arms - a smirk on his face. "I only do that to rapists, though perhaps I'll make an exception for traitors."

Gawen glared. "Is that a threat?"

"Why would you think it a threat?" That came from Queen Dowager Visenya, her face expressionless. "Unless you are thinking of treason, there shouldn't be a worry."

The Grand Maester bristled. "I shan't have my good name questioned by the likes of you. I have given the Crown years of faithful service!"

"Please, my friends," Murmison stated, his arms out in a supplicating gesture. "We should have calm. The Seven frown on those that engage in petty squabbles…"

His headache continuing to pound against his skull, Torrhen downed the entire cup… then reached out to pour another. Gods… why must they argue? Gawen, Murmison, and Ronnel Arryn's insistence that everything was fine in the Realm flew in the face of all logic, while the approach argued by Maegor, Visenya, and the Lord Commander held fault in the exact opposite direction - if one acted as if the Realm was at war then it would be at war in short order. A war the Kingdoms could scarcely afford with the Targaryen monarchy so young.

For those of the North, one learned quickly that whims could never be considered when it came to battle… or anything really. Their land was too cold, too desolate for anything to be conducted without planning and critical thinking. Lord Hightower could write off the life of a thousand bannermen - he could simply go to the slums of Oldtown and get thrice that number as long as he had the coin. Such wasn't true of the North with their population far smaller, and Torrhen had long ago learned to husband resources and plan accordingly.

Abruptly, he stood, drawing the attention of the rest of the councilors. "Lord Stark?" Murmison asked with concern.

"Husband?" Jocelyn was equally worried.

But Torrhen ignored them. He ran a hand through his grey hair, hobbling towards the window. The headache grew worse, and he felt hot all of a sudden. The cool breeze off the Blackwater gave him a little relief, and he let his thoughts wander to the problems of the Realm. They are not secure. What was sealed by the presence of the Conquerors no longer can hold the Kingdoms together. The North would stand with House Targaryen, the Crownlands would. House Tyrell and House Qoherys would, and most of the Vale long as Ronnel Arryn lived. All else…

Coughing suddenly, Torrhen patted his chest, mind still whirring. Maegor needs a babe with Ceryse, his affair with the wildling must end. That would secure House Hightower till the end of time. Each of the Princes and Princesses needed a match as well, not to mention his own grandchildren. It was the only way. He coughed again… this one lasting far longer and causing a bit of discomfort.

"Lord Stark, are you alright?" The question came from Princess Rhaena, looking at him with her innocent violet eyes - not so innocent anymore, having endured both indignity and battle for the first time.

Nodding, still coughing, Torrhen made for his goblet. The wine sloshed down his throat, soothing it. "Aye, I'm fine…" Rhaena… the heir according to the ancient traditions of the North, but merely a pawn to the Andal custom. A good match needed to be found for her regardless of which path Aenys chose, though Torrhen resolved to make the King pick when he returned from his tour.

Sharing a concerned look with Jocelyn, Visenya stepped towards the Hand. "Torrhen, I suggest you sit down." His coughs hadn't abated, even with the wine.

Shaking his head, Torrhen's eyes flickered to Rhaena, who was now standing next to her uncle. He wasn't blind, he saw the looks she threw him… and the looks Maegor now made occasionally to her after they returned from Casterly Rock. They fancy each other… gods… It can't be allowed to happen… There was nothing wrong in his opinion, but his didn't matter. The Realm would fracture, Ceryse Hightower being set aside in favor of Maegor's niece being the spark that would light the entire ship aflame. She needs a husband… one that would… that would… Or was it unavoidable? They needed dragons and dragonriders. Perhaps… modeling after Visenya and her siblings...

It was then he doubled over, hands splayed on the table of the small council chamber. Visenya was by his side. "Torrhen, what troubles you?"

Torrhen opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, a great quantity of blood erupted from his gullet, staining the table and causing those closest to him to scramble back lest they were drenched in it. He tried to speak again, but more came out and his legs gave way, sending him to the ground.

"Lord Stark!"

"Torrhen!"

The sound of Prince Maegor filled the din. "Tend to him, you wretch!" Grand Maester Gawen was basically shoved towards him.

Feeling Jocelyn squeeze his hand, Torrhen tried to squeeze it back - reassure her just as he had when he marched South to confront the Targaryens. Just as he had when Maegor first arrived in Winterfell. Just as he had when he became Hand of the King. Just as he had when Aegon breathed his last. But he found his hand was no longer obeying his commands.

The truth hit him like a blizzard. I am dying.

He could vaguely hear Maegor yelling for assistance. Could feel the hands of the Grand Maester try to expose his chest for examination… but he knew it was to no end. All he could think of was his worries. His fear for his family.

You will be eaten alive, my King…

Keep your family close, Maegor…

Watch over the babes, Rhaenys. They'll need you…

Pain began to seize at him, an intense burning as if his insides were being eaten alive. Blood continued to trickle out of his mouth. He shook, he convulsed, but in his mind Torrhen knew the end was near and he could be at peace with the great Winter Kings.

Bran… Aegon… Alaric… Saera… the fate of House Stark is with you now.

"Torrhen!" Jocelyn screamed again. The Lord of Winterfell's grey eyes found her once more before they closed forever.

End it… end it damn you!

The Old Gods finally granted him his request. Only blackness followed.

Chapter Text

Feasts were no stranger to Queen Alyssa Velaryon. Her family, quite wealthy, was oft to host them at Driftmark… and her family by marriage even more wealthy and even more influential. But nothing could compare to a Dornish feast - an intersection between the Andalic knightly traditions she had grown up with and the exotic customs of the east. Wine, bread, and roast meats were common, but so were fiery dishes, whole-roasted fruits, grilled skewers of meat and onion, and exotic spiced liquors that warmed a person. Minstrels and mummers entertained the guests of the court of Sunspear, joined by beast shows and fire jugglers she would've normally seen only in Volantis or Pentos.

Both familiar and alien, but it had a certain charm about it. Alyssa would've enjoyed herself… had it not been for the Dornish themselves.

She was no Targaryen nor dragonrider - although the blood of House Targaryen did flow through her veins - but even eating the bread dipped in salt for guest right Alyssa felt at unease in Sunspear. Behind the smiling faces and honeyed words of the multitude of guests that drank and made merriment in the feast, she could sense their contempt. Their loathing. Memories died hard, and Alyssa suspected that some blamed them for Nymeria's Flight so far back in addition to the closer Dragons' Wroth.

You killed Queen Rhaenys, not I. And she wasn't even sure the Targaryens fought in Nymeria's War. But try telling the Dornish that. Alyssa merely sipped her wine and tried to have a good time.

"It was a pleasure for you to arrive, your Grace," Princess Deria Martell said to Aenys, seated next to Alyssa and thoroughly enjoying himself. "Though my age restricts what I may do, these diplomatic matters being solved lifts a vast burden from me."

"That warms my heart, Princess," Aenys replied. "Though my dear father no longer lives among us, I know his heart would be unburdened to know that the peace forged with Dorne continues."

"Not that you dragons would keep to it," grumbled a young man seated two seats down from the Princess."

Another girl, essentially a youthful version of the aging Princess Deria, hissed back. "Shut it."

"Don't disrespect me, cousin. I wasn't the one who invited the dragonspawn here."

"Mors, enough!" hissed the Princess of Sunspear, voice hoarse from raising it. Such drew wandering eyes and unwanted attention. "You disgrace our family, begone or I'll have you hauled away!"

Shaking, teeth grinding in rage, the flushed Prince Mors looked like he wished to argue more but thought better of it. "As you wish, your Grace," he said, the last two words essentially spat out. A knightly guard placed a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it off, turning on his heel and storming away with as much dignity as he could muster.

Honey-brown eyes falling on her and her husband, Alyssa could see the apology in them - not something she expected from a Princess of Dorne, but the Queen of Westeros wasn't about to call out on that. "Forgiveness for him, your Grace," Deria said with as much hospitality as a woman of her frailty could muster. "Mors is a good boy, but gets his temper from his father… from my father before him. Combined with memories of the past…" She trailed off, shrugging.

Holding his goblet, Aenys chuckled, waving off the entire issue as was his style. "Oh, it is no trouble. I know of our histories, Princess Deria, and to imagine coming here to full friendship and adoration wasn't likely." A more forgiving and generous man there didn't exist in Westeros, a man that could charm even his enemies.

Or that was at least what the enemies allowed themselves to express outward, Alyssa figured.

As for Princess Deria, she looked genuinely charmed but who could know? "If only the other Lords and knights of your realm are as forward thinking as yourself."

"Prince Maegor comes to mind," commented Nymeria Sand from the other side the Princess, earning a stiff glare from Deria. "What? I'm just observing, grandmother." I'm sure you were. The girl was as much a brat as her cousin, Alyssa could tell, but unlike him was clever. If she wasn't a bastard, I'd be worried.

Aenys, as usual, merely laughed. "Oh, my little brother can get into it when he's deep in his cups. I wonder if being fostered in the North actually made it worse than before rather than better, considering the discipline he knew there."

Deria's wrinkled mouth curled upward. "Ah yes, the Northmen. I have a feeling we in Dorne are more like them than we are with our Andal brethren. Both outsiders in a land dominated by knighthood and the Faith of the Seven." She gingerly ate a bit of her meal, popping an apple slice into her mouth. "And yet we've adopted knighthood and the Faith of the Seven for the most part so they stayed truer to their heritage than us."

"The Northmen have the advantage of geography," Alyssa said. "With such an inhospitable clime, who would wish to invade and occupy a land to such little gain? Your land is rich and in the middle of lucrative trade routes."

"I shall take that as a compliment, Queen Alyssa," Deria replied. "I wish you did bring Prince Maegor, I would've loved to meet him."

I highly doubt you do… Though… someone like her, she'd probably get along with her goodbrother. "I am certain the visits in your youth to the Shadow Town would be of interest to him, Princess." He had a habit of attracting the worst sorts to his side.

Including your daughter? Alyssa chose not to think on that for the rest of the feast.

Later in their chambers, a tired Alyssa was nevertheless pulled into an embrace by a rather frisky husband of hers. "My beautiful Queen," he murmured, touch firm and kisses filled with ardor.

"Mmmmm…" It surprised her but Alyssa was not keen on stopping this. "Yes, my King." She ran her hands along his finely-built body, not powerful but in no manner unfit, hand finally settling on burying themselves in his silver locks. "To bed," she murmured against his lips, guiding Aenys until he pushed her upon it - climbing atop to kiss at her neck and begin to undo her garments. Oh yes... A brusque knock on the door pulled Aenys from her, and Alyssa groaned. "What is it now? Go away!" she hissed at the closed door.

"My dear Queen," Aenys chuckled, kissing her cheek. "It may be important. Allow me to see who it is and then we can continue."

She huffed, crossing her arms. Why can't he just lose himself in passion, damn all else? She had, in a moment rather best forgotten, knocked on her goodbrother's door to discuss a matter of state with him years ago only to get a growled response to 'fuck off.' It followed with a very unladylike moan from Ceryse Hightower… along with a few other choice words. Maegor was fierce and darkly passionate that way.

Oh, did Alyssa know.

And oh, did she miss it even though she hated herself for it.

Turning her attention to the doorway, she noticed Ser Olyvar Bracken speaking to her husband… and her husband going white as a sheet. Suddenly, Alyssa felt an icy fear. "Husband?" Ignoring her state of undress and the quick avoiding glance that Ser Olyvar made, she approached him. "What happened?" The worst came to her mind. "Rhaena? Ally? Please tell me it isn't our children."

Aenys opened his mouth to speak… said nothing and closed it… and repeated the process twice before finally croaking. "Lord Torrhen… he's dead." Grief crossed his face. "Oh gods… they are taking everyone! Why must they take all left of the great ones!" He pounded his fist against the wall. "Ser Olyvar, get the ships ready. We head back to King's Landing!"

"Your Grace… what should I have them tell the Hightower and Starry Sept…"

"I'll deal with them later," he said with a rare firmness. "They'll understand my need to be in the capitol at this moment!" Olyvar clicked his heels and disappeared, door shutting behind him. "A nightmare," Aenys wailed. "First my father and now Lord Stark… when will this madness end?"

While she never disliked Lord Stark - admired him in fact - only one thought went through Alyssa's mind. Who will be Hand?

There was one obvious choice… and she dreaded even the thought.

"There, I can see them."

Placing his palm over his eyes to shield them from the sun, Maegor squinted into the vast expanse of blue sky. "Where? I can't see them."

Beside him, Ceryse rolled her eyes. "Over there, just over the Lion's Gate," she insisted, pointing out. "Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Quicksilver are already flying to them."

Continuing to peer out, Maegor could finally make out a rapidly approaching dark dot through the blue - it helped that the three younger dragons roared, hooted, and flapped their wings towards their wayward relative. Balerion, the eldest of them all, was less enthusiastic and preferred sleeping in the sun upon the grass. Lazy lummox.

The shape of Arrax grew in size as the seconds passed - he had grown since they last saw her, wingspan now bigger than Quicksilver since the vast open spaces of the North were apparently suitable for dragons in spite of the cold. While likely not ever to reach the size of his Balerion, Rhaenys could be proud of the dragon she hatched and now rode across the Kingdoms. Brandon as well, for earning the love and trust of the rider of such a beast.

If only the circumstances could be different. A reunion with his dear sister left Maegor in agony rather than joy, considering the nature of it. She was not arriving with her and Brandon's retinue, the children eager to see their Targaryen aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, but instead alone with Brandon to claim the body of Lord Torrhen Stark, several days dead. They do not deserve this pain.

As the man who had lost his father, even a year later did it still hurt. He wouldn't wish such pain on his worst enemy, let alone Brandon.

An arm wrapped around his torso. "It'll be alright, my love," whispered Ceryse. He nodded and hugged her back just as Arrax landed in the grassy field. Rhaenys first descended with the skill of an expert rider, Brandon following with some skill but sloppy and unsteady - it couldn't all be blamed on that, though. His eyes were red and cheeks stained with tears. Somber too, Rhaenys approached Maegor. "Brother."

The Prince hugged his sister. "Regardless of the circumstances, it is a joy to see you," he whispered in her ear, kissing her cheek. "I trust my niece and nephews are well."

"As can be expected," she replied. "Ceryse, you look well." Her goodsister nodded and hugged her as well - she and Rhaenys always got along.

Turning to Brandon, Maegor had many things he could say but they all died on his tongue. How can anything hope to mollify a man that lost his father? In the end, he merely clasped Brandon's hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry, Bran. Your father was a great man." Short and simple.

"How… how could this have happened, brother?" Brandon said in despair, head in his hands. "My own father… gods, and just on the eve of glorious news."

Maegor was confused. "What news?"

Hugging her husband to calm him, Rhaenys pressed a kiss to his chin before looking to her brother and goodsister with a solemn smile. "Aegon and Saera's eggs hatched. Two beautiful dragon hatchlings… Bran so looked forward to informing our muna and his father before… news of this happened."

Not able to truly blame Brandon for feeling an added burden on this, Maegor patted his back. "I'm sure Lord Stark believed his grandchildren were destined for greatness."

Brandon sniffled, but looked appreciatively at his closest friend. "Thank you, brother. That means much." Breaking away from his wife, they shared a brotherly hug, thumping each other's backs.

"Bran!"

Finding his own mother - the now dowager Lady of Winterfell, Brandon rushed to her. "Mother." Requiring comfort from his wife and goodbrother, now it was his turn to provide as Jocelyn Stark collapsed in his arms, sobs claiming her after days of stoic silence.

Sighing from the sad sight, Maegor felt Ceryse squeeze his hand - a sentiment he appreciated. "If I may ask, goodsister, what were the names of the hatchlings?"

Mention of the dragons drew Rhaenys into a bit of happiness amid all the gloom. "Aegon did not know which to choose until his brother helped him. Vermax was the choice, grey and vibrant - loves him already. As for Saera, as soon as she saw the blue scales she knew that her hatchling should be named Tessarion."

"Both powerful names of Old Valyria," Maegor commented, smiling himself. "What of Alaric?"

Rhaenys shook her head. "His egg is still silent, and though he says nothing I know he feels left out." The Princess sighed. "My younger son has the closest bond with his direwolf pup, Spirit, so perhaps he is more wolf than dragon."

"Mayhaps, though it is a shame."

"My husband never had a hatchling… so I wouldn't worry as to young Alaric," Ceryse said. "He may be like Maegor, claiming an already grown dragon." Rhaenys smiled warmly at her, while Maegor kissed her temple tenderly.

In spite of everything - both recent and longstanding - she felt a warmth inside her at her husband's love.

Though Maegor offered to escort them to their chambers to freshen up, both insisted on heading to the small council chamber first - no form of comfort could ease their pain, so best get business settled. Everyone had gathered there and were whispering amongst each other, only to stand as the King did when Rhaenys and Brandon entered. "Goodbrother, dear sister." Aenys shook Brandon's hand while embracing Rhaenys. "By the grace of the gods, you cannot imagine how deeply we mourn for the loss of Lord Stark."

"He was a good man and an even greater friend," stated Lord Blackwood. Many others nodded - the indomitable Lord of Winterfell was only dwarfed in his mark on the Realm during his lifetime by the dragons he served.

While Brandon looked to be hanging on by a thread even given his wolfish ice, it was Rhaenys that seemed calm and composed. Her lips were pressed thinly, but otherwise there was not an emotion written on her face. "Has the council been informed of what my goodfather, the Lord Hand, succumbed to?"

Aenys, who was the exact opposite of his sister in wearing his grief on his sleeve, reached out and took her hand in his. "Grand Maester Gawen was just about to report us his findings after thorough examination of Lord Stark's corpse." The mention of his father as a 'corpse' made Brandon both grimace and snarl at the same time.

Clearing his throat as all eyes fell back on him, the aging Grand Maester nodded. "In spite of his age, Lord Torrhen held the strong constitution of the land he ruled - hardy and resilient." His praise upon the Northmen didn't ingratiate himself to either Brandon or Rhaenys, who stared at him. "Unfortunately, such was not enough to protect him from a severe ulceration of the stomach and intestines, starting slowly but eventually so acute that it killed him."

"So it's poison, then?" Queen Alyssa stated.

But Gawen shook his head, trying to hide his nervousness at being scrutinized by some of the most powerful people in the Realm - five of whom were dragonriders. "It is my determination that the cause of this was a naturally-occurring stomach malady. Likely foodborne in nature from whatever Lord Stark ate the previous midday or evening meal."

There was a silence until suddenly Lord Brandon - because that was what he was now, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North - laughed. "Forgive me, Grand Maester, but a foodborne malady? Has your brain been addled?"

Gawen was affronted. "You would question my determination, Lord Stark?"

"Goodbrother," Aenys cautioned, "Grand Maester Gawen has served the Realm loyally since the middle of my father's reign…"

"I may respect the Grand Maester, but I do find that the fact he died so suddenly of a mere foodborne malady is suspicious." Alyssa had spent much time thinking about it, and Lord Stark was too healthy to pass from something like this without more persons falling ill. "No one else suffered from any illness."

"Those of the North have different tastes," remarked Lord Ronnel Arryn.

Maegor scowled, sharing a dismissive look with his muna. The boy had grown into a handsome man, but hadn't changed in maturity since a simple dragonride on Vhagar from Visenya allowed her to obtain the fealty of the Vale. "I must point out, Lord Arryn, that I shared the same meal that Lord Stark did and I did not fall ill. My goodbrother and goodsister are right. There is something afoot."

Huffing in indignity, Gawen did not back down from his assessment. "The nature of the death greatly suggests that the illness was foodborne, your Grace."

"Oh, we're not denying that, Grand Maester," replied Rhaenys, causing him to blink. "I'm suggesting poison killed my goodfather."

"Poison? Don't be ridiculous… there are no poisons with such a signature."

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. "Forgive me, Grand Maester, do one of those links on your chain refer to study in botany… or pharmacology?"

Gawen sputtered. "Um… no, Lady Stark…"

"Princess… or your Grace. I am still of the royal family," she hissed.

He ground his teeth. "Your Grace… but I have extensive links in human anatomy and disease, so I can tell what causes what to the body."

"Perhaps a novel poison, one not seen - there are places of knowledge outside the Citadel's reach, no?" This was Queen Visenya speaking, someone Gawen couldn't touch. "Plenty has been lost since the Doom of Valyria."

"Are you suggesting there is a greater repository of information than the Citadel?" Septon Murmison asked, as if thinking such was a scandal.

"Not at all, Septon." Visenya smirked at the Grand Maester. "I'm stating it outright."

"Enough!" Aenys sank into his chair, face flushed and sweating. "Gods, Lord Stark is dead, and it could be poison. Where does it end?" Several different people tried to call to him, but he smacked the table. "I said enough!"

Eventually, Lord Lucas Harroway raised his hand. "Allow me, your Grace, but perhaps an independent inquiry can get to the bottom of this. An expert in botany can be called from the Citadel."

Aenys looked relieved. "An excellent suggestion, Lord Lucas. Would you lead the inquiry."

Lucas graciously shook his head. "I fear I wouldn't be equipped to get to the bottom of this. Perhaps our Master of Laws…"

"I think Uncle Maegor should lead it," Rhaena proclaimed, looking to her uncle with adoration. Something Ceryse noticed.

"Good idea, daughter," said Aenys. "Maegor, can you oversee this?"

Maegor bowed. "An honor, your Grace. I will get to the bottom of this, I promise you." Not only did he look at Aenys, Brandon, and Rhaenys, but also at the Grand Maester.

Standing near the back, someone among the councilors did his best to hide a smile.

With a thwack, the arrow sailed forth from the bow and slammed directly into the side of the deer, felling it. Antlers clattered on the ground - sounds joining that of the dying moans of the creature. "Good show, nephew," Maegor commented, clapping the boy on the back. "A solid shot, though it can be better."

Lowering his bow, Jaehaerys rubbed his shoulders. He had a slight ache from repeatedly drawing and releasing the bowstring as he attempted a proper shot. "Why can't I use a crossbow, uncle?"

"Oh, you will learn if I have anything to say about it," chuckled the Prince, leading both their horses closer to where the carcass rested. "But you must learn the bow first… gives you both strength and discipline while a crossbow only gives the latter - and not as much."

"I'm confused." A bright lad, he was always eager to learn simply for the sake of learning.

Such was a trait that Maegor wished he had more of as a child, then only concerned with being the best and what to learn to get there. Brandon Snow instilled in him the need to know one's surroundings, one's friends, and one's foes and it was a lesson he hoped to pass down to Jaehaerys while the boy was still young and impressionable. "It's harder to aim a longbow than a crossbow, Jae. To do so not only requires strength of arm and chest but also a vastly better discipline and breathing technique. You'll benefit from it, trust me." Kneeling by the fallen deer, Maegor quickly drew his knife and stabbed it in the heart.

Rest easy, noble creature. Your soul is free. Looking back at his nephew, Jaehaerys seemed relieved that the beast's suffering was abated. A lesson he didn't have to teach him, thank the gods. It still brought shame to Maegor that he himself had to learn that lesson.

Motioning for Jae to join him, Maegor quickly unsheathed Blackfyre and chopped the head off. "This will make a fine trophy for your chambers. Your first kill," he boasted, only to find Jae still standing. "Well, what are you waiting for, come here."

"But uncle… we can have the servants back in the city do this? Why get our hands dirty?" His father was always impeccably dressed and groomed - Jae always sought to emulate that.

As if reading his mind, Maegor sighed. "Nephew, you must know that how you conduct yourself in court is admirable but out of place when on the battlefield or hunting or other similar pursuits." Watching him intently, he didn't continue until Jaehaerys complied and kneeled with him. Wincing as his trousers got stained with dirt and grass. Maegor chuckled a bit. "Now, now. Don't be a priss. You're a strapping young Prince - boys should get down and dirty when the occasion calls for it." He handed him a hunting knife. "Now, slide along the belly here down the middle. We need to remove the guts."

Jaehaerys nodded and did so, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the blood and intestines began to spill out. Maegor quickly grabbed some wax-lined parchment to wrap the meat in as Jaehaerys continued. "Gods… how can anyone endure this foul stench?"

"Just like your kepa, you are," laughed the Prince. The boy's facial cues were all Aenys. "It's worse on the battlefield, believe me."

"But… where does the glory come?"

"Nephew, there is glory in victory, but there is no glory in actual combat. It's a bloody, brutal mess, and the only ones that enjoy it are those with whom no one wishes to associate with." That had been one of the biggest lessons Brandon Snow taught him. "You must be able to handle it, but not revel in it, understood?"

"Aye, uncle." They quietly skinned and dressed the deer, Maegor tossing the unwanted parts into the woods for the foxes that already circled the clearing. Eventually, the young Prince was habituated to the smell and slimy feel of the raw meat. It was a powerful deer and the venison would be delicious roasted with honey and herbs. That wasn't what was on Jaehaerys' mind, though. "Uncle, who else is going to die?"

Maegor blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I've heard some whisper that deaths always come in threes… first grandfather died and then Lord Stark… who of our family will die next? Kepa?" He trembled slightly at the thought.

Setting down his blade, Maegor drew his nephew in for a hug. "Don't worry, that saying is Andal bunk. They are much too superstitious for their own good." Valyrians and First Men were also superstitious, but they actually had a sense of mysticism that bore results rather than that of the Faith of the Seven, which rejected magic. "There is no threat to our family that I shan't be in a position to fight against. Do you trust me?"

Jaehaerys looked up at him. "Aye, I do, uncle."

The Prince idolized his uncle - he was the epitome of a strong warrior that Jae ultimately wished he could be. He loved his father and wished to be as well-read and liked figure as well, but as the third son he knew that being such a King was not his destiny. Glory would come in being a proud warrior and loyal partner as his uncle was.

And the bright boy was more perceptive than most figured. "I'm sorry you're so unhappy."

That surprised the Prince. "What do you mean? I'm quite happy with my life." Was that the truth? It was the truth he wished Jaehaerys to know - the boy was too young to be so melancholy.

"I can see how sad you are, uncle. You and aunt Ceryse both… is it because you don't have children?" Aunt Rhaenys and uncle Brandon were quite happy together, as were muna and kepa - to an extent, but still happy. Both couples were blessed with children and Jae could tell.

"Nephew…" Maegor said, the question… making him think and brood, a difficult one to answer or allow into his mind. "There is a thing about love and duty, one that is a difficult act to balance. Both are important, and no matter what you must stay true to both."

"Do you love aunt Ceryse? I know some marriages aren't for love."

Clever child. "We were arranged, aye, but I do love her." We're just too broken to truly be in love as we were… "It is because of my love that I have a duty to never abandon her, even though we don't yet have children." He patted Jae's back. "Such a duty is absolute. You love your future wife and your future children, so you must never shun them or disown them. That is your duty, to be a devoted husband and father no matter what."

He looked at him intently. "Alright, uncle. I understand… always stick close to the ones I love."

A thought came to Maegor. "That is what you must do… with one exception." Jae was smart enough to follow what he would say. "Nephew, sometimes you will find yourself in love with someone that you shouldn't be. In which continuing that love will only cause pain and dishonor to your entire family… but you don't act to hate, you must do your duty to that love by letting go and being honorable. The gods favor those who are honorable in their family lives."

The lessons were slightly confusing, but Jaehaerys followed as best he could. "Was there someone you loved like that, uncle?"

That… was a good question. Over the years, his feelings for the woman in question has ebbed and flowed, sometimes he felt pity and sympathy and others loathing and anger, but at the time of his decision… "Aye," he finally said. "I loved her greatly."

Jae was surprised. "More than you love Aunt Ceryse?"

"You can't really compare love so easily, Jae. It's more complex than that." He smiled wistfully. "We were both young with the idiocy of youth… it was only going to cause the greatest of sorrows, so when she asked for me to make her mine… I couldn't." Maegor couldn't tell Jae the details, so he didn't. "I don't regret it, though I did love her."

"Does she love you still?"

"Honestly, I think she hates me. Her reaction wasn't the best." He sighed. "I hated doing it - it made me feel ill, but ultimately I loved her enough to know it was best for her to let her go. Do you understand?"

Nodding, Jaehaerys thought long and firm. "Love is hard," he finally said.

For some reason Maegor found that the most amusing thing he had heard in years. "Aye… that is true," he laughed uproariously. "Alright, so I think we're done here, let's head back to the Red Keep." He smacked Jae's back. "You're going to be a strapping warrior just like me, nephew."

Jaehaerys didn't stop smiling for the rest of the ride back to King's Landing.

"Do you need any more of me, your Grace?"

Ceryse Hightower shook her head. "No, Ser Robert. You may go." Ser Robert Flowers of the Kingsguard bowed and left out the door where Lord Tybolt Reyne had left through earlier. The Princess was left with her lady in waiting, Lady Della Peake. "Gods, Della, politics bore me."

"You are good at it, Princess," she replied. Della was bright but uncorrupted - someone whom never endured duplicity and thus held a trusting nature.

Ceryse was not as naive. "I may be, but it is still exhausting." Della removed the crown of braids from her hair, causing her to sigh in relief. "I vastly prefer a nice feast and dancing… or a ride in the open fields."

"Like Prince Maegor used to take you on?" Ceryse's wistful smile faltered. "And now he rides Balerion… imagine if he took you on a dragonride. Gods… that's so romantic…"

Thankfully for Ceryse, the door opened to reveal a tired and dirty Maegor, back from his hunting trip. Della bowed and he nodded curtly. "You're dismissed, Lady. I wish to have a moment with my wife." Della complied.

Regardless of the distance that had developed between them, Ceryse rose and helped Maegor divest of his dirty riding clothes, stained with dirt and blood as was the expected result for a hunting trip into the Kingswood with his nephew. He sighed in relief as he removed his boots, Ceryse slipping off his tunic and dropping it into a pile of dirty clothes for the maids later to try and clean. It left him bare, and to this day she still felt a tingle in her core at seeing her husband.

Many men would run to fat as they grew out of their youth - not Maegor Targaryen, who was objectively a gift of the gods to whomever woman was blessed enough to have him.

But Ceryse remained reserved - she had learned long ago that it was safer. "Lord Blackwood will support your bid to be Hand," she spoke, walking to a basin of water to soak a washcloth in it.

Maegor clicked his tongue. "Can't say I'm surprised. He's close to Brandon, considering that Lord Torrhen's grandmother was his aunt. I value his support, as I do the aging Lord Strong's." Osmund Strong, his father's old partisan, was close to death but commanded vast respect. Problem was, they were the low hanging fruit. "Anyone else?"

"I spoke with Lord Reyne. He believes you are the best choice since despite his friendship with your brother, he won't have a chance." She took the rag and began wiping at his chest, cleaning up the dirt that had gotten through the tunic. "He added that he can sway Lord Qoherys and Lord Butterwell to your side if you promise to appoint him as Master of War."

"Lord Reyne?" Maegor asked, with a slight raised eyebrow of surprise. "Gods, how'd you pull that off?"

She managed to smirk softly. "I learned from a travelling maege long ago that they don't reveal their secrets… though nor should I." Taking a chance, she kissed his temple… pleasantly surprised when he leaned into her touch. Given all they went through, the love was still there - however, that was both a curse as well as a blessing. "Do you have objections to Lord Reyne as Master of War?"

Thinking for a moment, Maegor scratched his chin. "He's a capable man from his tenure as Master of Whisperers, and his house is quite warlike. They also aren't lickspittles of the Lannisters so I have no qualms in him taking my current position if I am Hand… though that leaves open the position of Master of Whisperers."

Ceryse clicked her tongue. "Something that I believe is an underrated position. The person that controls the flow of information holds more power than those that control armies."

A snort. "Those who don't educate their daughters or listen to their wives' counsel are losing out." At his words, Ceryse's heart skipped. Things like this and statements like that made her fall in love with him. He was a good man underneath all the fierceness and brooding. "I have a feeling that my muna would be good in that position, or her lady in waiting…"

"Who? Tyanna?" The girl unsettled Ceryse in some manner… perhaps it was her piety, but being in love with a man sired by brother and sister had given her immense pragmatism in that regard.

"Yeah… Rhaena speaks of her consistently, of how… perceptive she is."

"She's too young and too lowborn, husband."

"I know, just as it would be a demotion in status for my muna to become Master… or Mistress of Whisperers. That's why I was thinking of my former mentor."

That drew Ceryse's interest as she cleaned Maegor's chest. "Brandon Snow?" She'd met the man a few times. He was polite and charming in his own way, but grealy unsettling in a manner not so different from Tyanna. "The North will be mollified with someone of their own being on the Small Council still, and I cannot question his competence."

A chuckle from Maegor. "I found something out quite interesting about him… did you know that he is the grandfather of all the heirs to House Mormont?"

"Oh?"

"Aye… apparently he had an affair with his goodcousin Bethany Mormont, birthing her legitimized son Jorah who now rules Bear Island." He snickered. "Now, without too many duties since my sister has taken charge of the household, he's spent time in Bear Island and acknowledged his son and three grandchildren. Two of them don't ever leave his side, a girl and a boy, so we'll see Mormonts in King's Landing. One of them is Rhaena's age, would do good for her to have a northern girl among her favorites."

Rhaena. This was the second time he'd mentioned her. Ever since even before King Aegon's death, Maegor had grown closer to his niece. In her head Ceryse knew she shouldn't worry, but… "I'm sure Lady Raya would like another wild northman in the capitol," she said with more bite than intended - even her husband's mistress was a more tolerable conversation piece than whatever he felt about Rhaena.

There was a long silence. Ceryse continuing to clean him while Maegor stared ahead with unreadable, brooding violet eyes. "Lady Raya is no longer in King's Landing."

Ceryse dropped the cloth, completely stunned. "What?"

"I sent her to Eastwatch alongside her father. Apparently the wildling clans there are growing restless and I wanted someone I could trust to join Lord Umber in finding a peaceful settlement." He looked up at her, standing. "You are surprised."

"I… I…" What could she say that wouldn't turn the situation into a screaming match. "How will you make due in your… schedule without her?"

"If you ask where I would sleep at night, perhaps it would be clear since I have a wife."

She narrowed her eyes at him, his words drawing her ire. "The times you spent in my bed in the last year could be counted on my fingers and toes, husband." He was oft gone from the capitol or mourning over his dead father, but Ceryse didn't water down her point by being truthful about that. "So forgive me if I didn't think of that."

Normally, Maegor would respond to any attempt at deep conversation on their issues by walking away. Sometimes he would snap and yell at her in such a manner to leave her broken and crying. But never did he respond in the way he did now. "Ceri…" His hands took hers in their grasp, thumb rubbing the soft skin on the back with a gentleness the calluses didn't look like they could give. "I'm sorry."

That stunned her more than the news of Raya's leaving. "You… you're sorry?"

"Aye, and I could only hope you'll forgive me." His conversation with Jaehaerys earlier weighed on him - if Maegor expected his nephew to follow his advice then perhaps he himself should take it as well. "I can't excuse my actions, but I can explain them. The loss of our…"

"Stop." It was just as painful to her. "I know, husband." Wordlessly, they simply embraced each other.

Maegor kissed the crown of her head, it feeling almost like the moments in their first year of marriage - just them and their love. "I'd like to try again. The omens are sound, and I have a good feeling about this."

She pulled back, looking up at him and his beautiful face. "Are those the only reasons?"

"No… the fact I love you is reason enough." Not speaking anymore, Maegor kissed her… a kiss that Ceryse responded feverishly towards.

Clothes were quickly shed, and Ceryse soon found herself flat on her back in their bed - her mouth was open in a silent scream as her Valyrian god of a husband supped at her cunt with fervor. "Gods… yes…" Her septas had talked about the 'woman's duty' to 'allow her husband his lusts,' but the only man who ever touched them was the Father. Never would they enjoy this pleasure. "Husband… please… need…"

Maegor was on her in a heartbeat, slamming their lips together. Pushing through her prepared, soaking heat with his cock - filling her like only he could. Too long… it has been too long…

Please, dear Mother above, bless us with a child…

I love him… I need him… don't take him away...

From the moment the maester had removed him from his mother, Rogar Baratheon had held one unquenched desire. Some turned to lust, others to gluttony… the unlucky ones developed tastes in the macabre or brutal, while some were humble and merely wanted a stable family and a soft bed to sleep in after a long day's toil. Rogar was none of those things. He was lean and handsome, never one to drink or eat or fuck to excess. His sexual tastes were intense yet simple, and he bore no pleasure in abusing servants unless they gave him disrespect.

No, what Rogar Baratheon desired was… more. More of everything.

Dressing himself that day in his best, a richly decorated gold doublet with the black stag of his House emblazoned in black, it was styled to be an imitation of a combat tunic and surcoat. Complete with coal-black boots the same color as Balerion the Black Dread's scales, his well-muscled figure, trimmed black beard, and azure blue eyes would be the envy of every man and maiden in the Red Keep.

He had the dragonblood in his veins through his great-grandfather, a fact his grandmother Argella Durrandon never let him forget.

And therein rested the conundrum for Ser Rogar Baratheon. In his twenty namedays upon the earth, he already had nearly all he could ever want. As the future heir to Storm's End after his father, Ser Davos Baratheon, he had one of the most powerful domains in his pocket. He had vast amounts of coin from his prosperous lands to indulge his love of hunting, hawking, and wooing beautiful women with expensive gifts. He had a beautiful wife, a gossamer woman of House Dondarrion that adored him - though she later died in a fever alongside his newborn son, the same fever that claimed his Tarth mother, Rogar wouldn't want for another marriage.

As the descendent of the half-brother of Aegon the Conqueror himself, Rogar could marry almost any woman and be guaranteed a place in the highest of court positions as long as he demonstrated the most basic of competence. But no, that wasn't what he wished.

He wanted more. Simply more, and was confident he could get it.

The blood of dragons and stags, of the Targaryen dragonriders and Durrandon conquerors. Who could truly stand in his way?

Rogar knew the answer to that. The true dragonlords. Which was why he was here, rather than in Storm's End among those he could command and control. Here, Rogar would need to truly spread his influence and seek out allies wherever possible. It was the only way for his dreams to be realized.

"Mmmm… come back to bed, my Lord," murmured the seductive female voice of one of the courtiers he had taken to bed that night. A nameless Rosby or Stokeworth or Bracken… or something or other - she was slender, busty, and good in bed so why would Rogar really care.

The heir to Storm's End knew enough to merely chuckle and walk to her nude for, kissing her on the lips. "I do have to run, darling. Perhaps we can meet again tonight." Nothing was served by kicking a beautiful woman out of bed, and any connections he could make might serve him in the future. As he expected, the girl swooned.

They all swooned. Perhaps that's why he was so bored with them.

With the King's return to King's Landing, the great hall and newly constructed "Tower of the Hand'' in the Dragonpalace were bustling with activity among the courtiers. Rogar had ridden here and quickly found a guard to take his horse, walking briskly to where the Small Council would from hereafter meet. All the normal faces were present, including but not limited to Prince Maegor, the King's wife and eldest children, Septon Murmison, Grand Maester Gawen, the Corbray Lord Commander, and Lord Reyne. Princess Rhaenys and Lord Brandon Stark were there as observers… which was what Rogar was if he thought about it. Soon. Soon I won't be a mere observer.

Rogar also recognized Lucas Harroway, a skeletal fellow that generally rubbed him off the wrong way. If opposites attracted, similarity repelled. The man was just like him, always wanting more, only doing so from a far lower station.

Still, those men could be useful.

The King was somber, occasionally looking at his sister and goodbrother with sympathy. Eventually though, he cleared his throat. "Soon, Lord Torrhen Stark's body will be flown to Winterfell so it can be interred there as befitting the last King of Winter. Gods be with him."

"May the Stranger see his path to the heavens unmolested," spoke Murmison, earning glares from Maegor, Rhaenys, and the Northmen. Fool. The Starks don't keep the new gods. Rogar prayed to the Seven publically, but found it all ridiculous. Power and influence were his gods.

However, King Aenys seemed at peace with it… Queen Alyssa rolled her eyes. They fell on Rogar's and she stared at him for a moment before averting her gaze. Shifting uncomfortably. Hmmm… interesting. He knew the signs of a beautiful woman finding fancy in him, something he would need to explore further.

"While no one can replace Lord Torrhen in the contribution he made to the realm," continued Aenys. "We must move forward with the ship of state. Therefore, I announced that my brother, Prince Maegor, shall be made Hand of the King." Removing the famed pin from his pocket, Aenys pinned it to his brother's breast. Both Princess Ceryse and Princess Rhaena looked proud. "I said we'd rule together, brother, and now it seems we shall."

"The honor is mine, brother," Maegor replied, simply hugging the King - an embrace the King returned.

Smiling, Aenys cleared his throat. "In addition, I have made new changes to the Small Council on the advice of my new Lord Hand. Lord Tybolt Reyne shall assume the position of Master of War, while the Master of Whisperers shall be Brandon Snow of Winterfell. He is heading here shortly." Maegor bringing both his mentors… a powerful hand he will be. "Lord Blackwood has departed back to Raventree Hall, and we will miss his service. In his place as at-large advisor, I have decided to appoint my friend Lord Lucas Harroway and my dear cousin Ser Rogar Baratheon."

As the rest of the council clapped, for the first time Rogar allowed unadulterated joy to form on his face. No matter how well planned any goal could be, one couldn't count for plain luck.

Chapter Text

The entire party was thankful to be back on a proper road. Ironic, since Brandon Snow doubted any of them had seen a paved road for the first half of their lives - he loved his homeland, but even the most ardent patriot of the North would be forced to admit the land was largely virgin and undeveloped in a way the Andal and Rhoynish 'Sunset Kingdoms' south of the Neck simply weren't. Oh, they were undeveloped too compared to that of Old Valyria or the Ghiscari lands, but they weren't as massive.

Lord Torrhen thought so, which was why he used his influence as Hand of the King to begin construction of the 'Kingsroad' under the charter of King Aegon I. Two halves had been constructed, one from King's Landing to Harrenhal and one from Winterfell to White Harbor.

The party of fifty horsemen had traversed the former in the matter of about five days, and after a stop at Harrenhal under the hospitality of Lord Daeron - and Ser Gargon, though Brandon wouldn't exactly call his treatment hospitality - they were back on a fast gallop through the Crownlands towards the capitol.

"Gods, it's hot!" someone complained behind him.

"Then take off your fuckin' furs, you stupid cunt," another shot back, this one with a feminine voice. The profanity was part of the charm of a proper Northern woman, Brandon knew - smirking with fond memories. "Yer' dressed like yer' goin' north of the Wall."

Her companion hissed over the clatter of galloping hooves. "Do you think I want these fuckin' southerners to think I'm some prissy tourney knight? I think not."

A groan. "They won't ever think that. You're wearing the sigil of a fuckin' bear on your tunic!"

Biting back a laugh, when the argument descended into the mere throwing of epithets with a wild abandon, Brandon sighed and eased the reins of his steed back into a slow trot. "Alright!" He turned in the saddle and glared at the two youths riding behind him. "Both of you shut it. There's being siblings and then there's being right cunts… also you're getting my ire."

At the sharp scolding, both youths looked down at their mounts' heads. "Aye, Lord Snow," said Caspar Mormont, mace dangling by the side of his saddle.

"Aye, grandfather," said Jorelle Mormont, his twin sister and elder by two hours. Sheathed and tied to her waist was the ancestral sword of House Mormont - Longclaw - a gift to her from her grandmother Bethany prior to her death.

Unlike her father, unlike Caspar, she readily acknowledged him to be her grandsire and loved him. The Lord of Bear Island respected him, surely, but Caspar was harder to read. He obeyed Brandon well enough, so that was a start.

"Aight!" Brandon called out to the troop, seeing the sun begin to set behind the canopy of the forests east of the God's Eye. "We'll make camp here. Roads might be good, but I'm not riskin' bandits setting upon us."

"Doubt they will, mi'Lord," said one of his men. "Not with her." He pointed to the red direwolf that trotted beside Brandon's horse.

Brandon glared at him. "You're not using Autumn as a crutch for your laziness. Set up the fuckin' camp." Pulling his mount off the road to a grassy clearing surrounded by copses of oak and maple, the Bastard of Winterfell dismounted and was immediately beset by the powerful beast - snout nuzzling and tongue darting out to lick his face. "Alright, girl, stop," he laughed. "Enough." The wolf was probably the one living thing that earned actual affection from him.

That and Bethany, though she wasn't with them anymore. Brandon mourned her every day.

Soon, night had fallen. A half-moon hovering ahead and helping the campfires in providing enough light to get by, the sounds of the wilderness began to make themselves known. Crying birds, howling beasts… Winter joined in when it got too loud, which was usually enough to quiet everything down. Not as effective as Arrax's roars, but it got the job done.

After delegating responsibility, Brandon sat by himself close to his own tent, spooning a stew the field cook had whipped up for them. It was still steaming. "Evening, grandfather."

He looked up to see Jorelle sitting beside him on a log he was using as a seat. "Everything alright, Jorelle?" he asked.

"Aye, all's fine. Just wanted to sit with you." The girl was a pretty lass, long black hair and a willowy figure - beautiful but deceptive, muscles toned from extensive training with Longclaw. A pure killer, just like him. "Why do you always sit by yourself? Why not join with the others?"

"Leaders shouldn't fraternize with the men. Breaks discipline."

"I suppose that makes sense… though I don't agree." She thought for a moment. "But family sticks with family, so this is where I should be."

Brandon glanced at her and saw Bethany in full… only with his grey eyes. It warmed his heart. "Thank you, granddaughter."

They sat in silence, Brandon eating and Jorelle watching the wilderness. "It's surreal," she finally said. "Make it colder and this could be the North."

"Been a lot of places," Brandon shrugged. "All are the same, more or less… culture's different amongst the people, but you see the same things generally… cept Oldtown and King's Landing. Those are snake dens if I've ever seen them. I'd rather visit the dungeons of the Dreadfort."

Words seeming to take Jorelle aback, she eyed him. "If they're so dangerous, why are you taking Caspar and I there?"

Brandon contemplated the question… it wasn't an easy answer, especially since he rarely confided in anyone. Finally, he figured out something to say. "Prince Maegor, my former ward, asked for my help and I cannot deny him." He chuckled dryly. "Boy was almost like my son for the longest time… sad to say moreso than your own father." He truly did regret that. "As for you two, my brother willed the North to be more connected to the South through House Targaryen, lest we be a forgotten backwater for the rest of existence. I agree with him."

"So you want us to be southerners?"

"No, I want you to be Northmen that can beat them at their own games." He eyed her. "Think you can do that?"

Jorelle thought for a moment, then placed her hand on Longclaw's hilt. "Aye, I can."

Brandon reached out and patted her shoulder. "That's my she-bear."

Utter gratitude and devotion filled the face of the petitioner as he fell to his knees. "Your Grace… you honor me with your power and generosity. There exists no other that can compare to you."

Some men were vain, while others were modest. King Aenys Targaryen was a mix… he was disinclined to boasting, but never failed to take a guileless pleasure in the adoration or approval of those who surrounded him - regardless of who they were. "I am only glad that I could bring joy and justice to one of my subjects." He clapped his hands, gesturing to the door. "Go forth and enjoy the fruits of your labor as you serve your family and your King."

"Of course, your Grace. I shall." Even rising to his feet, the man continued to bow as he backed out of the great hall of the Dragonpalace, recently opened to the courtly task of welcoming and hearing petitioners. Rather than the modest hall of the earlier Aegonfort or the smaller reception room of Aenys' manse, the towering chamber gave a sense of awe… from the lighting through the large windows that illuminated the Iron Throne in sunlight to the black walls that gave the aura of Old Valyrian power.

Lord Torrhen, in one of his last acts as Hand of the King, had the skulls from the deceased dragons of House Targaryen's past placed upon the walls closest to the Iron Throne. Massive monsters that invoked the singular power that House Targaryen had over all others in the world. Plenty to awe the sort of simple petitioners that came before the King to address their grievances and requests.

As the throne room was cleared, Aenys looked over to his Hand. "Brother, is that all of them?"

Maegor shook his head. "No, there's one more. I'll see that the guards bring them in from the waiting area."

Aenys sighed, but nodded - a servant brought him a honeyfinger, one of his favorites, to keep his eyes from drooping. The act of hearing petitioners could be tiresome. "Would you like one, brother?" Maegor declined. "Dear daughter?"

"Actually yes, kepa. I would love one." Rhaena shared her father's sweettooth, and after a grueling training with Lord Commander Gawen she was ravenous. Taking the sticky concoction, she tried to keep her fingers from being too dirty as she ate delicately - drawing the amused stare from her uncle. "What?"

"Nothing… you just eat exactly like your kepa. Like a woman. Fits you more than him."

"I heard that," Aenys called back, frowning.

"I know." Maegor shared a smirk with Rhaena, who was giggling. "You're doing well, niece. One day I could see you handling these."

Her brow rose. "As a reigning Queen or otherwise?"

He shrugged. "Both." Succession still was unknown for Aenys… whether he'd pick the Dornish system or Andalic system. Growing in the North and learning of how the Wildlings and Mormonts did things, Maegor hoped for the former - Rhaena would be a wonderful reigning monarch. "I have full confidence in you."

His words made her heart skip a beat. "You think so?"

"Aye. You are more like your grandmothers than people give you credit for." The highest compliment Rhaena could be given, and she wished so much to be able to kiss him for it.

Page leaning in to whisper to him, Murmison seemed surprised but nodded regardless - clearing his throat. "Coming before the court of the King, her Grace, Princess Ceryse of House Targaryen."

At the announcement, Rhaena saw her uncle's eyes sparkle as he looked to the door with interest. She frowned at this, a frown that deepened as she saw her aunt by marriage enter with her ladies trailing behind. The Hightower Princess was smiling widely, radiating happiness as her eyes were trained on Maegor with adoration and barely contained excitement. It wasn't that she hated Ceryse. Quite the opposite, the woman was smart and capable - beautiful, kind, and loyal to her uncle, a welcome addition to their house.

Just that Rhaena yearned for the mirrored adoration that Maegor gave Ceryse would someday be directed at her - the one who also loved him.

But for his sake she kept quiet. "Forgive me, dear niece." Maegor leaned in and kissed her cheek… making her blush in spite of herself. "We will continue this later."

Her mood dimmed, but Rhaena forced a smile. "I look forward to it, uncle." He smiled once more to her and then dashed off to his wife, leaving her alone… and feeling the loss.

While their newfound affection and closeness were the talk of court, Maegor and Ceryse formally greeted each other with a mere squeeze of the hands and kisses on their cheeks. "Your Grace," Ceryse said, curtseying before the Iron Throne.

Aenys furrowed his brows but was otherwise welcoming. "Goodsister. This is a surprise." He chuckled. "Stealing my brother away from my side must mean this is serious news."

"Aye, it is quite serious, my King," Maegor responded, not letting go of his wife's hand. Each look, each gentle caress with his thumbs over her skin was like another prick in Rhaena's heart, but she bit her lip and said nothing. "Normally, we would've preferred for this to be made within the royal apartments, but the news touches concerns of state so an announcement at court is preferable."

Looking at his brother and Hand, then to his daughter and friend, Aenys leaned forward with interest. "I am apprehensive, but do go on."

It could've been anything, but when her uncle's palm smoothed over her aunt's belly - Rhaena kenw. Her mouth going dry just as Ceryse spoke. "By the grace of the Seven who are One, I am with child."

Almost instantaneously, the King rose from the Iron Throne and bounded down the steps, propriety gone as he threw his arms around his brother in a mighty hug. "Marvelous news! Fantastical! The height of joy and honor upon the both of you!" He kissed Ceryse's cheeks and raised his hand to the sky. "A feast, the most glorious of feasts to celebrate. It is my royal command!"

"Brother…"

"No, no modesty this time, Maegor. We will ring out this occasion properly." Nothing could stop the merry King from doing this. The Prince and Princess knew it, and consciously decided to just let it happen…

They were too happy to be annoyed regardless.

At least they were happy.

Much later, Lady Tyanna had heard what happened and immediately went to Rhaena's chamber. "Princess?" she said through the door, keeping up pretenses. Entering, she saw the poor dear sitting alone on the bed - her eyes were red but there were only few tearstains. "Rhaena…" Alone, they could be simply two friends, and Tyanna sat beside her and pulled Rhaena in a hug.

"I'm having a little cousin," she murmured. "I'm happy for my uncle, truly I am, but… but…"

"You wish it were you that bore this child for him."

Tyanna had a way of putting into words all the jumbled thoughts Rhaena had… it was one reason they were so close. "Yes… am I selfish? Am I horrible?" With how wonderful Ceryse was to her uncle these days, she felt like that more and more.

She hated that Rhaena felt this way. If there was anyone that deserved simply to be happy and loved, it was her. "No, you're not," Tyanna replied. "You're a good person with so much love in her heart. It's understandable since the one you fell for is hard to attain… I feel the same way."

Rhaena looked up at her. "You?" She thought back to that one day - luckily for their little group, Tyanna was more discrete. "Is it Elissa?"

"No, not her," Tyanna shook her head. Pondering her next move. "She's beautiful, but I love her as a friend." Absentmindedly, she pushed back a strand of hair from Rhaena's ear. The gesture was sweet… and intimate.

For Rhaena, it gave it away. "Oh." The two looked away, blushing. "I'm sorry…"

A hand on her knee. "Don't… I shouldn't have. It's not like I want these feelings."

"You shouldn't apologize for them." Whether it was her heartbreak for her uncle, or merely her curiosity, Rhaena got a thought. "Kiss me."

Tyanna raised a brow. "Are you sure?"

"Don't you want to?" Seeing indecision in Tyanna's eyes, Rhaena decided to simply be a bold dragon and do it. Their lips came in contact, and it felt good. Warm, sweet and soft… completely unlike the rough, disgusting smacks from Ser Lyonel.

The second was even better… less hesitant.

The third caused each to moan.

By the fourth, Tyanna had been pushed flat on the bed, neither girl with a worry in their minds.

"You make a tough bargain for a holy man," said the merchant in heavily accented Common Tongue - through the closed door of Barth's solar, Jeyne Poore could hear the conversation from the loud and guttural voices. "By R'hllor, you haggle better than the Iron Bank." She didn't mean to, but something told her that whatever information she could glean could come in handy one day.

Barth was calm and collected, but his voice no less resonating. "When one's treasures used to procure goods belong to the Seven who are One, waste cannot be tolerated.

With her superior, that was doubly true, though she had to be circumspect about it. She had done so back at Goldengrove, learning to be sneaky after her father caught her snooping on Lady Rowan once and beaten her backside bloody with his belt for it.

Another merchant laughed. "A sentiment shared by the Red Temple in Volantis." From earlier, his main tongue was Bastard Valyrian - Jeyne recognized it, though Barth spoke it fluently. She had trouble learning regular Valyrian though was getting better at it. "Getting them to pay is like piercing the maidenhead of a Targaryen princess."

She shuddered. Everyone knew what happened to Ser Lyonel Lorch when he tried to take the maidenhead of Rhaena Targaryen. Jeyne hated what he had done, and felt a disgust sometimes at coming up with the idea to turn Ser Lyonel into a martyr for the Warrior. He deserved his fate at Maegor Targaryen's hands. But this was for the Seven, so she put such sentimentality aside.

Her superior had taught her that. Barth tolerated no sentimentality… only the dispassionate focus to one's duty. Each time she had deviated in such a lesson early on, the supervision of the most sour septas she had seen did more than the beatings of her father to bring her into line.

Jeyne hated her father, while Barth allowed her mind to flourish. Her choice was obvious of whom to give the benefit of the doubt.

Eventually, the merchants finished within Barth's solar, being escorted out by a Warrior's Son. The testimony of how high the son of a blacksmith had risen, rating his own knightly guard. Perhaps that will be me in a decade or so when he is High Septon. The thought made Jeyne smile as she rose and headed into the solar. "All finished, your Eminence?"

Sporting cloth-of-silver vestments across his shoulders, Barth flaunted his appointment to the Most Devout wherever he went - implicitly of course. Even now he retained the impression of a humble bureaucrat and holy man. It served him well. "Ah, Jeyne my dear. Yes, yes, all is done. I have simply begun the acquisition of something that will further raise our power projection."

"May I ask what?" He eyed her. "Umm… to write the acquisition reports for the treasury." Barth always assigned that to her, and she'd gotten quite good at it. Many of her father's circle thought a woman good at figures was akin to witchcraft, so she relished being able to partake in the studies now.

Barth accepted her excuse for her curiosity. "Ah, yes…" He was still cagey. "Purchasing some beasts to use in the City Watch. Special dogs, trained to help identify criminals from mere scent - what will the Volentenes think of next," he chuckled. "Put that in the acquisition reports and have the shipments transferred to Ser Horys' command."

Ser Horys Hill? What would the Grand Captain of the Poor Fellows need with scent dogs? Jeyne was certain there was more here, but Barth didn't tolerate disobedience well - nor did Hugor, and the youngest member of the Most Devout had a direct line to the High Septon. She merely curtseyed. "I shall do as commanded."

"Good, good." Barth stood and walked to Jeyne. To her surprise, he gripped her shoulders. "You have been a precious gem to me, my dear." His smile was affectionate.

Her entire body tensed. Oh gods, no… Barth's patronage had kept her from enduring the same sorts of… attentions that other pretty young novices and septas obtained from many in the hierarchy of the Starry Sept. So many of the old septons or thuggish Warrior's Sons thought they were hunting grounds, with the meat being their… maidenheads. High Septon Hugor, though reportedly not chaste, was not one of these. And neither was Barth.

At least she thought so, but here he was likely to ravage her. Would he be brutal? Would he be gentle and try to pretend that they were lovers? In whatever case, Jeyne wanted it not and disgust and horror filled her as his lips leaned in closer and closer…

A whimper escaped her mouth when he kissed her left cheek, followed by her right. A standard greeting of highborns to signal closeness and respect but not intimacy. Immediately after she blushed a mad red, drawing his curious gaze. "Forgive me, your Eminence… I'll… I'll show myself out."

Before Jeyne could leave, Barth bidded her to halt. "Jeyne, stop." She trembled, but did as commanded, eyes pinned to the floor and hands clasped over her habit. "Did you think I wished to take my liberties with you?" When she didn't answer, he took it for an affirmation and laughed. "Oh, Jeyne. Do not worry. While I find you a comely young woman, such is not my intention for you."

At that, she felt relief. "Forgive me for my impudence, your Eminence, but it is my intention to remain the wife of the Seven above." Anything to continue with such power and respect rather than just some broodmare to a man her father needed to impress.

But Barth frowned. "Do not be so hasty, Jeyne. You shall serve the Father in all respects… regardless of what must be asked of you." He resumed his seat, scribbling his quill on a sheaf of parchment. "You have been an invaluable assistance to me in my duties, and I am remiss to do this, but the Faith requires an alternate path for you to take, one where you must use all of your assets to prosper in." He looked up, eyes as cold as a snake. "Which is why I am transferring you."

In hindsight, thinking on it, Jeyne figured that just letting him have her maidenhead was less frightening.

Gods, she was so glad to be free. Skipping along the deserted corridors of the great hall of the growing Dragonpalace, Princess Alysanne enjoyed spending time in the future home for their house. The sour old septas that kept watch over her and made sure she minded her betters, said her prayers, and remembered to avoid 'sin.' Sometimes the Princess didn't know what they were talking about, reciting trite portions of the Seven-Pointed Star that were as dry to her as a day-old meat pie.

They were always there in the manse, but at the Dragonpalace only a Kingsguard would trail after her. Ser Jon Hogg - or 'Big Jon' as she had dubbed him for his burly height and had stuck - was the sweetest bull that always snuck her or Jae sweets from the kitchens. He was always watching her, but from enough of a distance to give her the privacy to have fun. She loved him out of all the other Kingsguards, though Lord Commander Gawen Corbray and Rhaena's sworn sword Ser Dick Bean were also kind.

But they weren't Big Jon. None of them let her have her gasp at freedom from her Septas as she twirled around the grassy fields of the Dragonpalace - headed to her favorite place in the entirety of King's Landing. The godswood.

Her cousins' introduction to the old gods had only grown from curiosity into a healthy respect and spiritual fulfillment. Still so young, she didn't much understand why being among the sacred grove and growing heart tree gave her comfort but didn't question it. In spite of the Septas scolding her each time they knew she went, Alysanne did it anyway as much as she could… It was always empty, few in the capitol partaking in it with the Sept of Remembrance looking over the hill to the north.

But that day as she skipped inside, Alysanne stopped when she noticed a girl her age kneeling before the heart tree. She had just raised her head and turned, only to blink at the Princess. "I, I didn't know someone else was here," Alysanne said softly, a little shy.

It was then that the girl - as short as Alysanne, with mousy brown hair and green eyes - noticed the silver hair on her head… her eyes bugged out almost like a frog's. "Your Grace." She knelt quickly, which brought to her attention that the girl was wearing breeches. "Forgive me for not recognizing you. I beg you to hear my apology."

Alysanne fought an urge to roll her eyes - her mother taught her it was rude to do that. "No harm done," she murmured. "Come." The girl rose, shy herself. "What's your name?"

"Arya," the girl replied. "Arya Reed."

"Reed? Like Lord Torrhen's wife." The Late Lord Torrhen's wife."

The girl - Arya Reed - nodded. "Aye, she's my great-aunt." There was a slight silence, neither one of them knowing what to say now. "Did you come to pray, your Grace?" Arya asked.

Shifting her feet, Alysanne was suddenly nervous. "Don't tell anyone I was here." Only Big Jon knew she came, and she didn't want her septas to find out and scold her again for keeping 'heathen gods.'

Sensing the fear in her voice, Arya nodded. "Of course." She took Alysanne's hands in hers. "I vow to not tell anyone." Both girls knew the importance of a vow before the heart tree… if not understanding the gravity of why yet. The daughter of the Lord of Greywater Watch waited for Alysanne to say a short prayer before addressing her again. "What're you gonna do now, Princess?"

Alysanne shrugged. "I dunno."

"Want to watch me shoot arrows?" She gestured to the bow on her back. "Papa says I should learn like my older brother… maybe I'll teach you?"

Thinking on it, the Princess remembered her grandmother being a skilled warrior - Rhaena was as well. Why couldn't she learn? "Alright." Arya gave a smile and took Alysanne's hand, pulling her out of the godswood.

Standing guard, if Big Jon was surprised Alysanne had made a friend he didn't show it. "So who's this, Princess?" he asked, smiling. "Nah… let me guess… you're a Crannog?"

Arya was surprised. "How did you know?"

"Ye' look just like Lord Torrhen's wife. Good woman," Big Jon stated matter-of-factly. "Looks like you made a friend. Where're you of to?"

"Lady Arya is gonna show me how to use a bow."

"Is that a fact?" Big Jon laughed. "All the dragon ladies take after her Grace, Queen Visenya it seems." He didn't sound like he had an objection to that. "Aight, I'll take ye. Ser Rogar is teaching yer older brothers right now, so what's a few more?"

"Jae is learning?" Alysanne was unaware that Jaehaerys wished to learn archery - Ser Karstark was more interested in teaching him swordplay from what she knew.

Big Jon shook his head. "No, just Princes Aegon and Viserys. Don't think Prince Jaehaerys is on the grounds." That disappointed Ally, but she didn't take it to heart. She loved all her siblings and thus happily went with her new friend and her escort.

As her kingsguard said, the field where the archery practice was set up was home to her two eldest brothers. Viserys sat glumly to the side - clearly not being the best - while Aegon lined up a shot with his longbow and let it fly. The arrow hit just a hair's breadth to the side of dead center. Clapping his hands, a burly man with a trimmed beard clapped his hands. "Good show, your Grace." Aegon beamed at the praise. "You'll be a master at this, even from dragonback I could imagine."

"When I get a dragon, I shall practice," the Prince boasted. It was then he noticed his little sister and triumphant expression softened. "Ally!" He grabbed her in a tight hug. "Come to see your favorite brother prepare for when he takes the throne as a warrior King like his namesake?"

Tilting her head, Alysanne shook it. "No… my friend Lady Reed was gonna teach me."

"Lady Reed?" Aegon looked at her companion, dressed rather drably for someone called 'Lady.' But he recognized the name. "You, Crannog, didn't anyone tell you to mind your betters?"

Alysanne heard his insulting words and grew angry. "Don't talk to her like that, she's my friend!"

"Ally, you are a Princess, you should associate with noble ladies."

"She is a noble lady."

"She's from the swamps." Each new word made Arya grow more uncomfortable and she looked to slink away.

Before Alysanne could smack her brother, Ser Rogar stepped in. "Now, now. Let us not spat - you're royals and thus above it all." Alysanne huffed, while Aegon chuckled at her expression. "The question should be if Lady Reed is a good enough teacher for the Princess." His attitude was a little patronizing, but not overtly insulting. "Show us your skills, Lady Reed."

Biting her lip, Arya drew the bow from her shoulder. It was of different make than the longbows used by the others - composite, and much smaller. Nocking and arrow, she drew it back and let it fly… it hit one ring outside of dead center.

"Impressive," stated Ser Rogar. "The frog is certainly dead, young Lady Reed." Alysanne looked at him, eyes narrowing - she sensed something off in his tone. "Hope you can handle yourself outside the swamp, though."

Alright, she may have been young but did recognize that as an insult. Jae is right… I don't like him. "Allow me, Arya." Alysanne was handed the bow and tried to copy Arya… she failed miserably, the arrow loosing but impacting the ground.

"Good try, Princess… but I'm sorry." Rogar shook his head. "This doesn't seem your strong suit." His apologetic tone only made Ally angrier.

"Speak for yourself, Ser Rogar." Hearing the authoritative voice, Alysanne turned to see her grandmother walking across the grass. Even with whitening hair and more wrinkles, she looked just as fierce as her heyday. "I presume you weren't an expert when you first picked up a blade… or warhammer."

Rogar bowed. "Your Grace, I am honored by your presence."

She nodded, but didn't smile. "Thank you for instructing my grandsons in archery, but for Alysanne's lessons I shall be seeking a different tutor. Good day." She took Alysanne's hand. "Come, granddaughter - you too, Lady Arya." As they were guided away, her look softened. "Don't worry, hatchling. If you wish to learn, I'll find you a better teacher. Do you?"

Thinking of her, thinking of her sister, Alysanne nodded vigorously. "I want to learn, grandmother." The Dowager Queen beamed at her eagerness.

"Open the gates!" Both guards stationed in the front of the gatehouse rested their spears against the walls and grabbed at the handles of the Ironwood gate. Winterfell was at peace, so it wasn't bolted and the portcullis was drawn up rather than lowered. They threw it open just as the procession of four horses galloped inside - trailed by a white wolf-sized dog with his tongue hanging out.

Only it wasn't a dog. The bannermen and men-at-arms for House Stark knew the representation of the sigil they fought under quite well. Young Lord Alaric and his direwolf had returned from their hunt in the Wolfswood. Judging from the several rabbits dangling from the lad's horse and the antlers of a Hornwood Elk strung across the biggest horse's rump, it was a successful one.

Easing back on the reins, clicking his tongue, Alaric brought the steed to a halt. "Shhh… that's it girl," he whispered to the mare - two years old and a gift for his nameday two years previous when she was just a foal. The horse whined, but calmed from the exhilaration of the fast gallop, Alaric stroking her neck. "Good girl." With the finesse of an expert, he took his foot out of the left stirrup, swung around the saddle, and dropped down onto the ground with a solid plop. "Still got it," he grinned. It was no secret that he was the best rider of the Stark brood, 'Born atop a steed' as his muna oft said. Servants came to get the mare to the stables while he removed his saddlebag filled with the five rabbits his snares had caught.

A whine and poke came at his hip. Alaric looked down and saw his direwolf sitting on his haunches, tilting his head and looking up with red eyes.

"Come on, Frost, don't give me that look." Pathetic, Frost swiped his tongue across his nose. "Ugh, fine." Reaching into one of the pouches, Alaric tossed a strip of jerky into the air. Tail wagging, the direwolf changed moods on a dime as he leapt in the air, devouring the jerky with the direwolf version of a cheeky grin. "You're lucky I love you," Alaric commented, ruffling the snow-white fur. His tail wagged without a care in the world.

It was a common jape in Winterfell and Wintertown that the direwolves lived easier lives than their Stark masters. It was funny because it was true.

A shriek nearly made Alaric stumble from just how sudden it was, Frost barking at the sky at his master's distress. The source of the fright flapped about in circles, chirping the entire time. "Vermax, no," came the call of his elder brother Aegon, racing over. "No diving at Alaric." The silver-haired 'Winter dragon' as he was called smiled apologetically. "Sorry, valonqar. He's just a bad boy, isn't he?" The grey dragon - tiny at the moment but poised to grow rapidly - landed on his bonded rider's shoulder and chirped again, causing Aegon to chuckle and stroke her head. Vermax cooed.

Nestled in her arms, Saera's cobalt-blue dragon hatchling Tessarion was the opposite of Vermax. She was a gentle delight… well, as far as a dragon could be. She rarely made a sound unless provoked extensively, and her manners were impeccable. 'Blue Queen,' they called her for her regal demeanor. "Did you bring rabbits, Al?" Saera asked, flicking a brush of silver hair off her shoulder. At the mention of rabbit, both Vermax and Tessarion looked at Alaric expectantly.

The middle Stark giggled at that. While their grandfather's demise had brought the entire keep to a sense of solemn grief - especially when their muna and kepa returned with grandmother Jocelyn in a state of depression - the dragons were the lifeline to joy among those in Winterfell and Wintertown. All were in awe of Arrax, but the tiny hatchlings gave them another side to the dragons. Northern dragons, born of the First Men and raised in the snow and ice. It brought pride as well as happiness.

Reaching for his saddlebag, Alaric pulled out a freshly-killed rabbit. He had slit its throat himself after finding it caught in his snare. "Will this do?"

Chirping and squirming, the dragons were nonetheless trained well, waiting patiently for their riders to say… "Dracarys." Both let out a tiny stream of dragonfire, not enough to cause damage to Alaric but enough to cook the rabbit into a perfect blackened roast. He dropped it to the ground, both dragons screeching happily and diving. Digging in snout first.

Enjoying the sight, Alaric then noticed all eyes on him… well, not on him. On the dragons, and by extension Aegon and Saera. The first ever Stark dragonriders, heroes across the entire North… and here he was, dragonless. Slowly, hiding his own shame and jealousy, Alaric slipped away as the crowd began to gather round his siblings.

Alone in his chambers, Frost curled up right in front the hearth, Alaric laid flat on his bed. Nestled in his arms was the copper-colored egg that his muna had placed in his crib from the moment of his birth. He ran his hand along the scales, sighing deeply. "Why, my sweet one? Why didn't you hatch?"

The egg was silent. Both Aegon and Saera had told him that Vermax and Tessarion spoke to them while still within their egg, but while the red scales were warm to his touch - his kepa felt them as cold stone, while his muna and his siblings could feel the same heat that Alaric felt when he touched it - there was no words spoken to him. No irresistible draw to the egg as Aegon and Saera felt towards theres before they hatched.

"Am I not a real dragon? Am I a wyrm?" Looking over at Frost, the direwolf felt as an extension of him. A bond he couldn't begin to describe to anyone but his fellow Starks… not even his muna. Is that what it's like to bond with a dragon?

His gaze fell back on his egg. Seemed he'd never know.

The sound of the door opening and tiny feet pattering on the floor drew his eyes. "Hi, Ric'." Alaric's mood began to rise at the sight of Ryah Bolton, dressed in a pale pink dress and with her hair flowing free. "Eggsy told me you were alone. I bring treats." She held up a little sack, revealing a few meat buns inside. "They're still warm."

Smiling, Alaric sat up. "Thanks, Ryah." His stomach growled, an uncoerced confession as to how hungry he apparently was. "Sausage? Chopped beef?"

"Chopped I think." Ryah jumped on the bed and shimmied till she sat next to him. The sound woke Frost from his sleep, and the direwolf scrambled to join them, plopping down behind Alaric and Ryah with his tail wagging. "Here you go." She handed him a bun before she dove onto Frost with her tickling fingers, causing the beast to flip onto his belly and submit before the scratches.

Alaric chuckled - his dumb boy always loved Ryah's touches more than his. "How're you gonna be a big war wolf like in the songs," he japed, biting into the bun. He moaned. "Aye, chopped beef. Cookie outdid himself again."

"Why he called Cookie? It's… obvious." His muna had used that word to scold their father about a week before and now all the children were using it. It was their own little inside jape.

He shrugged, chewing. "Kepa and muna call him that. Everyone does."

Ryah repeated his shrug, causing the both of them to giggle. It was nice… Alaric always got along with his parents' ward - even if she was a Bolton. "Is that your egg?" she asked him, eyes sparkling in excitement. "You finally took it out of the chest."

Stiffening, Alaric knew he was caught. "Aye, my egg." The Stark brood had learned modesty and stoicism at a young age from their kepa and uncle Brandon. 'Only the solemn and humble can live against the winds of winter, my boy.' As such, they didn't flaunt their eggs as their cousins in King's Landing oft did. Since Vermax and Tessarion hatched, Alaric didn't even show his egg to anyone but himself… but Ryah had a way of making him drop his guard.

"I can't wait till it hatches," Ryah squealed. "Then we can play with Vermax and Tessarion!"

"Don't know if it'll hatch," Alaric confessed with a frown. "Maybe I'm no dragon."

He suddenly found Ryah's arms encircling him. "You's my dragon, Al," she murmured, kissing his cheek sweetly… making him blush in spite of himself.

From the warmth her statement gave him, perhaps that was enough for Alaric Stark.

Chapter Text

"For the last time, husband," Ceryse warned, though struggling to bite back her giggle. "I'm fine. You need not help me."

"Forgive me wife, but it is my husbandly duty to carry the woman bearing my babe to where she needs to go."

Staring at Maegor's perfectly insistent voice, Ceryse rolled her eyes. "I do not need your help getting into my bath." She raised her brow. "Are there more lecherous reasons for you to keep insisting?"

He looked away. "I do not know what you're talking about."

"Liar… you're mind is filthy." She shook her head. "Last night and this morning wasn't enough for you, my beast of a husband."

Suddenly he pounced, grabbing her about the waist and lifting her up - Ceryse yelped but wrapped her legs round his hips. "Dragons are insatiable, my love. You should know that." He kissed her senseless, and Ceryse almost gave in and let him ravish her again.

Almost. "No…" She pushed Maegor away. "Keep that dragon cock away from me. I need to get ready for my duties. Holding court and then an afternoon tea with the Queen."

That made him sullen quickly. "I thought you disliked Alyssa."

"I do, but I must keep up appearances." Her gaze softened. "After though… I'm all yours." Ceryse approached and wrapped her arms around his waist. "We still have more to celebrate of our beautiful babe inside me."

He smiled back. "Count on it, my love." Another kiss, this one sweet and loving.

Leaving the chamber moments later, Maegor was greeted by his mother. "My sweet son." Visenya leaned in to kiss Maegor's cheek. "The sweet kepa to be."

"Muna…" Maegor groaned awkwardly. "Must you?"

The Queen Dowager grinned at him. "You know I must, being your dear muna." Letting her hand take his arm - not denying herself the chance to be escorted by a powerful dragonrider - Visenya and Maegor strolled towards the growing gardens of the Dragonpalace. "The place is growing at a fast pace."

"Egg is an able administrator… like Aenys was - still is I suppose." Aenys had more important matters than taking charge of single projects like this. "Hopefully the keep won't be an eyesore compared to the great hall."

"You saw the design, it won't be."

Maegor shrugged. "Sometimes it looks better in conceptualization than in reality." He didn't really believe that, but the Dragonpalace would be House Targaryen's means to project majesty to the world alongside the dragons. Had to be perfect. "You said you had a duty for me?"

Visenya nodded. "Lord Daeron requests assistance from the crown. The right to call his bannermen and armored knights of House Targaryen."

"He controls Harrenhal, the largest keep in the Seven Kingdoms." The land around the God's Eye was fertile and densely populated, so House Qoherys wasn't bereft of troops. "What's got him so spooked."

"Potential Ironborn rebels."

The Prince blinked. "Goren is our ally."

"Not them… remnants of House Hoare's banners and the Salt Wives they took in the Riverlands. They'll be of age which doesn't remember Balerion torching Black Harren and itching for a fight."

"Fools." Maegor shook his head. "Ferocious fools, but fools nonetheless." He thought for a moment about the men he could spare. "I'll have Lord Tybolt send Myles Smallwood and a hundred knights to supplement Qoherys. Ser Myles has been eager to show his loyalty recently."

But Visenya shook her head. "No, you have to go personally."

"Muna…"

"Don't muna me, the arrangements have to be made by the Hand of the King." She turned to look at him closely. "There are things developing, my son, things I have a very malevolent feeling on. From your reputation at Lannisport, Fair Isle, and all the battles of the Narrow Sea and beyond the Wall you are feared and respected. Use that and fix this before it festers."

He held up his arms, conceding to his mother. "Alright, muna. I yield to your wisdom."

Visenya's scowl turned to a bright smile. "Just like your kepa. Always knew when not to argue."

"I'll be sure to take that as a compliment." They both chuckled.

As they made their way towards where Balerion slept, Visenya went back to the budding family of her son. "Have you thought of names yet?"

"I have," Maegor conceded. "But Ceryse wishes not to tempt fate."

"Superstitious when they don't need to be," she dismissed. "That girl is in the peak of health. A strapping son just like his kepa."

"Perhaps a girl wouldn't be unfortunate… someone fierce yet beautiful like her grandmother."

Snorting, Visenya nevertheless blushed. "Another thing you get from your kepa, charming to the point of ire." Without another word, she hugged her son. "You're making him proud, I promise."

Maegor hugged her back. "I hope so, muna." He could only try.

Ser Osmund Strong had once made a jape about the office of the Grand Maester - that their entire role was of the male wet nurse for the royal family. After a round of laughs at the jape, Orys Baratheon replied that it was a cheap substitute, considering the best part of a wet nurse was missing. Such a statement obtained even louder howls of laughter, even from the King and Queen themselves.

Miserable harlot.

Grand Maester Gawen forever hated both councilors to the Iron Throne, though he saved his greatest loathing for Queen Visenya. How dare a filthy whore that accepted her brother and other women into her bed dare judge a learned Archmaester of the Citadel? Not for the first time did he sigh, scratching his balding head at the persistent flakes of dandruff there - try as he might, the various concoctions his comrades would send him never helped. Nothing before had existed in Westeros since the First Men were expelled to their frozen wasteland north of the Neck, but dragons didn't care for the opinions of any animal.

Except direwolves it seemed, but now those wolves had dragons of their own. Gawen despised them just as much for it.

In truth, as evident by the stacks of tomes and parchment upon his table, the Grand Maester was a very busy, very important figure within the Small Council. The care for the health of the royal family occupied high status on its own, and Gawen expanded his responsibilities beyond that of a mere court physician to encompass the health of King's Landing itself. More than once did Alton Celtigar and later then-Prince Aenys consult with him on construction matters, keen to build a city that didn't provide a festering ground for disease.

Gawen liked Aenys the most of all the dragons - kind and quite chivalrous in his nature, it wasn't his fault he was born of incest. The King's children were sired from a more acceptable cousin marriage, and it was Gawen's hope that he could convince the King to marry them off to proper spouses as the previous High Septon had with Prince Maegor.

There were many who didn't care about these things, but Gawen was a peaceable man and hoped for the most fortunate of solutions.

However, things that day weren't amenable to those matters.

Immersed in studying the latest texts from the pharmacology conclave back in Oldtown, a knock on the door drew him from his readings. "Yes?" It opened and revealed a slight man in homespun but rather clean and formal religious garb. "Septon Egane. What do I owe this pleasure?"

The official Septon of the royal family and officer of the Dragonpalace sept, he was very often seen among the King's manse and the palace, no one batting an eye at his presence especially since along with Murmison he earned the King's favor. "A dispatch from Oldtown. His Holiness wished that I deliver it to you personally."

"Oh?" That was odd. Gawen took the scroll and read it… his blood turning cold at each new line…

Grand Maester,

My sow is in the most ponderous state of decline. A sort of malignancy grows within her gut, getting larger and larger by the day until what results is a lethargic state where walking grows difficult and the stomach malady is common.

I know you are a treater of humans and not animals, but the zoology conclave of the Citadel are very busy and fail to heed my requests, so as your former patron I was hoping that you could offer up your services and advice for an ametuer husbander such as myself.

Manfryd Hightower

Lord of the Hightower and Warden of Oldtown.

Trembling, Gawen sets the scroll down. "He demands this of me? Does he have the gall?"

Septon Egane's normally gentle face was hard and severe. "The cow is bloated and lethargic, Grand Maester. This is a concern that Lord Hightower wishes to deal with."

"Well then he should've dealt with it himself like he has been. He shouldn't push me into the middle of this, not with my reputation already being challenged by Lord Stark and Princess Rhaenys." At least Osmund and Orys' japes didn't question his competence like the brat Princess - just like her mother, that one.

"His Holiness plans to sacrifice the cow to the glory of the maiden, so you better see that it be done or else." Septon Egane turned to leave.

"Is that a threat?"

A look was cast over his shoulder. "Not a threat… at least not from me, Grand Maester."

Muttering a profanity under his breath, Gawen nevertheless nodded. "Have the servant arrive here before her rounds. I'll provide her what she needs to dispense before the week is out." Egane nodded and left, Gawen slumping in his chair.

By the gods… when would all of this be over.

He knew the answer, and it both made him fearful and filled him with joy to think about.

Rhaena wondered if Tyanna loved her.

The evidence pointed in that direction when Rhaena decided to look distinctly enough. The Pentoshi bastard girl was saucy and fiesty, yet she didn't join Melony, Alayne, and Larissa in teasing Rhaena during their gatherings, instead defending her. She oft made time to spend alone with the Princess, usually just friendly, innocent activities such as pouring over Valyrian tomes or walks through the gardens chatting about court gossip and matters of state. When they withdrew into the bedchamber, her moans were ardent and her touches heavenly yet gentle - never letting go animalistically as Rhaena sometimes did.

Perhaps Tyanna wished to maintain Rhaena's maidenhead, which made the Princess' affections increase once she realized it.

Tyanna did love her, of this Rhaena was eventually certain. Did she love her though?

Mayhaps, though not enough to push Maegor out of her heart. Sometimes Rhaena felt guilty at giving Tyanna the hope that her feelings could be fully requited - they could never be together fully, yet a sham marriage did lean to the possibility - but in her pain over Maegor, she couldn't help herself.

"You do love him still," Tyanna told her that morning, cupping her cheek as they woke together.

Biting her lip, Rhaena nodded. "Do you hate me for it, Ty?"

Surprisingly, Tyanna shook her head. "I cannot. It is easy to know why you love him. If my heart wasn't yours, then I could see myself seeking to be the next Ralla."

Rhaena raised her eyebrow. "Oh?"

A giggle. "Something to think about before you go to your daily training."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

Scowling, Rhaena nevertheless leaned in to kiss her lover, conceding the point.

Still stiff from sleep and… other things, Rhaena began her pre-sparring stretches in the Dragonpalace's courtyard just as Ser Gawen entered, followed by the other person the Princess expected to see. "Ah, a shocking turn of events. The Princess deigns to arrive early on this fine morning."

His voice dripped with sarcasm, though Rhaena decided to ignore it. "Good morning, Lord Commander," she called over with genuine amity. As much of a hard cunt he was, Gawen Corbray was positively gentle compared to Brandon Snow. The latter had only been in King's Landing for little over a moon, but Rhaena already shuddered at how coldly the Bastard of Winterfell treated Maegor when he went North. Her uncle respected him, yet images of Maegor being left out in the middle of a blizzard for various minor transgressions made Rhaena wince.

No matter how hard she tried, he never left her mind - nor did she ever want him to, regardless of what she told Tyanna.

She shook her head, finishing up her stretches and making for a practice blade that equaled the feel of Dark Sister. Sparring helped clear her mind. "Permission to begin, Lord Commander?"

Crossing his arms, Ser Gawen leaned against the column. "Permission granted, Princess. Wait for your sparring partner."

Flicking a few strands of loose hair fallen from her messy bun behind her ear, Rhaena's eyes fell on the still relative newcomer to the Dragonpalace grounds. Raven-black hair tied back in what she called a 'ponytail,' Jorelle Mormont was almost exactly like Rhaena in every other manner besides looks - though both were objectively beautiful in the same slight, toned appearance. Fierce yet still well-read, Jorelle wielded the Valyrian steel sword Longclaw just as her grandmother Lady Bethany Mormont did.

Rhaena had been eager to face off, Dark Sister against Longclaw, first out of curiosity, then revenge, and then simply for the fun of it, but Gawen never allowed real blades in sparring so for the last two weeks she and the Mormont girl had to make due. From the grimace on her face as she drew the blunted bastard sword, Jorelle had the same feelings. "Ready, your Grace?" she asked, getting into position.

"Whenever you are, Lady Mormont." Rhaena firmed her stance, bending her knees. "I'll try not to go easy on you."

"I figured that was the breadth of your abilities, Princess?"

Oh, she's good. Rhaena narrowed her eyes, twirling her blade into place. Giving the silent challenge towards her first as she had each morning for the last two weeks.

True to her House's words, Jorelle charged. Taller than Rhaena, she used her physical stature to full advantage, seeming to tower over her opponent in a move to overwhelm and strike down. Rhaena had lost the few first spars embarrassingly easily because of that, but had since learned means to counter and thus gave ground - letting Jorelle assault forward for several paces until she counterattacked, lashing out a blow that forced Jorelle to parry.

"Quick feet," Ser Gawen called out, his tone chiding. "Fluid… move. Use your speed."

A woman, slight at that, no matter how hard she trained Rhaena would be inherently unable to overpower the taller, stronger opponents she would undoubtedly face. Quickly slashing again and again, twirling and spinning the blade in hand with dexterous wrists, she made up for it in both ferocity and agility. Many a larger opponent had fallen to such tactics and each one vaulted her confidence to a height she usually needed Dreamfyre to reach.

But Jorelle, though half a head taller that Rhaena, was just as agile having learned similar lessons from her instructors on Bear Island. Just strong enough to power against Rhaena's attacks and take the initiative, her own furious slashes and thrusts only barely parried.

Blunted though they were, when the training blade poked her side Rhaena cried in pain. "Non-fatal hit!" Gawen clapped his hands. "Keep going."

Gritting her teeth, the Princess stopped a downward lunge with her sword and kicked forward - missing Jorelle but sending her reeling back. Resuming the offensive, Rhaena felt the sweat soak her clothes and mat her hair to her forehead. Determined, pushing her endurance. Three feints were countered by powerful parries, easily bashed aside and almost sending Rhaena off balance but her firm yet flexible stance held.

Another swing was caught, but as quick spin around found a chink in Jorelle's defensive position and the cold steel slid through until the tip impacted with the she-bear's chest,

"Kill blow," Gawen announced. "This morning's match goes to the Princess."

Without hesitation, Rhaena grabbed a large flagon of water and downed much of it, pouring a bit on her face to cool down. It was uncouth as her muna would say, but refreshing. "Here," Rhaena said, handing it to Jorelle.

"Thank you." The she-bear dumped it all on herself, soaking her leathers and head, emphasizing her fierce, pale beauty all the more. "You've improved greatly."

Rhaena smiled. "You've kept me on my toes, Lady Mormont." The Princess had grown fond of Brandon Snow's granddaughter in the weeks since she'd arrived - enough to determine that this girl was one she wanted by her side. The warrior woman to round out her circle of friends. "If it wouldn't be a bother, perhaps you would like to take lunch with my ladies and I today?"

The invitation didn't seem to surprise Jorelle. "Why thank you, Princess. I would be a fool not to recognize such an honor." Dropping the sword into its stand, she nonetheless shook her head. "But I'm afraid I have to decline."

Rhaena blinked, utterly shocked. "Decline? What?" No one declined an invitation to join her circle. Ever since Larissa and Samantha were the first, Lords and Ladies often sent their daughters to jockey for a place among her favorites, but Lady Jorelle simply declined,

Jorelle chuckled at Rhaena's surprise. "Not used to the southern prisses turning you down, huh?"

"Prisses?" Rhaena narrowed her eyes. "Insulting my friends is not something I can tolerate, Lady Mormont." Her brash attitude was till now frustrating but endearing, but if she had this much of a chip on her shoulder…

"Look," the she-bear sighed. "Forgive me if I disrespected you, Princess and I am sure those you wish to be your friends aren't the fake flower cunts that merely giggle and talk about prissy shit, but I am a warrior. I don't play courtly games and even your friendship is good worth it… I'm sorry."

Tilting her head, Rhaena studied her. Jorelle seemed genuine, and once again it was something to admire. While there were free spirits among her favorites, none were as tough or wild as Jorelle Mormont, granddaughter of Lady Bethany Mormont and Brandon Snow.

"Alright, what would it take for you to join my circle of favorites?" Jorelle raised a brow. "I happen to be fond of your company, and dragons don't take denial as the end. Name your price."

Laughing, Jorelle was pleasantly amused at Rhaena's words. "You have the spirit of a northern woman, I'll give you that." From her, such was not faint praise. "Alright, a ride in the Kingswood."

Rhaena raised her brow. "If you think that would be the best place for them to deem if they should accept you.."

"You misunderstand. It's the best place to see if I should accept them into my company."

There was a pregnant pause before Rhaena's lips tilted upward. "You're on." Yes, she truly wanted this girl as a friend.

Hand over her stomach, Ceryse gulped uncomfortably at the sour taste and unsettled disposition she suffered from. Easy, my love. Be gentle for mama. Her current pregnancy wasn't as difficult to her cursed past ones, but that didn't mean the discomfort wasn't real and quite irritating.

Luckily, she had proper company to pass the time away with. "I must say, your Grace, most of my ladies do not enjoy playing cyvasse. Much… too masculine for their tastes."

"Men do enjoy this more than women do in general, I suppose," Alyssa replied back, moving a piece into a threatening position - a game of strategy and tactics, there were many that described it as the 'Game of Kings.' "I wasn't taught it by my parents for that very reason."

"So who did teach you?" Her uncle taught her to play within the High Septon's palace - he'd always been sentimental.

Memories of her teacher - of the various… side games that they played alongside cyvasse - were not ones she wished to think of. "No one in particular. I was self taught." Ceryse didn't pry, instead continuing the game.

"Excuse me, your Graces" the maid curtseyed. "I've brought your tea."

Ceryse smiled. "Ah, thank you Falina." The girl - a woman now - had been one of the many servants that had been bound to her family in the Hightower that journeyed with her to King's Landing and across the known world as part of her and Maegor's household. She was rather sweet and shy, one that Ceryse enjoyed the company of. The wafting of the hot, piping brew that Falina placed in front of her brought a sigh to her lips. "Jasmine?"

Falina nodded, eyes planted to the ground as she always was - ever deferent, as her father instructed all smallfolk to be among their betters. "Aye, as requested."

"Good, good." Ceryse sipped the liquid, feeling its warmth spreading through her body - calming her stomach. "Imported from Yi Ti, goodsister. Expensive, but worth every silver wolf."

"Oh?" Alyssa's tea was of the same, the smell pleasant but strange to her nostrils. "How so?"

"It's manifestly calming, better than wine. Also settles the stomach, which is a lifesaver during pregnancy."

Taking a drink, Alyssa moaned. "Gods, if only I had been told of this when I was pregnant with Aegon and Jaehaerys. Perhaps I wouldn't have snapped at my dear husband so powerfully?"

Greedy for the tea, in spite of the heat that came close to scorching her throat Ceryse swallowed the whole cup. "Only two difficult pregnancies out of five?"

"Aye, to which our goodmother happily informed me that those would be the children to drive me the most distraction. Alysanne and Viserys were very little in discomfort, while with Rhaena I had nothing bothersome. Hers was smooth as silk."

The mention of Rhaena made Ceryse frown momentarily, though it was just a moment. "Yes, the Princess Rhaena." She had nothing against Rhaena, and the girl was pretty much the darling of the capitol - Ceryse would've loved her as her dearest niece if not for… the way she looked at Maegor. Some may be ignorant, but not she. "Hopefully such lack of difficulty will extend to her betrothal."

Alyssa snorted. "Not that I'll have any say on that. My husband won't allow me to begin negotiations for it - only he can, which I find ridiculous. I am her mother." She sipped at her tea, moving another piece into place, challenging Ceryse' defensive line.

It was a move that stumped her for a moment, but eventually the Princess countered the Queen, throwing the game back into balance. "Maegor and I discussed the matter a few weeks ago. Whether a boy or a girl, both of us will need to agree on a match before it is made - he wishes not to have the same process that allowed our betrothal given his mother's initial objection, however well it turned out in the end." Another piece charged forward in challenge. "And I agree with him."

A look of disgust crossed Alyssa's face, one she barely bothered to contain. "Ah yes, my dear goodbrother." The way she spoke those words, they could've been the blackest of epithets. "I am more than sure Queen Visenya was confined to sickbed while she was gravid with him." A chuckle, one mirthless but biting.

Ceryse narrowed her eyes, moving another piece into place. "Your Grace," she began. "When my uncle the then-High Septon informed me that he was to seek my marriage to Maegor, he warned me of you."

The Queen raised a brow, clearly disinterested. "And what did the late Gerold Hightower have to think of me, a Princess of House Velaryon?"

Such haughtiness greatly irritated Ceryse. Once she had been similar - though her miscarriages had brought her a certain humility and appreciation of things, for it had been the loyal servants of House Targaryen that treated her with the most kindness - though Alyssa took it a step farther. She acts as the most arrogant of dragonriders but rides no dragon. Her family were descended from Valyrian sea traders, common merchants. Only the Doom and House Targaryen elevated them and she wished for them to know that.

"That you hated Prince Maegor, that you were likely besotted with him only for your advances to be spurned." The latter weren't what uncle Gerold told her, but her own suppositions based on how Alyssa acted. Let's see how you react, goodsister.

Ceryse didn't have to wait long. Alyssa reddened like a ripe beet, face contorting in anger… one she struggled to control, but to her credit did. "My marriage to his Grace has been both faithful and fruitful. Five healthy children of his sire, which I can attest to since I do not stray like some harlot… nor does he stray." Her lips curled into a vicious smile. "Imagine, not being able to satisfy one's man to keep him out of another's bed. I pity any woman in such a situation."

Now it was Ceryse's turn to burn in anger, though she wouldn't give Alyssa the satisfaction of showing it. Eyes narrowing, in eleven moves crushed the Queen in the game, letting out her rage in the humiliating victory. "Good game, your Grace," she ground out emotionlessly.

Alyssa's lips were pressed thin, but nodded. "Good game." With that, she rose and summoned Jeyne Westerling to lead her out, door shutting.

"Bitch," Ceryse murmured. If Maegor did have her, then how could he have stood it? Well tough luck, you cunt. Maegor is mine and I am having his babe. Our problems are over and there is nothing you can do about it.

He is mine, not yours. The thought put a grin on her face.

As Della walked into the chambers, Ceryse stood but felt a twinge in her belly. "Ooh…"

Stepping through the doorway, Della Peake noticed her lady stumble and cringe. "Princess… are you alright?"

"Yes," she murmured. "Just a little tired. Perhaps the babe needs a nap."

"Alright, let me take you to your bedchamber. Should I fetch his Grace?"

Ceryse shook her head. "No, there's no need to bother him from his duties." The Princess loved her husband, and knew he needed to go about his responsibilities as Hand. "I'll join him for supper later."

Della nodded. "As you wish, your Grace." Letting Ceryse hold on to her arm and shoulder, the Lady in Waiting guided her towards the bedchamber she shared with her husband.

The nap was just the thing that she needed. Breathing deeply under the sheets, Ceryse stretched out languidly, feeling the gentle sea breeze waft through the gossamer curtains hours later - it was a beautiful day, and she had the urge to call over her husband to spend the evening with her. Them doing more… pleasurable things than the duties of the moment…

"Ah…" Another pang like before, this one more abrupt and… "Oh, gods…" It was more painful, followed by a gush of wetness. Did she lose her bladder? Ceryse pulled back the sheets and suddenly gasped - then screamed.

Blood, a pool of blood that soaked the bedding underneath as well as the bottom half of her shift.

"NO!" Her scream was shrill, drawing in maids and servants and guards. "No no no no no!"

"Your Grace… your Grace, please!" Hands were on her, trying to calm her down.

"Make it stop!" Ceryse screamed further. "This can't be happening! Not again! NOT AGAIN!"

"Fetch the Grand Maester!" yelled one of the Kingsguards… Olyvar Bracken she thought.

Ceryse shook. "I want Maegor! I need my husband!"

"Milk of the poppy! Milk of the poppy!" Suddenly a tiny bottle was placed at her lips and the sweet liquid poured down her throat. Ceryse didn't remember much after that…

"Muna! Muna!"

Pulling up her skirts enough to run without tripping all over them, Ceryse followed an eager, brown-haired little girl. Her giggles filled the halls of a massive palace of black stone that clearly wasn't Dragonstone. "Alicent! Stop! Wait for muna!"

There was no stopping her though. She was as energetic as her father. "I rode him! I rode him! I have to show you and kepa!" The girl twirled in her riding leathers, waving Ceryse to follow her. "Come on!"

"Wait… just wait!" The girl disappeared behind the corner. "Daughter, wait..."

"She's resting, your Grace."

"And you haven't told my brother?" The voice was of the King, not her husband. Groggy, Ceryse didn't know what was going on.

A tired voice replied, that of the Grand Maester. "Her Grace has lost a lot of blood."

"The babe? My niece or nephew?"

Ceryse drifted off again, only hearing the Grand Maester sigh… not a sigh of relief.

Eyes rimmed red and face pale, the King of all Westeros exited the bedchamber to the instant expectant looks of his family. From the bored but concerned glances of Alyssa and Aegon, the greatly apprehensive fear on Jaehaerys and Alysanne's faces, and the pure tearful horror Rhaena exhibited - he sighed in fatigue but nonetheless faced them. "She's alive and awake, though I suspect she doesn't wish to be at the moment."

"What happened, kepa?" Jaehaerys asked, pleading with his father for answers.

It was like yesterday that Aenys remembered holding this little boy in his arms when he was pink from childbirth, and now Jaehaerys was growing into a man - something Maegor wouldn't experience with this current babe. He sighed. "Your aunt lost the babe."

Rhaena gasped, clasping her hands to her mouth. Aegon muttered something under her breath, while Viserys and Jae looked pained. Alyssa pressed her lips together, though Alysanne was confused in her youth. "What do you mean, kepa? No more cousin?"

He knelt before her, cupping his youngest's cheek and kissing her brow. "Oh my dear… how can I explain this to you?" Aenys wished that he could keep his children as innocent as he could. "Sometimes, a mother can lose a child in their womb… your aunt suffered this just now."

"No… N'cle said I'd have a cousin, like Eggsy and Alaric." Tears welled in her eyes, causing Aenys to hug her close.

"I want to see our uncle," Rhaena demanded, clearly the most affected of all of them. There was a desperate longing in her voice.

Alyssa placed a hand on Rhaena's shoulder. "Daughter, you should not bother your uncle in his time of grief."

But Rhaena was stubborn. "I have to see him."

"Perhaps later, child." Queen Visenya arrived, her face placid but a hollow grief in her purple eyes - which had lost their luster. "Gooddaughter, please take the children somewhere. They won't need to see their uncle in this moment."

"Grandmother, I want to see him…"

"You will, I promise, but let him mourn for now." Kissing Rhaena's brow, her eyes shifted to Alyssa. "Now, please."

While there was a slight affront at Visenya's tone - Alyssa did hate Maegor, but never would wish this on him, having lost her own child once in the same manner - she nodded. "Come children, let's get you some supper." Rhaena and Jaehaerys made to complain, wanting to see their uncle, but were eventually coaxed into leaving.

That left four outside the chambers - Visenya, Aenys, Brandon Snow, and Lord Commander Corbray. The King slumped against the wall, exhausted mentally and emotionally… gods imagine what Maegor would feel. "Does he know?"

"I sent a raven to Harrenhal hours ago. He flew there on Belarion so should be back any time now." The gruff Brandon Snow, having lost much in these recent years, felt this loss as hard as the Targaryens - Maegor was like a nephew of his own, and children were the sort of matters that were proper to be sentimental and joyous with. He certainly did so with his own grandchildren.

"What was the child?" Gawen Corbray asked.

A tear formed on the King's face. "A boy."

"He must not know," Visenya insisted, hanging her head. "It'll be too painful."

"I know, mother."

Speaking of the great other… he did appear. "Muna! Brother!" The Hand of the King's face was frantic, hair mussed and clothes rumpled from a rushed dragonride all the way from Harrenhal. "What happened?! Where is Ceryse?!"

Lord Commander Gawen stepped into his way, hands out. "Your Grace, please calm yourself."

"Don't tell me to be calm, Corbray!" he spat. "I demand to see my wife!"

"Maegor, my son." Visenya's touch calmed him, his mother hugging Maegor close. "You need to be calm for her… for your own sake."

Her voice made his heart clench in worry. "What happened, muna?" he pleaded. "Please tell me."

"Your child… it didn't make it." Visenya watched her strong son fall apart in front of her - all the light going out of his eyes. "I'm so sorry, my son."

Holding tightly to his mother, Maegor tried his best to keep from collapsing entirely by holding back his own tears that were threatening to fall. You must be strong… think of her… This had happened before, each one all the more painful than the latter - this one was likely to destroy Ceryse if she didn't have love and support. The Prince knew that he needed to be strong for his wife, even if his heart felt like it had been ripped open.

"How…" he finally stammered. "How could this happen? She was healthy… the babe..." Our babe...

Aenys, behind their mother, gave a sympathetic look. "The Grand Maester… he simply fears that the Princess cannot carry a babe to term. I'm sorry."

"No, that's not true. She was healthy, as was the babe." His tone grew angry.

"Shhh… shhh," murmured Visenya, stroking his back. "Please, my son. You need to see her and be strong for her."

"We'll have more time to discuss this and heal, my Prince." Brandon was gruff but Maegor could tell that the old bastard was sympathetic. "Go to her."

Nodding, Maegor bit his lip and took the latch of the door, entering the dark chamber before closing it. "Wife?" he asked, making sure to sound as loving as he could - not much of a hassle, since he did love her greatly. "Ceryse…"

"I'm awake," came a croaking voice, making him wince. She sounded like a crone rather than the beautiful, young woman he loved.

Approaching the large bed, he could make her out in the darkness. Ceryse had curled into a ball, bunched up in the corner of the bed - the same bed they had shared so many passionate nights that ended with him spooning her, hand over the swell of her belly. The memory felt like dragonfire. "My love," he murmured, sitting next to her as best as he could. "I'm here for you."

Ceryse said nothing for the longest time. Her skin was pale, expression hollow and eyes nearly dead. As dead as she felt inside. "Go away, husband," she finally said.

The words felt as painful as learning of their babe had been. "My love, please don't push me away. Let me… let me help you heal." Perhaps helping her would allow him to heal as well.

His kindness and love nearly made her tear, but Ceryse couldn't… it was simply too painful. She blamed herself too much. "I am a cripple." There was no emotion in her voice, so dead she was inside. "I am useless."

"Don't say that."

"It's true! Don't deny it!" She almost screamed at him, so pained was she that the first she could lash out at was targeted. "Four babes, Maegor! Four babes of mine that I loved with everything inside me, but all died before I could even birth them!" Ceryse trembled. "My babes, dead because my womb is poison!"

Maegor's fists clenched, angry at the very gods above that did this to them. "You are not poison! I won't have you say this about yourself…"

It was too much… all too much. "Fuck you! How in the fuck do you think to know how I feel?!"

"They are my babes too and I loved them too!" he bellowed back, drawn to the breaking point himself. "Don't try to claim I have nothing here!"

"Get out!" she screamed shrilly, grabbing something off the bedside table and throwing it at him. "Get the fuck out! Leave me and my poison!" The screams echoed for moments - feeling like hours - before Maegor simply stood and left, door slamming behind him.

Ceryse collapsed into her pillow, sobbing uncontrollably.

"He needs support, go to him."

"No, do not intrude on a man mourning - especially someone as strong as he."

"Your uncle won't want his niece to see him weak."

"Prince Maegor will want someone he can trust to expose his feelings to."

"He'll try to keep a brave face to you."

"Stop being an idiot and fucking go to him."

Alone in the corridors, Dark Sister tied to her hip and adding to the nature of the black and red dress she wore, Rhaena reflected on the words of her friends and semi-lover - biting her lip and thinking of all the advice they'd given her. Tyanna, Alayne, Elissa, Larissa, Alys… all were gentle in their words if firmly trying to get them across. However, it was her new friend Lady Jorelle that proved the tip of the scale. Her bluntness spurred her to go to his chambers.

If Ceryse was too hurt to be the one to comfort him, then she'd do it. The man I love deserves someone to love him.

As she expected, there was no Kingsguard at the door. Well… no white-cloaked Kingsguard to be sure. The dark fur of Syndor was curled up beside the door to Maegor's private chambers - usually where he had slept before he and the Princess reconciled moons ago. Hearing Rhaena, she quickly jumped to her haunches with ears up… only for her furry tail to wag at the sight of one of her favorite people.

Rhaena smiled, reaching out to scratch her fur. "Hi girl, protecting my uncle?" Syndor's tongue fell out, preening at the touches. "Good girl, good girl." She didn't begrudge Maegor for being alone or wanting to be alone - it had taken a while to convince Ser Dick to leave her be, only Dark Sister managing to reassure him of her safety. "He inside?"

The direwolf bobbed her head.

She sighed. "Wish me luck, girl." There was no doubt that if Maegor was here, then he and Ceryse hadn't found comfort in each other… Rhaena didn't blame the Princess since her pain was undoubtedly worse, but there was still ire that she didn't give her uncle the ability to mourn together.

Witnessing her uncle, an empty flagon of Arbor gold discarded on the floor beside the bed, sobbing quietly, her heart broke. He didn't deserve this. Neither of them did, but Ceryse should've… she should've…

"Bugger off, Corbray!" he belted out. "Leave me in peace."

But Rhaena was here, and she could give Maegor the love he needed. "Uncle?"

Groggily, he lifted up his haggard face, eyes bloodshot with alcohol and tears. "Niece… go away…" His words were slurred. "Don't see me like this…"

She wasn't so easily pushed away. Taking off Dark Sister and setting it on one of the tables, she went close to him on the bed - ignoring the pungent smell of wine - and sat down. "You're hurt, uncle." Rhaena struggled with her own tears at his state. "You need someone to care for you."

"No… not you…" But he didn't resist when she hugged him. "You don't deserve my shit."

"You deserve love, and I'm here for you, dearest uncle." She held him tightly, slowly feeling his resistance crumbling. "I don't know what it's like to lose a child, but just know you can mourn to me. I won't judge you or think less of you." She needed him to let go, and let go he did - bawling into her dress. "Shhhh… it's alright. I'm here, uncle…" It felt intimate, but she didn't feel shame from it. He needed this.

Eventually, his sobs died to but whimpers. "Is… is there something wrong with me, niece?" He trembled, the strong persona he had earned through war and struggle utterly absent - leaving a broken and weak man as many would decry him as.

Rhaena was not one of them. She could never think him weak or useless, especially since he hadn't cowered but lost a child. "There is nothing wrong with you, uncle," she said, hugging him closely - hoping to provide the comfort he so needed. "You are the greatest man I've ever known. A mighty dragon."

"What sort of dragon could I be if I can't protect the ones I love?" He hugged her back as if on instinct, seeking out comfort. "I am worthless… I deserve to die."

"No! Never say that!" Tears filled her own eyes at the man she loved being so broken. "Please don't say that…"

"I'm a failure… just let me die, Rhaena… please…"

"Never! I'll never let anything happen to you!" It was now she that cried, clutching him, rocking him. "I'd be nothing without you, uncle…" Rhaena murmured, not sure if he even heard it, but heard it he did, his sobs petering out and eyes locked on her. Staring into her very soul and prompting her to gulp and continue. "I… I was weak, and you gave me Dreamfyre's egg. You made me who I am, you did. I owe you everything, uncle. If that was just all you did, then you would never be a failure."

Seeming to take in her words, something in his eyes changed. The way he looked at her… Rhaena could sense a difference. It was both soft yet intense, one that made her breathless.

It was almost like the looks her grandparents shared when she was on Dragonstone…

But as soon as it happened, it was over. Maegor lowered his head back onto her shoulder, simply trembling and sniffling. "Shhhh… rest…" Rhaena whispered when she recovered her senses. "I'm here… I'm here…"

In that moment, she could close her eyes and dream that it could be herself that fully healed him.

Chapter Text

"The crisis is being overstated."

"I can assure you that it's not, Lord Reyne." Twin violet eyes narrowed at the ginger-bearded Lord of Castamere. Maegor had placed the man as Master of War to obtain support for becoming Hand of the King, but aside from that Tybolt Reyne's loyalty was with Aenys and not himself. Normally Maegor would not have a problem with this, but it caused headaches when they butted heads. "The raids are only increasing in number and severity."

"Wildling raids are part and parcel of living in the icy North, no?" As the Dragonpalace continued to grow in construction - so much so that the King had sold the manse and moved permanently into the holdfast north of the great hall - the young Prince Aegon's stature had grown as well within court.

So too, Maegor lamented, did his arrogance. "The North is frequently raised by the Free Folk tribes, aye, but they are largely isolated affairs. These are coordinated."

Unlike Aegon, who huffed and crossed his arms when challenged by his uncle, Rhaena was more open-minded. Willing to listen to counsel, a trait she got from her kepa. "Lord Snow, what is causing these more coordinated raids as my Uncle informs us?"

Brandon Snow, Master of Whisperers, maintained his characteristic icy scowl through the entire Small Council session. "The Crown's birds do not extend North of the Wall, but the whispers heard by the Night's Watch indicate the wildlings are eschewing usual tribal structure and forming into confederations."

"Have they named a King Beyond the Wall?" The question was posed by Lord Lucas Harroway - the new Master of Coin after the retirement of Lord Butterwell - voice curious.

"Not to my knowledge. More like a collection of petty Kings."

Seated at the head of the table, King Aenys was as well put together as a King could be - but it was clear that being King had aged him considerably. There were lines on his face that hadn't been there before, as well as eyes that were losing luster. Maegor resolved to advise him to seek a few weeks rest in Dragonstone after this. "Why are they massing? I see no reason for them to do this."

"Could be the Long Night?" Rhaena said innocently, having been told the tale by Jorelle and her brother the other night.

Biting back a snicker, Maegor was thankful that few south of the Neck knew that tale - lest Rhaena be mocked for it. A sentiment shared by a smirking Brandon Snow. "I feel that it's more mundane a reason that that, dear niece."

"Enlighten us then, brother," Aenys said.

"It seems that the Free Folk have been influenced by a sort of witch… a shaman as they call him or her." That was the best phonetic sounding of the word, which Maegor was told derived from the Mag Nuk speak of the giants. "They are banding together because they were told that destiny awaits them south of the Wall."

"What sort of destiny?" asked Septon Murmison, the consult of spiritual matters for the Crown. "Some sort of divine prophecy on part of whatever gods the savages worship?"

Brandon Snow's scowl deepened. "They worship the same gods as the North does, Septon."

Not wanting a spat within the Small Council instigated by his prickly mentor - he was already disliked by so many in King's Landing - Maegor jumped in. "These visions… as all prophecies innately end up being, are fickle and vague. If this is real, then they only know that they need to move South, not how or why."

"I am certain I know your source of information, goodbrother," Alyssa spoke. Maegor narrowed his eyes at his smirking goodsister, while noticing Rhaena sigh and cast him an apologetic look. "But in any case, what shall we do about it?"

"The Night's Watch was formed to deal with the savages," Aegon said dismissively. "Let them handle it."

Maegor shook his head. "Not that simple. They are at an ebb and flow at the moment due to the lack of recruits."

"Empty the jails then," declared the Queen. "Can you see it done, Lord Ronnel?"

"At once, your Grace," bowed the Master of Laws.

"If it may please his Grace," Maegor added, "Allow me to allocate gold to the chief of the White Foot clan. Kepa granted them lands south of the Wall for their services to the Realm, and they can use the gold to better influence the various confederations. Buy us time."

"Aye, do so," Aenys declared, not to be swayed. If the Hand noticed glares from many in the Small Council of sending coin to the father of his former mistress, he didn't give any indication. "Is there any other business that we can address?" He looked as if he were hoping for good news.

By the grace of the gods, Maegor was glad he could give some. "Lord Smallwood reports that discontent and banditry in the Riverlands has abated considerably since his arrival at Harrenhal."

A beaming, tired smile reached Aenys' face. "Gods, that is welcome news."

"The problem there remains Ser Gargon's insistence on taking the right of First Night," stated Brandon, earning winces and looks of anger from many. "I suggest he answer for these crimes."

"Such a right, though unseemly," stated Grand Maester Gawen, "Is part of tradition. To punish him for exercising it isn't something that the Lords would approve of."

"Some traditions need to be changed, Grand Maester," stated Rhaena, her eyes dark with anger. "Kepa, you need to take a stand."

Aenys nodded. "Aye, that's what I'll do. Send a letter to Lord Daeron and inform him that Gargon is to cease this at once and do whatever penance the local septon assigns him, or else Lord Smallwood is to bring him to face the King's Justice."

A middle of the road approach that appeased no one.

More mundane matters passed by without Rhaena paying much attention, instead focusing on looking at her uncle - her secret love. He put on a good front of the dutiful, dynamic Hand of the King and rider of Balerion, but she could see it in his eyes. In the ever so slight sag of the shoulders. He was still hurting. Six moons had passed since Ceryse's latest miscarriage and the wounds hadn't healed, only bandaged as best they could. Ceryse fled to Oldtown to recover, but Maegor didn't have that luxury.

Rhaena had to step in, much as her favorites apart from Tyanna dissuaded her from doing so. He may never be mine, but uncle needs me. She would be there for him no matter what.

The Small Council meeting finally ended and Rhaena found her kepa waving over to her. "Daughter, do come. Some marvelous new artworks have arrived from Braavos and I hope to show them to you."

While she would normally love to, Rhaena gazed back at Maegor, speaking to Lord Commander Gawen. "Before supper, kepa, we shall - but uncle and I are to visit the dragons and I cannot find a way around that."

Her muna frowned - whether it her denying her kepa or because it was uncle Maegor she was denying him for, Rhaena couldn't tell. "You'd reject an invitation from your father…"

"Alyssa, that's enough. I cannot deny my daughter the birthright of House Targaryen." Her kepa smiled warmly. "Go, I shall find something else to do in the meantime till you get back." Rhaena hugged him and kissed his cheek. She kissed Alyssa's cheek as well, though her muna gave her a look of half-anger and half-worry - a look Rhaena had been getting ever since she and Maegor started spending more time together.

Gods, it was starting to get tedious.

Her uncle was now alone, deep in thought. He jumped slightly when Rhaena looped her arm in his. "Shall we, uncle?" She looked up at him with innocent purple eyes.

That genuine smile of his, one that made Rhaena weak in the knees, formed on Maegor's face. "Of course, niece." Only she could bring that smile to his face these days, and of this Rhaena took the deepest pride.

As always, they talked about everything under the sun - simply enjoying each other's company. "How is the tribe of wildlings fairing south of the Wall?"

Maegor shrugged. "Lands are similar, if more fertile. They don't like farming but ranching of cattle and sheep are different. Ralla says that they've been in discussions with Lord Umber about financing an expedition to catch mammoth beyond the Wall and bring them south to raise." He chuckled. "The Umbers hate the Free Folk but the idea of mammoths among his bannermen must be too good to pass up."

"Oh? I heard that the Volentenes use elephants as war weapons - mammoths are larger I would assume."

"Aye. Could make for a rather powerful breakthrough weapon if used properly. Beasts are hard to tame."

Rhaena laughed. "I should send Alysanne's septas to the North. Those sour crones could break down anything without a dragon's strength." They shared a laugh before Rhaena noticed his expression grow worn again. Oh… to mention the Faith… "How is Aunt Ceryse doing?"

A sigh. "Better. Her letters are more frequent and she says she's coping." They hadn't had much time before she left, too hurt was Ceryse. 'Everytime I look at you, I see our child.' There had been a tight hug and a loving kiss as she boarded her ship to Oldtown, but it wasn't the same. "I offered to fly there on Belarion to see her, and she didn't say no."

"She should see you… you deserve love."

"You always think the best of me, dear niece." Maegor leaned down to cup her cheek and kiss her forehead. Followed by a hug… something both of them needed.

"I love you, uncle." Words that had double meaning.

"I love you too, Rhaena." Maegor found his own words… surreal. As if changing. He was scared to ask how.

A sight from the cliff where the dragons nested caught Rhaena's eye. "Seems we're not alone this time."

Giggling, Princess Alysanne pet Dreamfyre's scales. "Love you, Dreamfyre." She always felt a sense of peace around the dragons - kepa didn't take her here that often, so when Jaehaerys invited her to accompany him… it was an offer she couldn't refuse. "Jae, will my dragon be so well-behaved?"

Stroking Balerion's snout, Jaehaerys clicked his tongue. "You shouldn't want that. You should want a mighty beast that brings fire and blood upon your enemies." That's what Balerion did, after all.

"Nah, I want a pretty one with silver colors like my egg!"

"Girls…" Jae murmured, until a shadow caught his eye. "Ummm… uncle…"

Maegor shook his head. "You should know better than to approach another rider's dragons." He moved beside Jaehaerys. "It's a good thing Balerion's such a softie."

You're going to pay for that, valonqar. His dragon's annoyance made Maegor chuckle.

"Nuh unh! Balerion is the toughest beast there is. He brings fire and blood, not softness."

On second thought, my nephew can pet me whenever he wants… perhaps I should let him be my rider? Balerion's eyes twinkled. He certainly respects me more.

"Oh, shut it," Maegor replied in High Valyrian.

By Dreamfyre, Rhaena was a lot less teasing of her little sister, the two of them scratching under Dreamfyre's jaw and making her growl with pleasure. "What brings you two here, not that uncle and I mind?"

Alysanne let out a huff. "Our dragons won't hatch, and I just want to go riding."

Rhaena looked to her uncle, the two of them sharing a glance. "Want to go riding with us?"

Both younger Targaryens gaped. "Really?!" Alysanne was jumping with excitement.

"No way." Jaehaerys couldn't believe it.

"Should be alright if you sit in front of your sister and I." Maegor patted Jae's shoulder. "Just don't tell your muna."

For a ride on their uncle and sister's dragons, the two of them would share a blood oath in front of the heart tree.

Dearest wife,

I hope my words find you well. I cannot claim to be a poet with words, though being a poet with a blade as is my proper skill is nigh impossible, so do forgive me if I try and fail.

Skimming the plainly scrawled words, Ceryse found a giggle forcing itself out at reading what Maegor wrote. "He says he's not good with words - liar." Affection for her husband filled her eyes.

Troubling news from both the North and Dorne. In the former, the Free Folk are beginning to mass while in the latter, Princess Deria has passed. I'm hoping that the Night's Watch, properly reinforced, can play the Free Folk bands against each other and buy more time for the crisis to abate, but as for Dorne I fear the ascension of Prince Mors Martell. His hatred of us is well known.

Momentarily, Ceryse felt the greatest guilt for not being in King's Landing with her husband - helping Maegor navigate the crises of the Realm. Aenys would allow her onto the Small Council even though Alyssa disliked her.

But feeling her flat stomach… it brought everything into context. She couldn't be in the capitol… she had to be here in Oldtown, in the Hightower. In her childhood home where she last knew the semblance of safety and innocence.

Grief on her expression, she continued the letter.

Our family continues to thrive, especially my niece Alysanne and nephew Jaehaerys. They grow like weeds, Jae into a strapping man and Ally into a beautiful, graceful woman. Only the day before I write this did Rhaena and I take them for their first dragonride astride Dreamfyre and Balerion…

Groaning, Ceryse set down the letter, unable to read anymore. "Gods, that man…" When they first had their problems he sought the arms of his wildling lover, and now as she mourned for their miscarried child he ran to…

Ceryse shook her head, realizing her horrid thoughts. "She's his niece."

Targaryens marry their family.

"No… I love him. He's hurting like I am."

"Niece?" a voice called through the door. "Do you have company in there?"

Face a confusing panoply of emotion, Ceryse stood at the visitor and wiped her eyes - forcing a gentle smile on her face. "No, Aunt Patrice. All is well." She wouldn't dwell on these awful thoughts, not when she came here to heal. Composing herself, Ceryse went to the door and was greeted by the smiling face of her same-aged aunt. "Good evening."

Patrice Hightower, the late in life daughter of Addam Hightower, wrapped her niece in a hug. "Ceryse, you look more beautiful as the years go by."

She blushed at the praise. "I must've gotten the same blood that you did, aunt." Ceryse's age, unlike her Patrice never married, not yet at least, though there was still time. The rumors around the Hightower buzzed constantly about reasons, most common being that she was infertile or preferred women, ones that brought Lord Manfryd mortification but Patrice only laughter. "Are we to join father for dinner?"

Shaking her head, Patrice frowned. "He's dining with your elder brother at the palace of the High Septon."

"High Septon Hugor invited him? A high honor."

"High honor, bah." Patrice scoffed. "Those Gardeners are all the same. Arrogant prisses - we're not so much better, but I still hate it." They began to walk down the corridor, arm in arm. The two Flowers of Oldtown as was dubbed them in their youth. "Vivienne Tyrell is the best of the lot, but the Tyrells have rubbed off on her."

"The Tyrells were stewards while House Gardener was the noblest blood."

"Aye, stewards… when you're that low it either makes you covetous or humble. While old Harlan may have be a little of both, late Theo was the latter. It did well for Vivienne, trust me." She patted Ceryse's hand. "But enough on that. Let's go get you some dinner. You need to eat… you're like a skeleton."

"I eat fine, aunt Patrice." With her mother dead, aunt Patrice began to talk more like a mother to her - it was awkward considering they were the same age.

"Nonsense. You can't go back to your dragon husband looking like a corpse. Come on. We're going to eat and then go for a nice long ride. How about that?"

Her eyes lit up. "That sounds heavenly." Normally the picture of a proper Andal Lady, from her childhood Ceryse loved horses and riding. Her father indulged her in spite of grandfather's curt disapproval when he was alive, and she often went riding with her brothers - especially Morgan. Speaking of which… "Morgan, brother!"

They had just caught sight of him while passing through one of the larger hallways - windows letting in light to the spacious arched ceiling. Donning the rainbow cloak of the Warrior's Sons, Ser Morgan Hightower cut a dashing, handsome image. He looked just like the Andal heroes of the songs. Ceryse was so proud of him.

Now though, he looked like he was in a hurry somewhere… but he spared his dear sister some time. "Ceryse, my beautiful Princess." He kissed her on the cheek affectionately as he always did, making Ceryse smile. "How are you today? Doing better?"

"A little better every day," she replied back. "Not as dashing as in full armor, but you look like you could take on an army."

Morgan grinned. "Have to keep up two august reputations now. Aunt Patrice."

"Nephew," she replied - they never truly got along, but were family.

"Will you be joining me for a ride this evening, Morgan?" Ceryse asked her younger brother, the two of them always having been close during their youth.

But Morgan's sunny demeanor and mischievous spirit - while still there - had been hardened since he donned the rainbow cloak. "Forgive me, sister, but I must decline." He reacted not when her face fell and she pouted, another expression from their childhood. "Don't do that," Morgan warned. "I have places to be."

Blinking, Ceryse knew he had his duties as part of the Warrior's Sons - but why didn't he just say that? "What's more important than spending time with your dear sister?"

"Just shut up. I'll go where I want," he snapped back.

Ceryse flinched, causing their aunt Patrice to scowl. "Do not speak to your sister that way."

Morgan's sudden anger softened. "Apologies, sister," he said, genuinely by the hurt on his face. "But I really have places to be and cannot indulge your reliving of our childhood."

Sighing, Ceryse nodded. "Understood, brother. We've all grown from those times… it was selfish of me to assume it could be otherwise." Aye, they had all grown - herself most of all, forged by loss, pain, and marital discord. "Go, enjoy yourself." Morgan hugged her, lingering a little longer than Ceryse expected but she was fine with it. As he left, she noticed her aunt's stare. "What?"

Patrice just sighed. "You are far too forgiving of everyone, except your husband."

"What?"

"You blame him for your loss, don't you?"

She looked down. "I don't blame Maegor."

Her aunt draped an arm over her shoulder. "You don't wish to, but on some level you do… as well as yourself." Leaning over, she kissed her on the cheek. "But you're not going to get past it by brooding. Come on, let's have a nice evening." Without another word, the Flowers of Oldtown were off… though not as cheery as before they ran into the young knight.

Did the Seven who were One truly hate her?

Sometimes it seemed they did. Sometimes Jeyne Poore thought it was all a horrible nightmare, that in the moments she was stuck in a viewing port watching some ugly as sin merchant defile a nubile young woman within the client rooms she'd wake up after spending the night in Lady Rowan's chambers, sneaking a bottle of arbor gold and giggling about the gallant young knights that trained in the yard. By the gods, Jeyne wished to be back there.

"Tonight is a quiet night, thank the Seven," Floris Flowers remarked, leaning back in a gossamer gown and letting out a sigh. "Hopefully it will stay that way."

"Aye," Jeyne replied to the three-year experienced whore - her best friend since being placed in the brothel. One of the busiest in Oldtown, the proprietor being a personal friend of the High Septon. Barth counts on the discretion of the Faithful.

A snort. "Says you," one of the more experienced whores remarked. "Mistress only makes you suck off the clients. Lucky bitch." Jeyne wouldn't speak further on it, but in that she was glad. Barth had left no uncertain words that her maidenhead needed to be intact. That she was only here to learn the art of seduction and pleasure of men or women. For the glory of the Faith, though at the moment Jeyne didn't know what he was thinking of.

"Don't worry… just means she's being held for something special," another girl said, giggling.

Perhaps she wasn't lucky after all in that fact.

Their moment of peace was interrupted as the madam entered, followed by the proprietor… that was certainly a shock for Jeyne. The old man usually never left his solar, counting his gold or letting one of the whores service him. The ladies didn't truly mind she found out - unlike others in the business, he was mostly kind.

Mostly.

"Alright, everyone to the front," announced the madam - Sarai was her name, a mature beauty from Myr. "We have a special client."

"One that requires all of us?" Jeyne heard Sella ask. As one of the senior girls in the brothel, she had more leeway than the others to challenge Sarai or the proprietor.

Not that either had to follow her, anyways. "Does the son of the Lord of the Hightower count? I do believe it does," their proprietor remarked, drawing wide eyes. "Handle this Sarai. Am counting on you - if he is made happy, we could get more clients from both the Hightower and the Warrior's Sons."

Sarai kissed his cheek. "You can count on me, my dear." As she spent more time here, Jeyne was starting to suspect that the madam hadn't been a former whore, at least not for the owner. "Let's go!" she barked at the girls.

As they shambled out into the reception room dressed in their most alluring gowns, Jeyne leaned in to Floris. "Ser Martyn Hightower is here? Why would that benefit the Warrior's Sons' patronage?"

Floris shook her head. "He must mean the younger son, Martyn. He's a Warrior's Son."

Jeyne blinked. "But… he swore an oath of chastity."

Her friend looked at her with amusement. "Oh Jeyne, for a whore you're still like a blushing maiden almost."

Seems she still had a lot to learn of the human condition.

True enough, waiting was a young man - good looking with dark blonde hair and a warrior's build - wearing the rainbow cloak of the Warrior's Sons. "Ser Morgan, welcome to our humble establishment," curtsied Sarai, the only female in the brothel dressed in any sort of modesty. "Your patronage brings us great honor."

Ser Morgan looked disinterested. "The place I normally go to hasn't had any new girls for a while, so I'm expanding my horizons. Hopefully there are some to my liking."

"Rest assured, our girls come from across Westeros and beyond the Narrow Sea." She approached a dark-skinned girl from Naath - Jeyne didn't really know her, since she was quiet and kept to herself. Probably doesn't even speak the common tongue. "This one is a beautiful, exotic…"

"No darkies," Ser Morgan said firmly. "I'm a respectable knight from a great family."

And yet you're in a brothel.

Sarai took it in stride. "Of course, of course." She skipped to a pale girl from the Vale. "How about this mountain beauty? Slender and passionate."

"I suppose, I…" Suddenly Ser Morgan's eyes widened as they found a girl that truly peaked his interest. Jeyne. "Her."

Jeyne stiffened. "I'm sorry?" She heard Sarai say.

"I want that one." His gaze was lustful, lecherous. Jeyne would be flattered if there was some actual kindness behind it rather than base desire. "She is perfect."

Suddenly nervous, Sarai shook her head. "Forgive me, mi'Lord. She is not for sale…"

Eyes narrowing, Morgan glared at her. "Why the fuck not?"

"She is still a maiden…"

"Oooh, even better." He produced a coinpurse that he jingled in front of Sarai. "Fifty gold dragons for her maidenhead."

Many eyes went wide among the girls. Such was an almost unheard of sum, even for a girl's maidenhead, and the look on the knight's face showed he was willing to pay more just for Jeyne.

While Jeyne wished to run… run anywhere to avoid the fate of losing her maidenhead to someone not of her choosing, the bronzed skin of her madam went almost white as a sheet. Anyone would've simply taken the coin, unless… "No."

"What?"

"She's not for sale, I'm sorry." The wroth of a denied Ser Morgan paled at the prospect of whatever wroth Barth would inflict on her if Jeyne was spoiled.

"One hundred fifty gold dragons." Beside Jeyne, Floris gasped.

"Forgive me, mi'Lord. Lady Jeyne here only is to perform oral pleasure, or pleasing of ladies…"

"Done." Morgan looked eager to have her in any manner. "I'll take the Vale bitch and that one," he pointed to Floris. "Along with her."

Sarai accepted the payment. "One of my men will accompany you… just to make sure you don't take any liberties."

Morgan scoffed. "My word as a knight should be enough."

"Precautions." She added a shy smile to it… which made Morgan groan but nod.

Minutes later, they were all ensconced in a luxurious bedchamber of silks and satin - only used for the most illustrious of visitors. Morgan Hightower certainly applied, and he sat on the bed as the three girls were appraised by his eyes. "Never have I seen anyone as beautiful as you, Lady Jeyne," he spoke finally, voice dripping with desire.

"Thank you, good Ser," she replied, trying not to sound as disgusted as she felt.

"You sound like an educated woman," he remarked. "So you'll pretend to be a highborn, for me. Can you do that?" Jeyne nodded, not speaking again. "Good." Morgan pointed to the others. "You two, pleasure each other and make yourselves cum. I'll be partaking in you when I'm done with Lady Jeyne here."

"Do not touch her cunt," growled Drago Bardon, the massive guard that Sarai had watching over her.

"I got it, I got it," hissed Morgan, watching lecherously as Floris and the Vale girl began kissing each other. "Yes, enjoy your forbidden desires you whores."

Jeyne would feel bad for them, but she knew that her friends preferred each other's embrace to any of the clients - they actually cared for each other. She herself was in the horrible situation as Morgan took off his trousers and exposed his cock. It was decently big, but she felt no desire as she sunk to her knees. Before long, her eyes were closed and Jeyne was pleasuring him.

"Mmmmm…" Morgan gasped, clearly entranced by her. Hands weaving into her hair. "Yesss… take me deeper, Ceryse…"

Before she didn't think she could be any more disgusted… now, she truly was. Close your eyes and think of the Seven. It helped.

Perhaps it helped.

She hoped it helped.

Though weeks had passed since her grandmother had been laid to rest within the Sunspear crypt, not once since had Nymeria Sand's mind drifted from that day… nor the evening in which she had slipped away, blissfully asleep via milk of the poppy. There had been a time in which the Sand Snake was beset by rage and resentment against the Seven, Mother Rhoyne, and even the old gods of the First Men, of the First Men, but Nymeria had long since passed into simply being numb.

Deria Martell had guided Dorne out of the ashes of the Wroth and back into the thriving land of splendor it had been and more… she left a massive hole that only herself and her cousin Mors could fill.

Not even the sweet kisses of Clarisse Dayne upon her neck - nor the young guards she brought into their bed some nights - could coax her out of her fog. Sucking the bronzed skin in a spot she knew was sensitive, Clarisse frowned against her neck as all that could be voiced was a tiny hitch of her breath. "Anyone less confident in themselves would think they are simply bad at this."

Nymeria swallowed. "You're not bad at this, that's for sure."

"I know that, so the problem has to be you." Clarisse sighed and pulled back. They were both still dressed - albeit in the Dornish style, showing off plenty of skin - so there were less distractions. "You need to move on, Nym. It isn't healthy."

Nymeria handled her grief better than most. She ate, she slept, she trained… she saw to her duties, but that fog was still there. "It's hard to move on from this, Clari. She was my grandmother. I loved her."

Placing a hand on her knee, Clarisse smiled softly at her friend and lover. "No one says you cannot grieve, nor that you didn't love your grandmother." Nym sighed and let her head fall onto the Dayne's shoulder, which triggered a light embrace. "She was strong and intelligent, though - like you but in other ways. I doubt she'd want you to waste your life in her memory."

"That's an easy matter to say to yourself, quite another to put into practice."

"Well you're not alone, Nym… though you could stand to make more friends than just I."

Pulling back, Nymeria narrowed her eyes. "I do have friends."

Clarisse smirked. "Those you pay to have carnal relations with you or to lose to you in spars are not friends."

Before Nym could retort, a loud commotion came from outside within the outer keep and the town beyond. Rising, she reached for her scimitar on instinct. "Something's wrong," she spoke, gazing out the window to see almost a sea of torches all across the town. "Gods, there are troops everywhere."

"The Targaryens?" asked Clarisse, eyes wide with fright.

Squinting, Nymeria did her best to pick out details in the distance and low light of the Dornish evening. "No… they're ours. Spearmen and light horse." The only other Realm without traditional heavy knights in any formation was the North, and she knew these were not Northmen. "I can't pick out the banners though…"

An abrupt, brusque knock on the door was merely an announcement, not a request. Nym barely put a hand on the hilt of her blade and Clarisse grabbing her cloak when it opened. "Lady Sand." A man in the full plate and mail of a stony Dornish Lord entered. He removed his helm, revealing a handsome man with lighter skin and dark coloring. Nymeria recognized him as Lord Maron Fowler of Skyreach, grandson of the Lord Fowler killed in the last war. A friend of her cousin and a firebrand if there ever was one. "Ah, Lady Dayne, you are here as well."

Nymeria scowled at him, already plotting how she would behead him even through his thick armor. "What do you want, Lord Maron? You have no business being in this keep."

"I have no authority to divulge any matter," he replied evenly. "I have only been instructed to bring you to the Prince's Hall. It is urgent." No one moved. "My ladies, I would be breaking guest right if I harmed you in your own keep, nor do I wish to. You are perfectly safe." Complying against their better instincts, Nym led Clarisse out with the Valyrian steel blade still clipped to her side.

From the half-dozen guards bearing the Fowler falcon on their gorgets, she was glad she hung onto it.

Immediately after their grandmother's death did Mors move his things into the solar of the ruler of Dorne - dubbed the Prince's Hall since the original Mors preferred to see dignitaries there compared to the ornate throne room that Nymeria used. The tasteful painting and sculpture from Dorne's best artists were shunned in favor of displays of martial prowess - spears, shields, bows, and mounted heads of various exotic animals Mors had hunted. Nymeria was disgusted at how gauche it was, but her attention was elsewhere.

In the seat where her grandmother had so gracefully conducted her business - where her cousin so arrogantly lorded over all others - sat none other than the wrinkled yet still menacing visage of Lord Malcom Wyl. "Lady Sand, Lady Dayne, thank the Seven and Mother Rhoyne that you are safe from harm."

The insult was not lost on Lady Clarissa. House Dayne still followed the old gods, but she didn't speak of it, merely crossing her arms. "Why are you in the seat of the Prince of Sunspear."

Wyl of Wyl was nonplussed. "He allowed me to have it… terrible thing that happened, which is why I am so relieved as to your safety, Lady Sand." He sighed. "Your cousin was the victim of a poisoning attempt."

Nymeria's expression changed to one of fear and anger - though a small part of her was still skeptical. "Did we catch the perpetrator?"

"Sadly, no. Prince Mors had to be relocated for his own safety."

He's holding him hostage… no, my idiot cousin probably went along with it. "And why are you here then and not protecting him or finding who committed this act?"

A gentle smile, one that meant to say all was taken care of. Nymeria hated that smile, especially from the cunning, ruthless Lord Malcolm Wyl. "The whispers state that it is likely the Targaryens were behind this. Therefore, in order to better safeguard our home, Prince Mors has appointed me High Advisor to the crown of Nymeros Martell until the crisis has abated."

Both ladies were utterly stunned, though they were smart enough not to show it. Wyl hadn't sought absolute rule for himself, for the Wyls weren't even petty Kings back before Nymeria's War and had no right or authority. But through this… Gods only know what he promised my cousin to get this title. He was the true ruler of Dorne now.

And they could do nothing about it but simply accede to the new order. "I am glad the domain is under experienced hands," Nymeria finally said. "May I go see my cousin?"

Wyl nodded. "Aye, you will be escorted by a guard of loyal men to his location."

Loyal to whom was the question. Clarisse was right… she needed to make her own friends.

Just in case down the line, her interests and that of Lord Wyl's didn't see eye to eye. For now, she'd bide her time.

Hopefully Dorne would still exist by then.

Chapter Text

No matter how many times Lord Brandon Stark prayed to the old gods for deliverance as he rode astride Arrax's spine, the northman knew that things could be worse. Honestly, he could've been as unlucky as poor Blizzard, the white direwolf forced to ride tucked safely within the grip of the dragon's claws. Compared to the likely shaking beast, Brandon had a roomy perch and was allowed to snake his arms around Rhaenys' slender waist and take in her body heat.

A wonderful position that, if he was feeling cheeky or... frisky, allowed Brandon to surreptitiously sneak his hands up to…

"Hands back where they were, lecher," he heard Rhaenys say loudly over the howling winds. Grinning into the back of her neck, Brandon sunk his teeth lightly into the skin there while unabashedly groping her breasts. "Stop that."

"Do you really want me to stop?" he yelled back. Some Valyrian curse words tumbled out her mouth, but when he kneaded the glorious mounds in his palm… Brandon almost figured he heard a moan. Oh yes, she is going to jump me when we're alone tonight. Fire and ice… he wouldn't have ever figured they were compatible in the bedchamber but he was glad to be proven wrong.

Gods, he loved his wife… and from how her head lolled back even while guiding Arrax through the air, she loved him just as desperately.

"Aight, love, get ready. We're going down." Another command in High Valyrian sent Arrax diving with a roar, whatever pleasure Brandon's groping had given him disappearing into terror from the dive. Rhaenys whooped instead… neither saw eye to eye on this, though it suited each just fine most of the time.

Eventually though, they evened out at a reasonable altitude about half the height of the massive Wall that loomed overhead. The winds lessened, cold gusts from the Land of Always Winter buffeted by the Wall itself, its white and blue ice marred below by the dark walls and towers of Castle Black. "Gods." Immediately in view were what looked like half a dozen large, furry beasts, the lead one letting out a loud trumpet heard from even on dragonback. "They weren't japing us about taming mammoth."

Rhaenys agreed. "Each are being led by a handler… they're training them."

"Marlon will need to supply some to us." He was uneasy about House Stark being weaker than any of his banners… even if they were allies. Brandon didn't want to be the Tullys. "Looks like the Boltons didn't waste time." Surrounding the entire castle were hundreds of tents, the sigil of the flayed man fluttering about them.

"Also see a lot of Umber banners. Will be good to be with Snarlin' Marlon again."

"Aye, quite the character… in a good way mind you." Lord Umber was just a little bit older than Brandon. He, Maegor, Bran, and Theomare Manderly used to be inseparable back when the Prince fostered in the North, and friendships stuck. "Let's land then, my love." Rhaenys agreed, and a click of her tongue sent Arrax circling towards a landing.

The dragon touched down on a snowy embankment only about a hundred feet away from the gates of Castle Black. Immediately he released Blizzard, who bounded out and scampered in the snow, as if luxuriating being on the ground again. Brandon was similar, though he kept his composure upon dropping down from the dragon's spines. Blizzard almost mobbed him with licks, a happy wolf he was. "Easy, boy, easy."

Rhaenys chuckled as she climbed down from Arrax, greeted with a nudge from his snout. "You did good, my son. Go off and find some dinner. I'll see you soon." The dragon hooted and took off in search of a meal. Rhaenys then looped her arm in Brandon's. "Shall we?"

"Aye, let's."

The gates were opened quickly, revealing a welcoming party of Black Brothers gathered within the courtyard in their full battle dress… as well as others from the other guests of the Night's Watch. Aegon's Conquest and the subsequent Targaryen upkeep of the Realm through fighting banditry and dealing with localized uprisings had kept the complement of the Night's Watch full. A good eventuality, even though the nature of a lot of the men left much to be desired.

Brandon did not like the hate many of them gave him… or the lecherous looks some surly individuals gave Rhae.

Nevertheless, he had his duties. "Greetings, Lord Commander," he said to the recently elected leader of the Night's Watch.

Lord Commander Lothor Burley was rather young, and still green enough to not be afflicted by the rugged hardness that was common to sworn brothers of the Night's Watch. Given time though he'd be indistinguishable… There used to be honor in this, though Brandon didn't see it anymore. Just a dumping ground for the dregs of society, all of which Lothor Burley now commanded. "Good to see you, Lord Stark," he finally said. "And thank you for your continued support." He spoke in a well-educated accent. "The poachers you sent us have given our hunting parties a needed boost."

"The carts of poachers to bolster your ranks was Lady Rhaenys' idea."

He looked to the Princess and bowed his head even as he shook Brandon's. "Your Grace." A Targaryen would always be a Targaryen, and the Lord Commander treated Rhaenys as such. "We've set up the best accommodations for you, but forgive us if they are not up to your standard. Our beds are hard, our halls are cold, and our food…"

Rhaenys held up a hand. "As long as the latter is nourishing, that is all that I require. It will please me to eat as you do." She smiled, hoping to put him at ease. It worked.

Releasing the Lord Commander's hand, Brandon approached a familiar face. "Marlon, you big bastard." He was enveloped in a crushing hug, one that the Lord of Winterfell gave back as good as he got. "See you've never changed."

Laughing like a bear, Lord 'Snarlin Marlon' Umber clapped him hard on the back. "No need to when you're already perfect!" He squeezed Brandon one more time before settin' him down. "Ah, the lovely Princess Rhaenys." Built like a bear, the Lord of Last Hearth was nevertheless chivalrous and gentle as he kissed the proffered hand. "If yer tired of sleepin' with this pussy, my bed's always open." He wriggled his eyebrows.

Coming from someone like Tyrion Lannister or Jonos Arryn, Rhaenys would've thought long and hard about feeding them to Arrax for a comment like that. But Marlon was harmless, so she merely rolled her eyes and laughed. "I feel I should fear the wrath of Lady Umber should I take you on that offer." She stepped next to Brandon, stroking his hand lovingly to make him certain of her love for him.

Lord Marlon made an exaggerated motion of looking over his shoulder. "Seven hells, I'm two days ride from mi'home and I'm still frightened of that girl." Flint by birth, Lady Umber was thin and beautiful, yet tall and skilled with both a bow and a lance… and a temper to boot. Challenge her at one's own peril.

Gods, Rhaenys loved her adopted home… at least most of it. "Lord Bolton." Much as she adored little Ryah, Rogar Bolton was a more… acquired taste.

"Princess… Lord Stark." Rogar could be talkative when he wanted to, but it was cleared that he wanted to be tightlipped now. "I brought my banners as requested."

"Thank you for that, Lord Bolton," Brandon replied, shaking his hand and moving on quickly - luckily, the next person was someone he actually liked. "Ralla, you're as beautiful as ever."

The wildling snorted. "Unlike Umber here, yer' wife is right next to ya', so be careful."

There was a reason Maegor partook in such a long affair with this woman - Rhaenys could see it, liking her earnestness quite well, as that of her father Rulth. "I am glad to see you again… only wishing it was under better circumstances."

"Aye," snorted Rulth, chief of the clan that allied to the crown when needed. Granted plenty of land in the gift, Maegor was sure to have them made Lords of it if they asked. So far they didn't. "Thenns and Burned Men groups are likely to attack one of the smaller forts soon according to my sources. Best get planning."

Down to business it is then. "Alright," Brandon announced. "Lets."

It was a dream come true for Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen. Ever since his earliest memories, watching his kepa soar through the heavens on Quicksilver… the stories of his grandfather and grandmothers bringing fire and blood to the defiant Kings of the Sunset Kingdoms, Jaehaerys had so longed to ride dragonback. To be the Valyrian dragonlord he was born to be. Now, with such a dream so close at hand…

"I changed my mind," Jae murmured, breathing quickly as his uncle pulled him up atop Balerion. "Let me down!"

His uncle Maegor laughed merrily, clasping his back. "Don't tell me you're scared, nephew?"

Balerion was the largest dragon, and therefore his massive bulk reared Jae up at least three stories - combined with the sheer height of the cliffs… "Yes, I'm scared! Let me down!"

Giggles from across the field were heard. "Jae, Jae, puss puss." A glare was sent Alysanne's way, leading to more giggles.

"Puss puss, sister?" asked Rhaena, who had no troubles with settling Alysanne on Dreamfyre.

"Aye, uncle calls people that when they're scared."

It took a moment for Rhaena to realize that she meant 'pussy,' and matched Jae's glare, shot at Maegor. "Uncle should be more careful about what he says in front of you." It was like they were a bickering family, and in a bittersweet way Rhaena loved it.

Maegor groaned. "See what you did, nephew." Jae was still trembling, leading to Maegor squeezing his shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry, Balerion knows what he's doing."

"But… he's so big."

The dragon let out a series of growls that sounded like laughter. 'Don't worry, hatchling, I shall strive to only do a dive loop once.'

"Uncle!" Jae was shaking again.

"Balerion, stop it."

'If it helps, hatchling, your grandfather was just as scared when he first rode me.'

That shocked Jae to the core. "Really?"

'Aye, and look where he ended up.'

Jae began to waver, only for his uncle to speak. "Jae, it's alright to be scared, but just think of what it will mean to overcome it?"

He sighed, still tense. "Hold on to me, uncle."

A powerful arm wrapped tight around him. "I'll never let go. Ready?" Gulping, Jae nodded. "Sovegon."

It was over in an instant. One moment the Prince was stationary in his uncle's grasp and then he was accelerating at a speed unknown. The roar of the wind drowning out his terrified screams, the wind blasting into his air as his entire lower body felt the jolts in altitude. His own hands hugged the large spike that jutted out of Balerion's back, feeling every twist and shift in the dragon's movements

Beside them, Dreamfyre climbed higher and faster than the larger and slower Balerion. He only got a glimpse of his little sister, but Jae could see her - utterly joyous, consumed by wonder.

'Let go, hatchling.' Balerion spoke to Tim as he beat his wings. 'This is what you were born to be.'

Gritting his teeth, Jaehaerys battled his fear. Rising up in his perch - easing on his grip of the spines. Looking out over the vast expanse of blue and green below him. Was that what the world looked like to the gods?

Magnificent.

"Are you alright, nephew?" his uncle yelled into his ear.

"Kessa, uncle… faster."

"Alright." Balerion lurched into the air at a faster clip, and this time the Prince allowed himself to enjoy it. After about a minute, a loud whoop joined the roar of the wind.

Sleeves rolled up all the way to his shoulders, the flames cracked and sputtered around Jaehaerys' hands. Untouched by fire, the Prince continued to stroke and caress the scales of his dragon egg with a wide, dopey grin on his face. The same grin he had constantly held since his dragonride with his uncle.

Scared at first, the Prince's fear had vanished quickly, replaced with the wonder of the experience and the fire of destiny burning through him. That is where I belong, soaring among the clouds. He was a Targaryen Prince, proud and powerful like his grandfather, kepa, and uncle.

But was he truly if his egg wouldn't hatch?

Prince Jaehaerys wasn't one to back away in the face of failure. Rarely did he give up and never again would he.

"Jae Jae Jae!"

A put out groan left his lips as the Prince removed his now steaming hands - again unharmed by the flames - to find Alysanne striding into his chambers without knocking. "Don't you realize I could be busy?"

She giggled. "Don't be a silly boy, Jae. Not at lessons, not sparring, not with kepa or muna or uncle Maegor, means nothing to be busy on." Narrowing his eyes - which made her smirk - Jae could see that the dragonride had brought a change to her as well. While she was still a bubbly bundle of joy for all of those in the Dragonpalace, even him though he'd never admit it, Jae could see she carried herself more… confidently. Purposefully, almost like their muna, or grandmother. Rhaena had the same gait. It… suited her.

What really surprised him was that there was another girl with her. She had the wild look of a northerner, but she was clearly not a Stark - short and squat, though slender as well. "Who's this?"

Alysanne turned to her. "This is Arya Reed, my best friend."

"Reed… Reed… Aren't those the frog men that live in the Neck of the North?"

Arya blinked, narrowing her eyes at the Prince. "Better a frog than a lizard."

Now it was Jaehaerys' turn to be surprised… and affronted. "Lizard? You should know you are speaking to a dragon."

"A dragon without one," Arya Reed shot back. Jaehaerys fumed as she smirked at him. The Prince already didn't like her. Much too insolent. Rhaena's friends were never so insolent, even though Jae hated their tendency to pinch his cheeks and fawn all over him - Tyanna was the one that never did. I like her out of all of them… this one is nothing like Tyanna.

Alysanne, noticing the tension, broke it up firmly. "Both of you be nice or I'm telling muna." Jae didn't want that, and while Alyssa Velaryon was no family relation to Arya Reed, angering the Queen was not an option for her. They both shut up, though it wasn't forgotten. "Playing with your egg again?"

That didn't improve Jae's mood. "Playing, no… trying everything by the gods to hatch it, aye, I am."

"Did you try hammering it?"

Jaehaerys rolled his eyes. "Lady Reed, you do not hammer a dragon egg."

"Why not? Works for father whenever one of the pulleys gets jammed."

"I can assure you this won't work." He buried his hands in his hair. "I've run out of options."

Rubbing her chin, Alysanne's face suddenly brightened. "Wait here, Arya, come with me." She dashed off, a confused Arya following in her wake. Jae didn't even have time to sit down before his sister returned… her own silver-colored egg nestled in her hand. "Your egg is lonely and shy… just needs some love." Not waiting for a response, she dropped her egg into the hearth, sparks sizzling out as it settled among the fetters.

Arya looked skeptical. "Ally, I'm not sure this will work."

"Ally? No, you'll call her 'your Grace.'" The only non-Targaryen Jaehaerys would tolerate referring to Alysanne so informally were Aunt Ceryse and their Stark cousins.

"I'll call my friend whatever I want, your Grace." The way Arya Reed said the words, they may as well have been the vilest profanity.

Jae fumed. "Go back to your swamps where you belong," he hissed.

"As soon as you jump into the Fourteen Flames, your Grace," she hissed back…

"Shhhh!" Alysanne's harsh whisper drew their attention. "Do you hear that?"

Prince and crannogwoman eyed each other in confusion. "Hear what?"

"A crack… I heard a crack."

Jaehaerys shook his head. "You're hearing things…"

When the crack sounded out again, all three heard it.

"Are you sure about this, muna?"

Watching the fear and indecision on her son's face, Visenya resisted the urge to shake her head. Oh, my son… I love you, but we should've fostered you with a warlike House as we did Maegor. But she loved him, so refrained. "Aye, I believe she is ready for this, and you told me of the nature of the threat."

Aenys was still unsure. "Couldn't he handle it alone?"

"No, this needs finesse and he is not the best diplomat." A good enough excuse - with what Vhagar told her of the true state of affairs, Visenya knew that this needed to happen. The family needs more happiness.

A loud screeching made each of them tense. "It's coming from the children's chambers," they heard Lord Commander Corbray say from behind them.

"My children!" Aenys was running for the chambers, Visenya following - equally as concerned.

Big Jon Hogg waited outside Jaehaerys' room, a look of awe on his face. "Your Graces, you need to see this…"

"Where are my children?" Aenys demanded. "Are they safe?"

"Aye, your Grace. Come see for yourself." Both royals pushed their way past him and froze at the sight. At the truly wondrous sight.

Hanging from Prince Jaehaerys' doublet was a tiny dragon hatchling. Its scales were a dark bronze, head extended and curling around the Prince's neck. As for Princess Alysanne, she was giggling uncontrollably as a second dragon hatchling - this one's scales a brilliant silver - scaled up her shoulder until it was perched there. It spread out its wings, screeching.

"Hatchlings…" Visenya said, first recovering. "You hatched your dragons…" Seeing Alysanne, it reminded her so very much of herself - Vhagar hatched very much like that, while Balerion was already grown and Meraxes hatched for Rhaenys in her crib.

Alysanne finally noticed her grandmother. "Kepa! Grandmother! Look at Silverwing, isn't she gorgeous?"

Aenys was still shocked, but Visenya dashed over to Alysanne and smiled down at her and the dragon. "Silverwing, huh?" The name fit.

"Aye, cause she's the most beautiful dragon." Alysanne stroked her snout, which Silverwing responded by purring.

Finally the King snapped out of it and approached his son with a beaming smile. "And have you named yours, my son?"

Jaehaerys nodded. "I knew the name from when I first got the egg, kepa. Vermithor, the Bronze Fury." Vermithor preened at the attention, proud and confident even just after hatching.

Aenys laughed merrily and pounded his son on the back. "My children! Dragonriders all!"

Two new dragons for House Targaryen.

"I confess to Father almighty,

"To the blessed Mother kindly.

"To the Warrior ever stronger,

"The Stranger to save us longer…"

Singing the words he had memorized long in the past when just a bastard boy raised in the still royal seat of Highgarden, High Septon Hugor Flowers felt the Father's blessings upon him. Though having ascended through the rungs of power to its zenith in the way of any backstabbing politician, there was something about the worship of the Faith that called him on an almost primal level. To feel the gods in his heart… It was what drew him to the Starry Sept rather than the banners as his father, King Mern had wanted.

And yet I shall avenge you father. Not with the sword but with the holy word that commands it.

The Starry Sept, home to the Faith of the Seven for thousands of years since it's first incarnation was built by House Hightower, was packed with people. The leading citizens of Oldtown alongside visiting lords from across the Reach, Riverlands, Vale, Westerlands, and Stormlands were all gathered to celebrate the Day of Glory - the feast day to celebrate the victory of Artys Arryn over the First Men at Seven Stars. Already the mass of revelry was preparing outside to go on long into the night, but could only start after Hugor himself consecrated the rites.

A most ancient tradition, one symbolizing that no matter how frivolous or gluttonous, the might and judgement of the gods were watching. Insisting on a sense of humility and restraint.

Something our draconic rulers do not have.

Finally, the choir stopped, tenors resting their throats as polite applause filled the cavernous dome that housed the vestibule and great hall of the largest sept in the world. Taking a seat in his padded throne, the first two rows of pews where Barth, the Most Devout, the senior Conclave of Archmaesters, the Wardens Paramount, and the Captains of the Warrior's Sons were all equally padded as befitting their status, while the other benches were left hard. Even the wealthiest would have to endure discomfort, humbling them.

Those that served the Seven in all their dealings needed not the same humility.

With only a milling chatter filling the great vestibule, Hugor motioned for Archsepton Boniface to surmount the gilded pulpit - a gift from King Joffrey Lannister after the King of the Rock declared the Faith of the Seven to be the true faith of the Westerlands. The proud man with thick salt-and-pepper hair and sideburns that rolled down his cheeks cleared his throat, readying his voice for the coming sermon.

"Hark the sound, my brothers and sisters of the Faith. Let us rejoice under the guiding light of the Father and Warrior on this day… this day of glorious victory by the Father's servant and Saint Artys for our land, our people, and the true pantheon of gods over the heathens and tree-worshippers."

There were many things Hugor could say for Boniface. Robust, tireless, fearless, and renowned for his strength, there wasn't anyone within the Most Devout with his zeal and devotion to the cause and Hugor admired such dynamism - sorely needed in his opinion even after the purges of the corrupt and child-lovers from the ranks. The fiery Archsepton sometimes preached for day and night when called for by the calendar, without sleep or nourishment. And yet… the man had no tact when not given orders to shut up. The North was likely to rear in fury at the words said, but Hugor cared little. Cheap grain shipments from the Honeywine to White Harbor would keep them pared off… at least until the moment came.

Though Hugor missed much of the sermon in his thoughts, when Boniface stretched out his arms and cried in a zealous animation, even the most determined to tune him out were shocked into listening. "Do not think that your meek attendance can absolve you of your sins before the Father above! Every single link of the chains you forge in life will be weighed by the Stranger in the final judgement, and all that stands between you and the eternal damnation of the Seven Hells is your conduct. Your true conduct, service to the Seven who are One in everything they see fit to demand in you through their most holy mortal emissaries! That is your true penance! That is what you must reflect in on this day, the day of the glorious victory of our ancestors!"

The choir picked up again, this time singing an ancient Andal war ballad… one that Saint Artys likely had playing among his army while marching against the heathen Royce Kings. As the entire vestibule of thousands stood at once to sing the chant, Hugor stood as well. Smiling at the choice of words.

Boniface may have had little tact, but Barth had it in spades. No better manner to urge action against the enemies of the Faith while also not doing it. He shall be in my chair after I die. Though Hugor didn't plan on dying for the longest while… at least not until he outlived the bitch Queen Visenya.

Soon it was time to perform the ceremony. Hugor descended from his throne, flanked by Ser Damon Morrigen and Barth on either of his sides. Four more Warrior's Sons in immaculate armor, brilliant rainbow cloaks, and the ceremonial crystal-crested helms, carried the sacred icons of war in their chests of crystal - the translucent gems reflecting the brilliant light that shone through the windows. Within were the famed sword and shield of Hugor Hill… the first King of their people and prophet of the Seven themselves, and through them would the High Septon consecrate this day of praising the military victories of the Seven over the heathens and apostates.

While Boniface and Damon begun their oratory to start the ceremony, Hugor's eyes scanned the crowd. There among the Hightowers was Princess Ceryse, ever beautiful but still grieving over her many losses. Forgiveness, sweet rose. His sister Vivienne, fierce as ever in spite of her age. Lady Argella Durrandon and Ser Davos Baratheon, those Hugor had truly wished to woo but all for naught. Enemies, they would be. Robb Roxton, the wielder of the Valyrian blade Orphan-Maker… one of the greatest warriors of his age. Someone the High Septon would meet personally after the ceremony.

A sea of faces. Hundreds of enemies, allies, and unknowns within them.

Soon, he could feel it. The King was about to wean off the mother's milk of a recent ascension, and before long the reality would be felt by the populace of Westeros, both faithful and heathen alike. And once that was done, Hugor would be ready.

Breathing deeply, he opened his mouth to speak. "My children, proud of the Faithful…"

The Dragonpalace was bustling with activity.

If one hoped to keep any sort of good news circumspect and private, it was best not to tell King Aenys - not that the news of the hatching of Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Alysanne's eggs into two beautiful dragon hatchlings was worth keeping a secret. Heralding it far and wide, the King had ordered a massive feast prepared in the great hall for that evening, everyone from court and in reach of King's Landing invited to participate.

Anything for his two children - now bonded dragonlords like Valyrians of old.

Not that the Prince and the Princess cared for a feast in their honor… or even any sort of public declaration to exalt them. Such things were fine and pleasant for them, but could not compare to the feeling of actually having a dragon they were bonded to.

And that feeling was exhilarating. Better than even their first dragonride.

Alysanne's dress was covered in grass stains but she didn't care. Giggling with glee, she twirled about the grounds of the Dragonpalace with Silverwing in her hands, held up high so that the sun could make her scales sparkle. "The most beautiful girl. The bestest girl in the world."

Silverwing hooted, which in the dragon's immature sounds sounded high-pitched and petulant rather than the fearsome grown dragons… but to the Princess Silverwing sounded perfect. The greatest creature that could've ever walked or soared above the earth.

"Fly, boy." Alysanne, looked casually over at her brother and couldn't help but snicker. "Com'on, fly." The dolt was trying to get Vermithor to fly, but the dragon merely peered at him with a puzzled tilt of the head and neck while merely clinging tighter to his chest. "Don't be weak, fly!"

"Jae… he's just a hatchling," Ally said, only to giggle at his look of frustration. "We just hatched them today."

He sighed. "I know, I know." Wrapping his arms gingerly around Vermithor, he stroked the bronze scales of his neck - causing him to purr in contentment. "We really have them."

Alysanne's grin widened. "We do." Looking up at the upthrust Silverwing, her amber eyes just looking at her, the Princess squealed madly and ran for Jae. "Our dragons! Our beautiful dragons!" Silverwing hooted and just managed to leap from her arms to her head as Ally collided with Jae. Embrace tight as they spun around.

The Prince was surprised at first that his sister threw herself at him so abruptly, then momentarily worried for Vermithor. But the hatchling merely hooted back, getting locked in a hooting contest with Silverwing. He accepted the embrace, leaning his head against the still squealing Alysanne… eventually, he was laughing back, the two of them spinning and then tumbling together.

Unseen in the tall grass still undisturbed by their brother's plans for lush gardens and extensive paving, the rock caught Jae's foot and they both collapsed to the ground. Vermithor and Silverwing shrieked and flapped their wings frantically, though the thud for their bonded humans wasn't too hard. If anything, the grass provided a good cushion.

Once the shock work off they just kept giggling together, violet eyes locking. "We did it, Ally…" whispered Jae, voice halting from the weight of what they did. "I couldn't have done it without you."

She smiled back, expression radiant. "Thank you, Jae." Alysanne hugged him tightly. "I'm so happy right now."

"Aye, I can see that." Truth be told, that was a more wondrous sight than even their dragons - and Vermithor was pretty wondrous on his own accord.

"Valonqar!" Broken from their moment, both Jae and Ally looked up to see Rhaena running to them, Aegon jogging behind. They both wore sparring clothes, the former's hair braided back while the latter let his curls loose. Stopping, the eldest Princess spotted the hatchlings. "Oh gods, look at the glorious sight." Without hesitating she scooped up Vermithor in her arms, the dragon letting out a shriek and trying to wriggle away but Rhaena's grip too tight. "She's just as beautiful as my Dreamfyre was."

Jae, loving his sister but protective of his dragon, snatched Vermithor away. "His name is Vermithor, but aye. He's beautiful." He was smiling at the end as the dragon clutched him protectively.

Rhaena looked over to see Silverwing recovering her position atop Ally's head. "So is that Silverwing, then? Kepa couldn't stop gushing about the both of them and I can see why. They're wondrous, valonqar." She was so happy for them.

Basking in their legendary elder sister's praise - legendary for her anyway - Alysanne's brightness dimmed when she saw her brother with a put off frown. "Brother," Ally asked. "Would you like to hold Silverwing?" Unlike Jae, very protective even now, she didn't mind her family holding her dragon and Silverwing herself was a rather gentle spirit for a dragon. Perfect for her. "Here, hold her."

"No, it's fine." Closing his eyes, Aegon simply turned around and walked away back to the Holdfast.

Alysanne blinked, both confused and saddened. "He wasn't happy for us…"

Rhaena dismissed it, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Don't mind him… he's just a little jealous even though he'll probably inherit a dragon like uncle Maegor." She patted Silverwing on the head, the dragon leaning into her touch. "Did you feed them yet?"

Looking up, Jae shook his head. "No, sister. Should we?"

"If you don't want them to starve," Rhaena laughed, making Jae blush in embarrassment. "Come on, we can get the cooks to give them some burned meat." With that, she led them off the grass towards the palace kitchens.

A knock on the door brought Maegor's head up. "Come in." His mood brightened at seeing his smiling niece. "Rhaena my dear, come. Sit."

"I presume you heard the news, about Jae and Ally?"

"Ah, of course. Your kepa practically told the stablehands personally, he's so overjoyed." Maegor was too. I always knew they would be mighty dragonriders. He saw it in Jae, especially. That sense of greatness that reminded him of himself. "Forgive me if I seem a little… muted."

She raised a brow. "What's wrong, uncle? Do you need some help?"

"No, nothing like that, it's just…" Rhaena had been his confidant since the tragedy. Why not confide in her over this? "I wrote to Ceryse, asking if I could visit her in Oldtown. She wrote back saying it was too soon."

"Oh, uncle." Rhaena walked behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, giving him a hug. "I'm sorry."

He sighed. "I know, I know… She's in pain, but I miss her."

She was playing with fire. Rhaena knew better, but seeing him so lost didn't just bring out her comfort… but also her opinion of the situation. "She doesn't deserve you, uncle." Voice firm, Rhaena exposed the feelings that only Tyanna had ever heard. "I pray she seeks your marriage annulled, or you do."

Blinking, Maegor tried to look up at her. When Rhaena's looped arms over his shoulders made it impossible, he pulled forward, rising from his chair. "You're wishing my marriage to die?" He was incredulous and made it plain. "Niece, I know your parents and grandmother raised you better than that. Do you hate her that much?"

Rhaena bit her cheek to keep from screaming. "Uncle, I don't hate her. Aunt Ceryse has always been kind to me, but look at yourself." The last came out louder than she intended, but Rhaena didn't regret it. "You're dying inside, uncle. No one can stand to see it, least of all me."

He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm greatly heartened that you care for me so, niece…"

"You have no idea how much I care for you," she murmured, as if thinking out loud without knowing it. When Rhaena realized it, her eyes widened for the briefest of moments.

Maegor heard it too, but chose to let it slide - not willing to expose himself to what it could've meant. "That being said," the Prince continued. "You need not worry about me here. Ceryse is my wife, married under the sight of gods and men, and my duty compels me…"

Never before was Rhaena this angry, this affronted. "Compels! Duty! You're not talking about some ward or some military campaign! This is your wife, your marriage… you speak as if you are keeping in a loveless marriage simply because of some imaginary honor."

"It is not loveless, Rhaena, and I do not appreciate your tone." His own irritation was rising.

"Someone has to say it," she replied, though tried to lessen her ire for his sake. "And you're lying."

"Excuse me?"

"You're lying… or at least trying to convince yourself a lie is the truth. It isn't duty that's compelling you to stay with Aunt Ceryse. Oh, there's love in there." Rhaena couldn't deny that he didn't love Ceryse. Nor did she truly wish for him to just toss her aside like a used pack animal, but… "But it's really guilt that's making you suffer like this. You blame yourself for all the miscarriages, admit it."

Maegor could try and deny it… he could order Rhaena out of his chambers, but… "You're right. I do blame myself." Admitting it finally to someone other than his own thoughts, Maegor's shoulders slumped and he leaned against the wall, head dropping against the cool stone. "I couldn't protect her when she needed me, it is my fault."

Gods, how could she continue with him in this much pain? "Uncle…" Rhaena was at his side in a fraction of a second. "No, it isn't your fault. These things sometimes happen." Whatever words of comfort she had she gave him. He deserved it and so much more. "Don't blame yourself." Feeling a sob hit her, Rhaena embraced him tightly. "Never blame yourself."

"Can't not… I've made so many mistakes…"

"No, you're perfect. The greatest man in the world." Her hold grew tighter. "Don't destroy yourself over this. Please, I can't take it. You'd destroy me too." Soft tears left her lids, soaked up by his tunic.

Is she really crying? "Rhaena… Rhaena, look at me." With a little urging, he tilted her face up only to meet her eyes… and he was lost. He had grown up amongst violet eyes, the haunting beauty of House Targaryen, but there was something different about Rhaena's. It was as if she could see into his soul… see through his reputation and pain, and give what she found pure adoration.

These were the same eyes of his muna that gazed at his kepa. That realization seemed to affect him greatly.

"Rhaena…"

Though not minutes before he'd never think it possible of him, at that moment Maegor closed the distance and claimed her mouth, lips pressed against hers as her hot tears left them slightly salty to the taste. It didn't stop him, the Prince pushing for entrance and it being readily granted once Rhaena realized the occurrence she had dreamed of for so long was finally happening.

Time both stood still and shot by, the two of them kissing. Always sweet and gentle, but with an increasing need that left Rhaena flush against her uncle's broad chest. Gods, he felt as strong as he looked. Her hands moved across his muscles above the tunic, allowing themselves to explore places she could only fantasize about before. If this was just a dream… she didn't want to wake up.

But the dream turned into a nightmare as Maegor suddenly tensed, shoving her back and stepping several paces away. His face was pale and his hands were trembling with… fear. Rhaena had never seen him afraid before. "Uncle?" She tried to approach, but he backed away again.

This was not happening… not again. Memories flashed in Maegor's mind of the last time he had broken a woman's heart - but as that time had been the right thing to do, so was this. "It would be best if you left, niece."

Rhaena reacted if struck. "You cannot," she whispered. "Not after that." Approaching him, Rhaena placed a hand on his shoulder… on his cheek from behind and she swore he leaned into it. "You cannot believe that you didn't feel something from that kiss, uncle."

He did, seven hells he did, but Maegor couldn't allow her to be destroyed just as he had protected her mother's reputation all those years ago. 'You must do your duty to that love by letting go and being honorable.' The words he had long ago spoken to Jaehaerys resurfaced in his mind - if anything, it was harder than before. Did he love Rhaena? Perhaps so, but the impossibility wasn't as prominent and it drove him to hope… to pine after his niece…

No, he could not be weak. "Get out, niece. Just leave me and never speak of this again." He hated himself for how rough his tone was, but Maegor knew it was for the greater good. Cravenly, he refused to turn his head to look at her.

Heart shattering into thousands of pieces, inside Rhaena felt like bursting into sobs… but instead the dragon within her roused. "You're exactly how muna said you were, uncle." The lowest of blows - especially the facts she didn't know of - but one she hoped cut deep. "Goodbye."

But just before she managed to leave the door opened, revealing the last person either wanted to see. "Ah, wonderful, my daughter is here as well!" announced Aenys to Septon Murmison, who accompanied the King as his most trusted friend. "You look radiant, my lovely Rhaena." He kissed her cheek, only to pick up on something. "Is there a bother in your life, my dear?"

Rhaena, taking a deep breath, shook her head. "No, kepa. Just making sure uncle knows the feast for Jae and Ally is tonight - you know how he hates those things."

"Ah yes, of course," laughed the King, ignoring the glare Rhaena sent to her uncle, who had turned but was still quiet. "In any case, I would hate to ruin the joyous occasion of my son and daughter becoming dragonriders today, but I'm afraid this cannot wait." Aenys dropped to a serious tone, one both Maegor and Rhaena found… unsettling. "Seems the Dornish Marches have risen in rebellion."

Eyes widened. "What?!" Maegor was absolutely shocked. While bandits and cross-Red Mountain raids were plausible, an actual rebellion?

"Did Dorne invade?" Rhaena asked.

"No, thank the gods… but this is a serious matter and House Tarly has requested reinforcement from the Crown."

"I'll be at Hornhill by the morrow," Maegor announced.

But Aenys shook his head. "You will not run off haphazardly, brother. There will be a proper call to the banners and a host will march for Hornhill." He looked at both of them. "And the two of you will lead it."

Ah fuck. The thought came from both of them.

Chapter Text

“That… that ass!” 

Rhaena Targaryen had plenty of female favorites - ironic for anyone that knew her prior to her bonding with Dreamfyre, a shyer, more reclusive girl no one could know. Only connections forged through battle were stronger than that which bonded Rhaena and her friends. Alayne, Larissa, Elissa, Melony, Alys, Samantha… based on the spate of letters from the latter even being separated by thousands of miles didn’t even dampen the close-knit friendships.

But out of all of them, only Tyanna had the patience or desire to listen to the Princess rant and rave over her uncle’s… broken embrace. “Rhaena… please calm yourself…”

She wasn’t listening. “I thought him the sweetest, most loving man! He was nothing but good to me, yet here he shoves me away without a care for my feelings!” Her violet eyes blazed anger, a fire stoked since she arrived fuming at Tyanna’s door, yet now there was also a significant pain. “I thought he cared about me…”

The poor girl had been hoping for another of their… assignations that night and was dolled up in her most revealing outfit, but now a robe was tossed over it and she listened patiently. “I can’t say I truly hold affections for the man, Rhae, but I know you do. My eye is always trained towards him, and it’s allowed me to pick up things.”

“What things?” For once she was starting to calm and Tyanna hoped not to lose that.

“Rhae, he loves his wife. That is critical to know… that doesn’t mean anything in preventing anything from forming with you, but there’s something else.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s your mother in some capacity.”

She groaned. “I don’t want to hear this right now!” Her hands going to her hair, she tugged at it in frustration. “I hate him! I don’t ever want to see or talk to him ever again!” Rhaena’s hands dropped to her chest, wrapping around it protectively.

Tyanna stood and went to her, placing her hands on her forearms. “No you don’t… you love him. The only person you’ll ever truly love it seems.”

Blinking, the Princess quickly knew where this was going. “Ty…”

But Tyanna silenced her with a kiss, one that deepened but didn’t have the spark of their usual kisses. More as if Tyanna was pouring in all her feelings and Rhaena simply had nothing to say to it. That was enough for her as she pulled back, a sad smile on her face. “I love you, Rhaena. Wasn’t simply desire with me, though desire was a part of it.”

“You don’t have to say this to make me feel better…”

“No… you do not get to dismiss this. I love you and only you, Rhaena.” Tyanna shook, tears pricking at her eyes. “I fought it for a long time, especially after you fell for your uncle. We were never destined to be and I can only hold on to these memories for as long as I live to bring me comfort.”

“My uncle will never have me… we can remain together…”

Now it was Tyanna’s turn to grow furious. “I will not be your second choice, Rhaena! Not even for a Princess or Queen!” Seeing her love shrink back, Tyanna forced herself to calm down. “Apologies…” She covered her face in her hands. “I know you… you will love Maegor forever. Realizing it was hard for me, but your only path is to find a way for him to love you back… because I think he already does.”

Shaking her head, Rhaena sighed. “He doesn’t…”

“No one can not love you, Rhaena.” Tyanna caressed her cheek with her palm. “Find a way, and be happy. That’s all you need to do for me to be content with my lot.” Smiling once more, the Pentoshi bastard sat on her bed, hands on her lap. “Please… just go.” Without a word, biting her lip, Rhaena did as bidded - noticing the soft sobs through the door as she left.

Ones that broke her heart as much as Maegor’s words did.

Where was she to go if not where the dragons dwelled. Dreamfyre’s head perked up as soon as she arrived, only to whine in worry. ‘Muna, what’s wrong?’

“Do not ask, girl. Just come here.” Sitting, Rhaena let Dreamfyre place her head in her lap. It was large, but she managed to hug the snout, idly gliding her hands along the soft, warm scales. It always calmed her down, giving her peace. 

I love my uncle… Tyanna loves me… he can’t love me and can I love her?

Perhaps I could, but I cannot live without the man I love. She felt it… as close a bond to him as she had to Dreamfyre or him to Balerion. There was no avoiding it. The love felt as strong as the relationships of her grandparents… or her kepa and muna . What am I gonna do… what can I do…?

Rhaena didn’t know how long she had just sat there, stroking Dreamfyre’s snout, until a throat cleared behind her. “Rhaena?”

Swiveling around, she was greeted by her grandmother, concern in the Dowager Queen’s face. Seeing the caring expression and worried glint in her eyes that only those close to her knee Visenya Targaryen was capable of expressing, tears welled in Rhaena’s eyes as she let out her grief over everything. “Grandmother,” she sobbed out just as Visenya scooped her up in her arms, holding tight.

“Oh, sweetling,” she cooed. Her arms squeezed Rhaena, lips kissing her brow. “What is the matter?” She was just like her, responding to a stressor by racing to her dragon. She is both me and Rhae. Such was why Rhaena was Visenya’s favorite. “Please talk to me.”

“I did something bad, grandmother… something that I now have to face completely thanks to kepa.”

“What did my son do?” Aenys, so desperate to please everyone, sometimes was quite insensitive to the moment at hand.

Rhaena shook her head. “It wasn’t kepa … he has no idea. It’s uncle.”

Uncle? What could Maegor have done to truly cause Rhaena this much pain…

Visenya suddenly understood. ‘Perhaps he made a move,’ she could hear Vhagar tell her. ‘Oh yeah, he did. Dreamfyre’s telling me all the juicy secrets.’

Stop gossiping with her. She’s still sweet, don’t give her your bad habits. Vhagar’s snort of hot air from her nostrils was something Visenya ignored. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Lips pressed together, Rhaena hesitated… and then shook her head. “Just hold me.”

“Of course I will, grandaughter.” Sighing internally, Visenya let her rest her head on her shoulder. Oh, son. She didn’t blame either him or Ceryse for the miscarriages, but it was clear to her that Rhaena would’ve been a better match for him. Rhae… Egg… if you’re listening, can you pull some strings to save this?

She felt pretty powerless in the moment.

Another important patron… another bag of gold dropped into Sarai’s hands. No one cared about poor Jeyne Poore’s feelings as the bruiser acting as a guard for the brothel hustled her into the bedchamber and shut the door behind her. For a moment, Jeyne tensed in fear as she thought she was left on her own without a guard to make sure her maidenhead was intact - at least until she caught a glimpse of the patron.

“Good evening, my dear,” Barth said, his youthful visage curled into a rather warm, handsome smile.

No, he heralded a whole new sort of terror inside of her. “Good evening, your eminence,” she said, curtseying in her rather… provocative dress. It fell to her ankles, though that wasn’t worth a whole lot considering the slit rose to mid-thigh. The high neckline was similarly worthless with a large oval cut from the top of the chest down to her navel. 

She looked the part of a high-class courtesan. Probably why so many desired her and yet all were denied what they truly wanted. Saving me for someone special, I assume. Like a pig to the slaughter.

Unlike those that paid for her services, instead of pawing at her with teeth and tongue and fingers Bart merely patted the side of the bed, bidding her to sit. Which Jeyne did, keeping her hands folded on her lap. “You look well,” Barth commented, patting her knee exposed by the slit in the dress. Skin shuddering, Jeyne nevertheless allowed a smile on her face. “Fit and slender, yet with a healthy glow in your skin - and it is my understanding that your skills in pleasing a man have grown in your… activities at this house of ill repute.”

Jeyne’s smile more resembled a hyena than anything delightful… though the dimples on her cheeks likely dampened from the effect. “I have yet to perfect the proper skill of this trade. The guards here do a good job of keeping the men… and some women, oddly enough, of harming my maidenhead.”

“Tis’ a good thing, lest they incur my wrath.” Barth was normally quite soft-spoken, though his voice could grow hard when called for. Now it did, like ice.

“Presumably you wouldn’t do it yourself, Eminence?” She was playing with fire, but the bruises her father often inflicted on her was a herald of a very willful personality. 

But Barth only chuckled. “I am but a humble holy man… there are more unsavory sorts in my employ that carry out such functions. But alas, I didn’t seek you out to converse about me. Tell me of your exploits.”

“Here to give me absolution?”

“I can give that, but I’d give that anyway. However, we both know that you are no ordinary person in my employ - and are only that if you continue to be useful to me.”

This man… unfortunately the normally astute Jeyne Poore didn’t see Barth for what he was until long after she had taken up the habit of a septa and it was too late. He was a dashing, kindly young man with handsome features, but behind those friendly eyes was a snake. Someone absolutely ruthless and dangerous. One crossed him at their own peril, and Jeyne didn’t wish to cross him. She wouldn’t survive. “I cannot begin to tell you what these knights and Lords confess after they spill, especially after dipping into their cups.”

Barth smirked. “You’re only just now learning this?”

“You have been very… enlightening for me, eminence.” She shuffled her feet. “Lord Florent’s second son thinks his elder brother is a secret worshipper of the Red God.”

“Hmmmm… and he?”

“As devout as a man in a brothel looking for a woman to bugger him would be.”

A snort. “Those sorts of people tend to overcompensate… and be pliable. Good work, anything else?”

Jeyne took a deep breath. “There’s a knight in the service of House Hightower…” The man was nice, not treating her as a piece of meat as most did. She didn’t wish to betray him, but had no choice. “He’s seeking to move to the capitol and give his sword to House Targaryen.”

“We can’t have that, can we? Anything else?”

She thought and thought. The really chatty ones in her bed hadn’t said anything too juicy. “I’m not sure if this helps your cause, but Ser Morgan Hightower insists on having me in his bed.”

“Why?” Being a senior member of the Warrior’s Sons, Ser Morgan drew Barth’s interest. 

“Well… I seem to bear a certain resemblance to Princess Ceryse, his sister.” Jeyne shuddered. “He insists on calling me by his sister’s name while I… service his cock.”

For a moment Barth’s eyes widened in surprise before the mask appeared again. “You have done well, Lady Jeyne. Both learning and as my servant.” Silently, he pressed a hand to her scalp and absolved her of her sins before the Father. “The time will come when you depart, and when that time comes you will need someone to join you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your task would be easier if you weren’t alone and you had someone… less precious to handle any seductions that are beneath you. I’ll let you choose whom will accompany you, so make sure to choose wisely.”

His last words still weighed in on Jeyne as she headed towards the girls’ quarters in the rear of the brothel. Who was she to pick? It would need to be someone she could trust - everyone here would jump at the chance to leave, but who could be considered not to stab her in the back at the earliest opportunity for a bit of coin? The answer was very few.

Aside from Sarai - who afforded better accommodations as the madam of the establishment - the whores each slept in a cot crowded in one large chamber, one afforded almost no privacy, though such was better than many brothels from what Jeyne had heard. Bathing was communal, dining was communal, and sleeping was communal, the latter quite difficult many a time when one girl was sick or invited someone actually favored for… intimate company. Sometimes that involved another girl of the establishment, and they didn’t bother to keep quiet most times.

However as she walked in, Jeyne could only find her friend Floris Flowers. She was hunched over her cot, trembling slightly. Jeyne immediately knew something was wrong. “Floris?” Placing a hand on her shoulder, the bastard whore turned around to reveal a large black eye. Jeyne sighed. “Someone wanted it rough?”

Floris nodded. “Didn’t tell me he paid extra for it, thought someone would come in to stop him, but no one did.” Unlike the others, Floris was somewhat educated for smallfolk. Earned her a higher price. “Seems I’ve run out of concealing paste.”

“I think I have some,” Jeyne offered. Sure enough she did, and moved to apply it to her. 

Allowing her to, unlike others who would greedily accept such help Floris was modest. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“No, I believe I should. We have to stick together round here.” Jeyne smiled.

Floris chuckled nervously. “You’re obviously favored here… why not schmooze Sarai. Why me?”

Jeyne shrugged, taking in her blonde hair and willowy features. “I suppose you remind me of my best friend… the one before I came to Oldtown. I have a type, seems to me.”

“Yes, yes you do.” Suddenly, the vexing question Barth imposed on her wasn’t so vexing anymore.

If there was anything that Ceryse adored the most in terms of festivities, it was a wedding. There was only joy in them, especially when family was involved as it was that day. Her beloved cousin Donnel Hightower and his bride married by the High Septon himself in the Starry Sept. Her father insisted in a massive feast thrown in the Hightower, the finest foods that the Honeywine could produce strewn on tables for the pleasure of his guests. For the Princess, she vowed to enjoy herself and enjoy herself she did.

Reaching the place of honor at the long table, immediately Ceryse was greeted by the groom. “Dearest cousin, I was wondering if you had abandoned us in this merry time.”

Taking in her cousin Donnel’s mischievous glint in his eyes. Ceryse didn’t take such as an insult. “You couldn’t keep me away from your big day,” she chuckled, leaning in to kiss his cheeks. Of all their family, aside from her aunt Patrice it was the ever jolly Donnel that she favorited the most. And now the notorious womanizer was married. “Celia, you look lovely.”

Celia Arryn rose herself, curtseying. “Thank you, your Grace.” Sparkling blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair, she looked radiant - a true mountain beauty as the younger sister of Ser Hubert. Five years older than Donnel, Celia didn’t appear as such. “I do hope that we could visit the Citadel together. I’ve heard you are quite well-read.”

Ceryse grinned - oh, her good first impression on this one had been correct. “Aye, I would be glad to escort you there… though as a Hightower now you can head there whenever you wish.”

“The concern of getting lost in the massive place is a worry for me. Donnel says you’ve spent more time there than you have with your husband,” she giggled, making a jape.

While pleasant laughter followed from those nearest to them, the jape hit close to home for Ceryse. Perhaps she is correct… It wasn’t out of the question, especially if one considered her time here in Oldtown. No longer did she think too much of the miscarriage - Ceryse did remember it and the pain was still present, but it didn’t debilitate her anymore. And yet she still hadn’t left. Hadn’t returned to the husband she loved with all her heart and soul.

Seeing him and the Red Keep will only bring the pain to the forefront all over again. The realization she simply wasn’t strong enough just… with a sigh she politely nodded at her friends and family before quickly and inconspicuously slipping away. Desperate to head back to her quarters and play cyvasse with her niece or nephew if they were awake. If not, her maids…

“Princess.” 

She stopped, cursing under her breath. Caught. Forcing a smile on her face, she turned to see Septon Barth’s youthful smile directed to her. “Good evening, your eminence. I hope you are having a lovely time.”

Only a few years younger than her, Septon Barth was a rather famous prodigy. Everyone knew he was likely to be High Septon so either sucked up to him, gave him a wide berth, or treated him as a dangerous enemy… Ceryse was one that simply ignored him. She held the power to as a Targaryen Princess. “His holiness is certainly availing himself to your house’s food and spirits, so I must feel as he feels for the sake of the Faith.” Not an answer. “Or your former house rather, considering you are a Targaryen.”

Blinking, Ceryse was confused at the direction of the conversation. “I consider myself a Targaryen, aye. Though to be honest, I feel more at home in this place than at the Dragonpalace.”

Is that a fact? “That is always something that I’ve wondered, and the Citadel has never given me an answer. Does a woman truly pass into the embrace of their family by marriage in addition to passing under their protection? The marriage ceremony is clear on the second point, but the first point is a mystery.”

Raising her brow, Ceryse shrugged. This didn’t seem too problematic to discuss, as it arose a scholarly curiosity in her. “I like to think of myself as a Princess of House Targaryen.”

“Ah yes, House Targaryen. Truly a magnificent house in the objective scheme of things.” Leaning against the wall, he looked all his youthful years - it was disarming. “They are a fascinating group, the dragonriders, though small minds can only see jealousy or maddening zealotry to their view of them.”

Ceryse looked surprised. “Quite odd for you to say as one inducted under the sacred vestments of the Seven.”

“A closed mind is a mind unable to serve the Seven who are One. His holiness and the Seneschal of the Citadel taught me to always view facts objectively before applying my own wishes to them, and that includes the house of your husband.” He snorted, smirking. “The Valyrians are an intriguing people, considering their customs.”

Listening to Barth, Ceryse was starting to think the rumors associating Barth with deviousness may have been exaggerated. He seemed a charming young man and honorable servant of the Faith she had been raised to love and respect. “It is fascinating to live among the dragons.”

Barth nodded. “Fascinating beasts, aye. So hard to control by anyone, forcing the Valyrians to practice incest or polyamory in order to keep the blood pure.”

“Polyamory? Not familiar with such a term.”

“It’s one I’ve created based on what I know of our first King and his Queens. The dragonords… it seemed that there was an imbalance between men and women, the latter outnumbering the former - hence the men taking multiple wives. What I find intriguing is that in many of these cases according to the sources, the women enjoyed each other as much as they do the men.”

Ceryse stared, gaping slightly. “I believe you are japing with me, Septon Barth.”

He held up his hands. “Never, your Grace. I am completely serious… though the only actual sources I have concern the conquerors.” He smiled softly. “Most men would adore such an arrangement…  even with their sisters, aunts, or cousins.”

“Such is a sin to those of the Faith, Septon.” She knew her Seven-Pointed Star. 

“Cousins marrying is technically forbidden, but those do so. The First Men practiced such incestuous marriages as well, something the early Andals adopted.” He shrugged. “As I said, fascinating things.”

It was fascinating… something worth further study, to understand the culture of her husband better, for a lot of it was still a mystery to Ceryse. “And so why is there such a resistance to it?”

Barth’s smile widened. “Oh, your Grace, what sins carry the prospect of wielding the greatest power known to man? Those of us that engage in it merely obtain a fleeting lust, but they obtain the loyalty of the dragons. Temptation… great temptation.” He sighed. “Only we can hope that they all share the same sense of restraint as your goodbrother does.”

There was little that Ceryse could say to that.

“Are you sure, Rhae?”

With a sigh, the silver-haired Lady of Winterfell nodded as she sat upon the bed. Even after three births, her hips and rear were still slim enough to fail to jostle the bedding too much. “Aye, Bran. It’s my moonblood.”

Still half asleep, tangled in the furs provided them by the Black Brothers - nothing fancy but blissfully warm - Brandon grumbled. “So a morning coupling is out of the question, then?”

Rhaenys smacked his shoulder. “Lecher. Last night was enough for you for a while.” She couldn’t help but match his sleepy grin. Their… activities last night certainly must’ve woken most of Castle Black. 

When her grin slowly transformed to a frown, Brandon pushed himself into a sitting position and drew her in for a hug. Her wool nightdress mashing against his bare chest. “You were hoping for another babe?” While a question, it wasn’t really - Brandon knew the answer.

“Would that be such a bad thing, my love?” Gods, it was jarring sometimes how quickly this man had wormed his way into her heart. A political marriage, but one that blossomed into the most wonderful of love. Like her brother and Ceryse, only with providence instead of tragedy. “Our sweetlings are soon to come of age, two of them dragonriders and each bonding with a direwolf. Perhaps I wish to have another little girl to love and to hold and to fuss over.” Rhaenys hugged her chest, just as Brandon did.

The Lord of Winterfell kissed her neck, making Rhaenys sigh in contentment. “No, that sounds heavenly.”

“We’ve been making love like rutting wolves for the last few moons. Shouldn’t I be with child?”

“My dear dragon,” Brandon chuckled. “We’ve had three babes within three years of each other. You need not prove your fertility. House Stark has all the time in the world.”

Given the worries and threats popping up in the South as Aenys’ rule lost the luster of its initial pomp, Rhaenys was skeptical of that. But they were Starks, insulated and protected from the south by Moat Cailin and the swamps of the Neck. She worried far more of her brothers, nieces, and nephews rather than her own babes - especially since the threat of House Bolton seemed to be abating. “Mayhaps we do.” She leaned in and melded their lips together, feeling his hands start to roam about her belly and chest… “Whoa, easy there, my wolf.”

Brandon huffed. “You normally love when I play with my favorite peaks.”

She rolled her eyes but smirked. “You know they’re sensitive this time of the moon.” She rose, moving for her woolen battledress and cuirass with the Stark sigil stitched about the front. “I’ll make it up to you after I’m done, promise.”

“Will hold you to it.” Brandon turned in the bed to catch another hour of sleep. It wasn’t he that wished to catch in an hour of dragonriding just as the sun rose. Sleep with her husband was appealing, but given their need to advance north of the wall at any moment practice was perfect.

Even at this early hour the yard of Castle Black was busy. Not bustling, but busy as the stewards and builders went about their chores be they hauling water, cleaning weapons, maintaining the walls and so forth. All gave her a wide berth, bowing respectfully even as they stared at her in awe. Was it her Valyrian features? Or the fact such Valyrian features were born by a woman wearing the colors of House Stark. Both, Rhaenys suspected.

Arrax either nested atop the wall or right under its shadow in the corner of where the ice met the walls of Castle Black - to protect against the winds, he told Rhaenys one time the gales were especially bad. The last night was calm, so she sensed her mount at the top of the wall. “Damn.” The lift was at the top as well. “I need to ascend,” she called out to one of the builders… someone clearly in charge of the others. 

Bushy-bearded but otherwise mostly put together, he nodded and called over his men. “We’ll bring it down for you, your Grace.” They assembled at the large wheel and slowly turned it.

Rhaenys exhaled and sat upon a barrel, knowing she was going to need to wait some time for her trip up to be ready. Idly eyeing the courtyard as more and more people roused from their slumber to dart around it, she spotted someone she’d been meaning to talk to for a while. “Ralla! Lady Ralla!”

The gruff yet pretty wildling woman had been walking from the gate towards the grainery when she heard Rhaenys’ call. Eyes meeting the Princess’, she scowled as she walked over. “Only two people call me ‘Lady.’ You and your mad brother.”

“My muna taught me to be polite, even as I was to be fierce as she is.” Rhaenys gestured to her. “Your father is the chief of your clan, akin to a Lord south of the Wall. That makes you a Lady.”

Ralla snorted. “You’re just as crazy as your brother… but he grew on me so I suppose you’ll grow on me too.” Her gruff visage was softening. “What do you want?”

“Waiting out here like an idiot… so might as well have some company to talk.”

“What if yer’ talkin’ choice has tasks to do that can’t wait?”

“Well, do you?”

There was a silence as Ralla glowered. “Not at the moment, no. But I fuckin’ could.” 

Rhaenys laughed. “I knew I’d like you, so sit.”

He eyebrow rose. “Is that a command?”

“Your clan accepted the suzirenity of my family, so it could be… but I simply want to talk.” To Rhaenys’ relief, Ralla merely huffed and took a seat on the barrel next to Rhaenys. Folding her hands, Rhaenys found her curiosity that Maegor could never sate about these particular wildlings coming out. “I was certainly surprised that my brother managed to convince you to come south of the wall.”

“I don’t know why it would be hard? Us Free Folk’ve been tryin’ to do it since fuckin’ forever.”

Blinking, Rhaenys looked away. “Point taken.” Her brother’s notorious lover would be a tough nut to crack, though she seemed far more at ease here than the glimpses she’d caught in King’s Landing. “Reluctant to bend the knee, is what I meant, given that your usual tactic is to raid and pillage.”

“We just take what we need to survive. My clan doesn’t rape or slaughter for the fun of it,” Ralla insisted. “But yeah. Our clan leaders are selected among the strongest and smartest, not by blood like you cunt fools. Your brother, though… he can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”

“Tell that to those at court,” Rhaenys snickered.

“You southerners… prioritize - aye, that’s the right word - prioritize different things. Trust me, your brother had no issue convincing us to take him seriously. Now that he has a dragon like a legend of old, he never will again.” There was another pause. “Did you know he was my first?”

“First what?”

This caused Ralla to narrow her eyes at Rhaenys. “Really? Three babes and you don’t know what I fuckin’ mean?”

Rhaenys’ eyes widened, never having expected Ralla to be so open - she was sure she’d have to dance around the topic of her affair with Maegor. “Your first? Truly?”

“Oh please, I was his after all.” She smirked, as if proud of the fact. “Taught him all he knows, yet didn’t get even a thank you from his pretty lass from the city of cunts.”

“City of cunts, a… charming turn of phrase.” She didn’t like the Starry Sept either. While Queen Visenya had taught her to keep the Valyrian gods, these days Rhaenys had embraced the old gods of her husband and never regretted it. “Though I think her dislike stems from the fact that you’re…”

Another snort. “That I what? Fuck him while he’s married?” At Rhaenys’ nod, Ralla shrugged. “He broke it off with me when he married her and I was fine with that… then when he lost his babes he needed someone to comfort him without being reminded of that pain and I was fine with that. I love the idiot.” Before Rhsenys could reply she cut her off. “Not in the way you think, wantin’ to marry him and bear his babes, nah, someone else is gonna fuckin’ do that I feel. No, I love him in that I want to do whatever he needs of me. A lover, I’m his lover, a fighter here, I’m that… if he wants me to protect ‘im in the south, I’ll do that too… and his family, including you.”

Thinking for a moment, Rhaenys ultimately smiled. “I can tell you are loyal, so thank you for watching over him.”

Rising, Ralla leaned down to clasp Rhaenys on the shoulders - a bold move by a bold woman. “Let me give you the same bit of fuckin’ advice I gave your brother, Princess. You and that husband of yours are exactly alike.”

“What do you mean?” They definitely had common interests but Ralla’s statement was vague.

She didn’t keep Rhaenys in the dark too long. “Those ‘Northmen’ and you Targaryens are but weak versions of what you once were. Northmen used to be exactly like us and the Targs used to be among their kind, the ones who rode dragons and conquered the fuckin’ world.” Learning to read, she’d chosen the history of her people, the other First Men, and the people her lover belonged to. “Yer’ lost your way.”

“I resent…”

“Oh shut it, you know it’s true. All to mollify people that hate you. The Andal cunts aren’t gonna let you live your lives… it’s all or nothin’ with them. You conform or you die. That’s why we live north of the Wall. We all have our own customs and up there there’s no cunt tryin’ to get us to conform. First Men knew that and so did the Valyrians I’m told.”

Rhaenys had nothing to say to that, simply staring at Ralla.

The Free Folk spearwife pulled back and rolled her shoulders. “Think it over. He knew I’m right and so will you.” With that, Ralla departed just as the lift thunked at the wood of the platform, signaling Rhaenys’ ride up the Wall.

Feet thunking on the rickety planks, Lord Samwell Tarly of Hornhill passed his guards and got into the faces of the stone-faced prisoners. Ones he had taken alive as the band of horsemen escorting him from Starpike had been lucky enough to surprise as they attempted to sack, rape, and burn the fourth village under his suzerainty. Of the seven men captured, there were double that number left as meat for the buzzards. 

Those were the lucky ones.

Normally a jolly sort, when forced into battle Sam Tarly was a different man entirely. To his foes the man was a beast. To his bannermen the man was no less a beast, only the term was said in affection rather than hate or terror. Walking in front of the prisoners, he eyed them as they stood there with their hand tied behind their backs and nooses round their necks. Some trembled. Some glared at him with swarthy faces and hard eyes. Others simply stood silently.

Saying nothing, finally Sam drew his blade. A massive Valyrian steel greatsword, Heartsbane was infamous among the Dornish of the Marches. In its life it had slain thousands, and Sam would see thousands more slain by it if he had his way. “Alright!” he barked out, two of the more terrified prisoners flinching. “For the crime of rape, banditry, and murder, I have sentenced thee to death. You are not getting around that punishment.”

Many visibly gulped, whatever faint hope dying.

Sam grinned. “However, by the Mother the man who tells me who you are, how many else are out there, and what you know of your leader shall meet their end at my blade rather than by the knives of my butcher.” The aforementioned man, tall and beefy, grinned savagely as he showed off the various cutting knives in his arsenal. “Yout choice.”

It took about half a minute before one of them broke. “Please! Please mercy!” 

“You coward!” another yelled, starting to kick at the man since he was unable to lash out his hands. Though bound, he got in some good kicks before one of Sam’s men-at-arms bashed him in the stomach with the bottom of his halberd. 

“Cut him down and take him inside,” ordered the Lord in disgust - the sniveling coward may have been useful as he blubbered, being led away by two of his men, cowardice was still something he held in contempt. “As for the rest of you… I hope your dear Mother Rhoyne gives you the mercy that I won’t.” At his signal, the executioners let them drop. Throats constricted and wheezes left them. It was now that Sam left them to their fate, dangling there until just before death when they would be cut down, stretched at the rack, and then drawn and quartered.

So it was to those that brought war and brutality to his lands.

As the sun fell low in the sky, he left the interrogation chamber while wiping the blood off of Heartsbane. “So?” Sam looked up to see his sister Margaery, arms crossed. “What did the cunt say?”

Sighing, Sam motioned for her to walk with him - their father may have replied to her more… blunt quirks with a switch, but Sam didn’t care less. He actually appreciated it since he knew fuck all about running a household. Managing the lands, yes, but in that case he also appreciated her advice. “Seems to me that this is another band adhering to the Vulture King.”

“So he’s not just some bandit. That’s unfortunate.” Dornish bandits were a fact of life. Their older brother died at the hands of one. “Four villages sacked and burned, all important ones on the road to Highgarden and the capitol. Part of a strategy if you ask me.”’

“I’d do the same if I wanted to help a Dornish invasion.” Tapping Heartsbane’s surface, he seemed almost eager at the possibility. “Should I call the banners?”

Margaery looked at him with a raised brow. “I’m stunned you haven’t already.” Vivacious and pretty, her dismissive attitude and snark showed to most why the sister of the Lord of Hornhill hadn’t obtained a husband yet. Didn’t matter, since Sam was convinced she wasn’t a maiden anymore. “Harvest season over?”

“Harvest is commencing as we speak… we should pull it all within the keep.”

“As well as the Smallfolk… lest they have walled towns of their own.” Sam nodded, in agreement just as two loud roars filled the air. Margaery’s eyes lit up in excitement. “The dragons are here.”

“Thank the Seven.” The sooner the Targaryens could get into action the sooner this threat could be dealt with.

While he had hoped for the King - the entire Reach would’ve followed Aenys, First of his Name, to wherever he went. But the massive form of Balerion the Black Dread was the next best thing. Prince Maegor’s reputation preceded him, as did that of Princess Rhaena as the pale-blue coloring of Dreamfyre soared alongside him in the sky. Luckily, Hornhill’s courtyard was large enough to host the two massive dragons. 

Sam and Margaery both bent the knee as the armored form of Prince Maegor. “Your Grace, welcome to Hornhill.”

“Thank you,” replied the Prince, removing his helm. Sam heard Margaery’s breath hitch… apparently he was as handsome as reputation suggested. “I will need chambers prepared for my niece and I, then I need a briefing.”

“One I will attend, uncle.” Unlike him, Princess Rhaena was dressed in a simple black riding dress emblazoned with the Targaryen sigil.

“Did you only bring yourselves?” Margaery was not one to mince words, even though she did give the Prince her own version of mooney eyes. 

Rhaena didn’t like it one bit. “We have two hundred horse and a thousand foot proceeding behind us,” she growled. “Will that be sufficient.”

Sam could tell there was something going on with her, not one he wished to be a part of. “Let us show you to your chambers.” He eyed the dragons. “What do they eat?”

The Princess smirked. “Whatever they want.”

Thank the gods they are on our side.

Chapter Text

"You know, your Grace, sometimes I envy you."

Looking up from her gaze upon the lush gardens and beautiful fields of flowers that surrounded Hornhill, Rhaena looked again at her companion of the last few weeks. "How so, Lady Margaery?" Sure, being a Valyrian Princess was much to envy, but Margaery Tarly was objectively gorgeous in the same smokey dark look that Tyanna pulled off so gracefully.

Tyanna… Rhaena sighed inwardly. The beautiful friend of hers filled her thoughts. Her and…

Best not think of that. If thinking of Tyanna filled her with sorrow, the pain she felt at her Uncle's reaction to her was worse.

Unknowing of her specific worries, Lady Margaery nodded. "Aye. I've seen you fly off on your dragon alongside Prince Maegor many times. Wielding the sword of Queen Visenya, fighting the enemies of the Realm? Your family lets you do that?"

"I'd do it even if they didn't let me. A dragon is no slave," she smirked. "But I am encouraged to be strong and powerful. Just like my grandmother." Both of them.

"See, that's where I envy you. I'm a Tarly as much as my brother Sam and we are a warlike house, but I mustn't involve myself in anything of that nature." Sighing, the slim, vivacious young woman was quickly becoming yet another of Rhaena's favorites - ironic, the social animal that Rhaena had become built upon someone once so shy that she was oft scared of her own shadow. "Granted, I love feasts and bossing around the household, but do you know how much I simply want to pick up a sword and start swinging?"

Rhaena raised an eyebrow. "I know the feeling, as do my Stark cousins." She raised a brow. "You know how to swing a sword?"

Margaery shrugged. "A little. Tried to train sometimes, but my father was constantly watching me. When he died and Sam became Lord it got easier - he's always been kinda clueless where I'm concerned."

"Brothers, right?" Both of them laughed. "A woman should learn to fight if she wishes. If you would like I could show you a thing or to when I have time."

Her eyes widened. "Truly? I… I couldn't impose, your Grace."

Reaching out with her hand, Rhaena clasped her shoulder warmly. "Consider it payment for services rendered." The two girls smiled at each other, only for Rhaena to see someone walk towards them. "Uncle." Her voice lost all trace of warmth.

Turning, Margaery immediately fell to her knee. "Your Grace."

Maegor raised a brow. "Rise, Lady Margaery. I am not my brother the King… nor would he want you to near prostrate yourself before me." She rose, looking sheepish. Maegor had that effect on people, though apparently not Rhaena any longer. "May I speak with my niece?"

She nodded, curtseying. "Your Grace, I am at your service." Margaery passed by the handsome Prince. Gods, they should just fuck already. Maybe they'd be a little less tense all the time. Unlike what they may have told themselves, most with working eyes could notice it.

Both were ignorant however, so the subject wasn't breached by either. "Yes, uncle?" Rhaena asked, impatient. "You wished to speak with me? What of?"

Eyes narrowing slightly from her tone, Maegor let it go. "You did well in your recent solo patrols," he informed her. "Saved a village from being raided."

"Only doing my duty," Rhaena replied. "I am not weak."

"No, you are not." Seeing her turn to gaze out from the battlements, he did the same next to her. Unable to ignore how beautiful she looked. Feel the kiss from earlier on his lips. Gods, he was an awful person. "We need to talk about it."

"Talk about what?"

He sighed. "I know you know what I speak of. Our kiss…"

She shoved herself off the battlements. "You made it very clear what you felt, uncle. I see no need to discuss it." With that she stormed off, leaving them in the midst of war just as apart as they had been at the start of it.

"It's not polite to stare."

Unable to stop the giggle that escaped her lips, Tyanna smirked unabashedly from her perch on the rather large bed in Rhaena's chambers. Far too big for her alone - a perfect fit for the two of them. "Can you blame me?" Her eyes raked down on her love's body, the most beautiful body she had seen.

Normally the perfectly poised and mighty dragon Princess as her grandmother or aunt were, Rhaena turned away and blushed. "Why do you look at me like that?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're beautiful."

She looked back at Tyanna, wearing a matching if sheepish smile. "I've wished for one person to call me that for the longest time." Rhaena cupped her cheek. "I still do, but I find I like it coming from you."

Tyanna didn't hesitate to bring their lips together, eager to start the day off in the same manner they ended the last…

"Lady Tyanna, welcome." Even as he greeted the lady in waiting for the Dowager Queen, Brandon Snow refused to smile. Tyanna could've sworn she'd never see him wearing anything but a frown, even if it softened around his granddaughter and grandson the Mormont siblings. "What business does Queen Visenya have with me?"

Letting the door to the chamber of the Master of Whisperers close behind her, Tyanna turned and attempted to muster all of her womanly determination in spite of only being ten and seven. "She wishes to know what you've heard from your birds."

Brandon raised a brow. "Oh? If so she can ask me at the next meeting of the Small Council."

Undoubtedly she would, but Tyanna wasn't here for the Dowager Queen. "There are things you tell the council and there are things you keep to yourself until you can verify the information. She wishes to know that."

Snorting, Brandon turned to pour himself a mug of ale. Seeing a slip of paper - a filthy one at that - Tyanna quickly snatched the parchment and stuffed it in the folds of her dress before he turned back. "You are a crafty one, Lady Tyanna. Be one who came up with it herself or applied what the Queen told her I don't truly care, but I shall not divulge my secrets so easily."

Tyanna smiled. "If there is anything you can tell my Queen about plots against the Crown I would appreciate it. Her Grace is very worried."

"As am I, and if I need you then I will send for you. Good day." Tyanna merely walked out. She'd got what she came for.

Knocking quickly, there was a rustle of cloth before a firm "Enter" was heard. Tyanna did so and found her mistress the Queen Dowager seated on the bed, arms folded atop her lap. "Ah, Tyanna. I see from your face that you accomplished some of what we discussed."

Pursing her lips, she nodded - trying not to stare too much at Visenya. There were faint streaks down her cheeks, as if she'd been crying. Completely understandable, even if it had been years since she lost the King, her husband and brother. Mere weeks had passed since she and Rhaena split, since Tyanna lost the woman she loved with all her heart. If such were the pain she felt, the pain felt by Visenya was unimaginable.

"Brandon didn't say anything to me of his dealings," Tyanna instead noted, moving on.

Visenya nodded. "I expected that much. He's not someone easily manipulated, likely why he's so valuable. But… you did achieve something?"

"Aye." She held out the slip of paper. "Looks to be a meeting location for one of his little birds." If Tyanna couldn't serve Rhaena as a lover, then she'd serve her in other ways - perhaps the whispers of court would be her forte, herself the Mistress of Whisperers while Rhaena was Queen. Admirable, to which she needed to learn more from Visenya.

The Queen Dowager had her own agenda, one overlapping Rhaena's. "He's stepped up his spycraft. Lord Reyne focused on Dorne and the Free Cities, while Lord Snow seems more interested in internal enemies."

Tyanna blinked. "A rebellion?"

"Why not? Our reign is young, comparatively." Hands clasped together, Visenya moved to the hearth. "My mind may be aging as my body does, so perhaps you should begin my dear?"

Taking a deep breath, Tyanna cracked her knuckles and placed her palms over the flickering flames. Feeling their warmth. Show me your secrets, great pantheon. Before, the rituals were complex and required much in the way of sweet-smelling dreamwines or magical powders to coax a vision from the flames, but as Tyanna's skills honed… so too did her innate ability to call on the magical and divine.

Perhaps it was her Valyrian blood - perhaps her mother's blood. Perhaps both.

Finally, a flash of something came to be. A man, helmet with a crystal crest adorning it, enjoying himself as a female form attended to his needs. Then a jerking knife as it cut through an unarmed man's stomach… then nothing, the gods forcing Tyanna out. "I… I saw an assassination."

Visenya stared at her. "Of who?"

"I don't know, but someone of the Warrior's Sons was involved. I saw the helm." Tyanna thought for the moment. "I think Lord Snow's source may be a whore. This knight's whore." Only a knight of the Stars and Swords wore a crystal-crested helm.

"Then you will need to meet this person." Sensing Tyanna's worry, Visenya placed a hand on her shoulder. "There can be no one else that I can trust as much as you. That Rhaena can trust."

A blush adorned her cheeks as the Queen's words registered. "You know about that?"

"I know enough, and complain I cannot." She cupped the young girl's cheek. "Now go see to it. We have little time."

Cloak draped over her head, Tyanna snuck out of the Palace just before twilight. Without any distinguishing features that set her apart from any other smallfolk, she blended right in with the crowd of servants and petitioners that hurried out of the dominion of the King and Queen. Watched over by the protective screen of the guardsmen - many of whom were the betrotheds or lovers of the female maids - they headed to their houses in the more decent parts of the burgeoning city with plenty of silver stags jingling in their pockets.

King Aenys was very generous to his servants, just as Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya had to their parents and grandparents before them.

But at the newly paved streets leading to the domains of the artisans and craftsmen - the Street of Steel as it was being called recently - instead of following the crowd and their bodyguards, Tyanna turned northward. Away from the confident foot traffic towards someplace else in the city. One where a rather unpleasant smell began to waft into her nostrils.

Gods help me.

Not always the acknowledged bastard daughter of one of the Pentoshi magistrars, once Tyanna had lived with her mother in poverty. A beauty from what she was told was the most wondrous of lands, the slums of Pentos weren't the safest place to live, hence why she swallowed her pride to effectively sell herself into slavery so Tyanna could grow up in the palace. Her mother had died there, but allowed Tyanna to meet Queen Visenya and escape.

And here she was, trudging through the slums of King's Landing. Not as decrepit and generationally filthy as the more ancient cities of Essos or the Andal settlements such as Oldtown, what the locals derisively called 'Flea Bottom' was better than most. The houses weren't falling apart from age, and the denizens weren't useless poor but the menial laborers and odd-peddlers that made up any growing city. The smell was rancid but not ingrained there yet.

In Tyanna's experience it would be though. Sooner than later. Perhaps when Rhaena became Queen she could use her influence to draw construction work for an aqueduct to serve the slums of the city. Such had helped much in Pentos.

Rhaena would be a wonderful Queen. The image of her dressed much in the same way as Queen Visenya, Dark Sister at her hip and a crown atop her silver curls… Tyanna shook her head. She wouldn't torture herself, merely treasure the memories.

The reek of rancid meat followed by a feminine scream in the distance made Tyanna hide her head deeper beneath her hood.

Eventually, she reached the distinctive storefront, walls covered with creeping vines. Sneaking into the alley by the side, Tyanna waited for her contact to arrive. It was not easy, her nerves trembling as salty looking individuals passed by, eyeing her with… was that lecherous lust. Perhaps this was a bad idea…

"Do I seek the greetin' of the snow wolf?"

Tyanna looked down to see a slight figure looking up at her, one belonging to a starving girl in rags. At once she felt relieved and sorrowful at the same time. "Aye, it is."

The girl was trembling. "Aight…"

Offering a tiny roll of bread from her cloak, Tyanna handed it to the little bird as Brandon was known to do. The girl snatched it, immediately stuffing it into a pouch somewhere. "Do you have whispers for me?"

"Um… yes, mi'Lady…" Suddenly tensing, the girl ran away.

Before Tyanna could react she felt a sharp pain against her side. "Get down, cunt!" someone bellowed. Falling to the ground, Tyanna quickly rolled to her front to see a pair of thuggish-looking men. Neither were armed, but they hefted their fists like clubs. Her cowl had fallen back, revealing Tyanna's beautiful face in the moon and torchlight. Both men were surprised… then quite delighted. "Well… 'da Sev'n bless us t'die."

The terror that Tyanna had heard Rhaena scream sometimes in the night was what she felt in this moment. "Please… let me go…"

"Saw ye' 'ive dat girl bread. Got coin?"

Trembling, Tyanna reached into her cloak and drew out a little bag of silver stags. "Here, take it."

Grabbing the bag in his meaty hands, the lead thug grinned lecherously and went for the ties to his trousers. "Not 'ust dat I's want."

She didn't know where the sudden fire came from, but one moment she was shaking in terror on the ground and the next found the man crumpling to the ground, a foot slamming into his crotch. He curled into a ball, moaning in pain. "You bitch!" yelled the other, reaching out to get her but with a dexterity only before seen in the bedchamber, Tyanna leapt to her feet and she was running as fast as her legs took her. Hearing yelling behind her, Tyanna ignored it all. Following the moon resting high over the dragonpalace until…

"Whoa, slow down." She nearly ran into a guard, his black Targaryen armor visible to her. "Lady Tyanna?"

Someone who recognized her, it seemed. "Get me back to the palace, please." Luck was on her side that night, at least in a certain manner.

By the gods, Tyanna swore that it would never happen again. Her resolve only strengthened as the palace grew larger before her. For Rhaena - I will surpass Brandon Snow. The future Queen deserved it.

Watching the wooden gate swing open, Lord Samwell Tarly ducked his head as to pass underneath the beam. "Easy, easy…" he murmured, pulling back on the reins of his steed. The horse was well-trained and bred, so it stopped easily.

He swung out, plopping on the dark ground in the twilight hours. "Sam, welcome." He turned to see Lord Robert Peake - just as young as he - striding up to him. "Can't say I'm not sorry to see ya', but what're you doing here?"

"You sent a raven that the Vultures are close to here."

"Aye, I did. But why you and not some knight?"

Sam snorted. "And be a cowardly cunt? No chance in the seven hells." The small outpost was wooden, hastily constructed next to the large village after many others were raped and burned by the likely Dornish raiders. Peake's raven had reached Hornhill just as another two were found burned to the ground, and the Targaryens grew angry. Sam wanted to kill off the fuckers as much as anyone, but pissing off the royals was not something he wanted. "Where do you think they are?"

"They'll attack, Sam, don't worry about that. But where they are now? Probably somewhere in the forests and hills, watching us."

"Good, good… maybe my presence here will draw them out."

"Careful what you wish for, Sam. How's about you get some sleep and we'll plan this out in the morning."

Grunting, he nevertheless felt tired. "Fine. Ser Harwyn and I can share quarters if you're hard pressed." He gestured to his knightly companion, Sam's closest friend. "At daybreak then." Peake nodded.

Turned out, when Sam was shaken awake it was still dark outside… not that the frantic noises from outside cared. "Mi'Lord!" Harwyn shook his shoulder. "Get up! We're under attack."

That pushed away any lingering fatigue. "What?!"

"Some sentry saw suspicious persons, and they ended up Dornish. They're trying to scale the walls." Sam wasted no time, donning a cuirass over his sleeping tunic and trousers and rushing into the fight - not after drawing Heartsbane from its sheath, of course.

Men were rushing about, arrows raining from the outside as Paeke's archers and crossbowmen responded in kind. The counterskirmishing was slacking as the men on the battlements were being pressed by the scaling attackers.

Sam charged there, racing up the wooden steps and immediately running Heartsbane through the heart of one of them. The Vulture was dressed in the outfit of a light Dornish raider, though without any house sigil distinguishing him. That didn't save him from being pitched off the lip of the battlements, slamming into another two raiders. With them all falling to the ground Sam shoved the ladder down. Another ladder produced two other raiders, both wielding scimitars that slashed at Sam. He parried, punching one in the nose while the other received a slash across the chest. Ser Hawyn, not on Sam's heels, decapitated the other. "Kill them all! Defend your keep!"

With their Lord fighting alongside them - Heartsbane growing slick with blood - the men holding the keep managed to hold the battlements in the darkness. Twice more came the attackers, and twice more it held although casualties grew heavy.

"We won't hold," Lord Peake told Sam as dawn broke.

"Did you send the raven?" Sam asked.

"Aye… gods let the Targaryens get here soon."

"Mi'Lord! Movement!" Ser Harwyn raised his crossbow.

Swiveling his Myrish spyglass to where the noise came from, Sam raised his fist. "Halt, that's a flag of truce. No one attack." He cupped his hand around his mouth. "Hold fast, men! Flag of truce!"

"I hope you don't go down there, Samwell," Lord Peake remarked. "You know how well the Dornish respect flags of truce."

"You think I'm that much an idiot?" Sam rolled his eyes. "He'll speak before the walls of this stockade under the sights of our crossbows in case those cunts try something." Out of the cover of a dozen thatch houses and many bales of hay stepped a Dornish soldier. He was swaddled in a filthy tunic and trousers, head wrapped in a faded mustard-yellow scarf. A scimitar was sheathed at his hip. "That's far enough!" Samwell yelled. "State your piece!"

He paused, white flag of truce raised high as if it gave him protection - Sam would honor it as long as they did. "Let us not keep this going any longer, Lord Tarly," he announced. The voice was rather educated. This was a highborn. "We can come to an arrangement."

"Go on." The Lord of Hornhill had no intention of doing so but perhaps he could buy them time for the dragons to show up. "You have terms?"

"Aye. Surrender your arms and you will be spared."

"And my men?"

"They will be released after a short stay as our hostages, alongside any smallfolk hiding within the stockade."

Feeling a hand tap his shoulder, Sam turned to see Lord Peake. "They'll rape all the women and sell the rest to the Volantine slaversm" he said gravely.

"Yes, I know that," Sam harshly whispered back. "And if I refuse?"

The Dornish highborn didn't speak for what seemed to be the longest time… when he did, his voice changed from conciliatory to the enraged hiss of a viper primed to strike. "Then we will storm the keep and rip your weapons from your limp hands."

Sam snorted. "Come and get them then. Loose!" The crossbow released it's bolt with a loud thwack. It impacted into the man's shoulder, releasing a spurt of crimson blood and causing him to pitch back. Soon, the screams began.

"They're not going to take this well."

Watching two filthier Dornish fighters draw the wounded, thrashing highborn back, Sam chuckled. "No, I suppose not."

"We'll be dead by nightfall if they keep this up."

"Won't need to get there." Sam heard an all-pervasive, eerie quiet descend upon the little village. "Just need to stay alive till the dragons get here."

Lord Peake didn't have the chance to speak again, the sounds of dozens of archers nocking and loosing their arrows filling the din as the battle started up again.

Once again brushing the hair from her eyes, Rhaena cursed the sudden nature of the Vultures. Woken up from her sleep - alone in her bed without the companionship she so desired from the man she both loved and loathed - the raven from the outpost occupied by Lord Tarly and Lord Peake had been written in the most frantic of words.

Her uncle had been scouting elsewhere, so it was Rhaena on deck. So concerned was she over her armor and Dreamfyre, seemed that she didn't have time to braid her hair beside a sloppy bun.

Welcome to war, Rhaena. Visenya's blood in her veins, she had no qualms about it.

The village, illuminated in the soft light of dawn, looked sleepy in the way most countryside smallfolk settlements did. Picturesque from the air or a distance, if dirty and run down for the most part once one got close. Nothing seemed to be amiss until Rhaena guided her mount to pass overhead at a height of about thirty feet. Arrows streaked up, some bouncing off her scales but others embedding themselves. Dreamfyre, too young to be truly immune to small arms, roared in irritation at the pinpricks.

Feeling her child's anger through their bond, Rhaena's eyes darkened. "Turn, girl!" She held firmly to the spines as Dreamfyre did so, turning tightly with a beat of her mighty wings. The arrows came from one building in particular, the one home with two storeys that was likely some kind of grainery. Knowing that the Reachmen probably removed all food stores to the stockade, Rhaena felt no qualms with giving the command she did. "Dracarys!"

Dreamfyre was not the size of Balerion, or Vhagar, or even Arrax, but her tongue of flame was powerful nonetheless. The wooden walls and thatch roof didn't cave in but the steady stream of dragonfire quickly left the entire structure burning. She could hear the screams of men inside, a stream of Vulture fighters fleeing through the open doors, some merely stained with soot while others were awash in fire.

Crossbow bolts from the battlements fell all of them where they stood.

Flying over the village, no further futile assaults upon her or Dreamfyre emerged from the captured dwellings, ones Rhaena refused to set alight due to the prospect of innocents within. "Land girl, in the courtyard."

'You sure that's wise, muna? Shouldn't we wait for your love?'

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you know?"

'I know everything.'

Rolling her eyes, Rhaena wanted to respond but now wasn't the time. "Just land."

'Kessa, muna.'

Flapping hard and frantically, Dreamfyre practically dropped in the small courtyard with a thud. Arrows sailed over the walls, but the Tarly and Peake bannermen on the battlements were quick with counterattacking. The barrage of bolts and arrows quieted the Dornish again long enough for Rhaena to drop from Dreamfyre's back. "Who's in charge?!" she called out.

"Your Grace." A young man, helm shrouding his hair but the face she could glimpse being quite handsome, trotted to her. His eyes widened momentarily - appreciative - before professionalism overtook him again. "I'm Lord Alyn Peake. Lord Tarly is holding the battlements at the moment."

She nodded. "How's the situation?"

He shrugged. "We're holding, but they've got more. A steady stream from the forested hills." Lord Peake ran a hand down his face, wiping away sweat and grime. "So many of them, but we're giving as good as we got." He seemed proud of that. "But we're getting low on projectiles."

Rhaena grinned faintly. "Then call me a guardian angel." She gestured to Dreamfyre's saddlebag. "Brought a whole half-dozen casks of arrows and javelins. My uncle thought you might need them."

Lord Peake lit up. "Your uncle's fuckin' smart… pardon me, your Grace." He called over a group of men. "Get the arrows down and spread them among the battlements, and be quick about it cunts!" They complied, wary of Dreamfyre but Rhaena gave a silent command for her to be calm.

Her mind thought about what Peake had said. "Their line of supply… where is it?"

Turning back to her, Lord Peake pointed to the hills to the north. "Over there, hidden in the trees. We captured a prisoner on their second attack that told us… took a bit of time to get it out of him."

Ignoring the euphemism for torturing information out of a prisoner, Rhaena made a decisive decision in the moment. "Once Dreamfyre is unloaded, I'm going there."

"You sure, your Grace? Isn't Prince Maegor showing up?"

A part of her worried… that she'd feel safer with him there. Always safer with him there, nevermind their current spat and tortured feelings. But Rhaena shook her head. I am the blood of the great Visenya. I shall not be afraid. "Even Balerion will need them softened up, and you need any sort of relief, it seems."

He nodded. "As you wish, your Grace." Eyeing Dreamfyre, the sleek, fierce dragon radiating power, he was calmed. "The songs will proclaim your strength and bravery."

She smiled at that. "Let's get through this first, Lord Peake."

The Reachmen were professionals. In less than five minutes the barrels and sacks of projectiles were unloaded and Rhaena was back in the air. Sun higher in the sky, she shielded her eyes as she gazed upon the northern hills. They were gentle and rolling, but sheathed in thick groves of trees. Oaks and maple and the odd conifer tree more common in the wet Rainwood of the Stormlands. It seemed almost a shame that she would have to scythe through the land with her dragon, but it wasn't the Targaryens that made this a war zone.

Peering down, she could make out shapes darting through the trees. Not sure if they were fauna or just fleeing smallfolk, when a group of about three men - two carrying arms and one with a sack filled with supplies - booked it for the village, Rhaena knew that those shapes were the vultures. She grinned draconically. "Dracarys, girl!" Soon, the flames began streaking through the forest, starting with the unlucky band of militants that had just noticed her and began to scatter.

Suddenly, Dreamfyre lurched in the air. She shrieked as Rhaena nearly pitched off, carried by the momentum that was suddenly stopped by something gripping to the dragon.

Her eyes shifting around, as the wingbeats tried not to clip the tops of the trees a flurry of ropes tipped with grappling hooks sail upward. Some missing, while others took hold of Dreamfyre's scales. The beast shrieked and roared, but thick ropes and chains tied to the trunks of the largest trees slowly were bringing her down.

Rhaena's heart beat in her chest, reaching for Dark Sister tied to her waist if need be. Uncle… Her thoughts were all of him, just as she had been when Lyonel Lorch tried to rape her, even defenseless she was no longer. Help me...

Acrid black smoke wreathed the hills around the settlement. Teeming with Vultures, Balerion swept above it with his massive wingbeats, causing trees to sway and shake as the Black Dread Reborn banked overhead. Maegor scoffed as arrows sailed above, most missing while others bounced harmlessly off his thick scales. Coiffed silver hair fluttering in the wind, his black armor and red tunic underneath brought a demonic terror among the now fleeing Dornish among the trees.

Not allowing them a chance to escape, the order came quickly from his lips. "Dracarys!"

Opening his maw in a massive roar, Balerion let loose a jet of orange-red dragonfire into the copse of trees wreathing the gently sloping hills, incinerating them in an instant. Maegor could hear dozens of men roasting alive with ear-curdling screams. He didn't enjoy it but it had to be done.

In the distance though, a screech quickly drew their attention. 'Kepa… that's Dreamfyre.'

Hearing Balerion, Maegor's eyes widened as he saw tongues of flame wildly shooting into the air about a mile off. "Rhaena!" Fly! Faster faster faster!

The scene was one that filled the Prince's mind with the greatest terror. Dreamfyre writhed about in frantic abandon, trying to escape what had to be dozens of grappling hooks trying to pull her down. Crossbowmen and archers pelted her, while the figure on her back struggled to keep in cover among the spines.

His eyes went red. "Dracarys!" Balerion didn't hesitate, bathing Dreamfyre's wing and a score of Dornish warriors in dragonfire. It wasn't much of a contest, the smaller dragon finally breaking loose and unleashing her own assault upon her attackers. Soves! Soves! Roaring at the massive patriarch of the dragon creche, Dreamfyre ascended right after Balerion up to safety just as a line of Tarly cavalry began thundering into the woods.

That was a terrifying minute for Maegor, but even as the two dragons landed at the keep. Dreamfyre was small enough to land again in the grounds, while Balerion had to land outside and race inside. 'Go protect our niece, valonqar.'

"Gods, Rhaena!" Maegor bellowed, in the heat of the moment uncaring of who among the Reachmen could hear the royals. "How could you be so stupidly brave?! We were winning the fight but you had to go in recklessly?!"

Feeling her own dragonfire emerge, in spite of her knowledge that he was largely right Rhaena stood her ground. "They knew we would come and planned for this, uncle! This wasn't some chance thing!"

He was exasperated, literally shaking with fear. Just like his niece, it manifested in rage. "Some chance thing it may have been, but you were flying too low on a still youthful dragon! My muna died on a much safer attack run!" The mention of his muna Rhaenys, someone he had never known due to the same people that tried to capture Rhaena, it staggered him as soon as he realized what he said.

Seething, Rhaena opened her mouth… only to realize it a moment behind him. All words of ire died on her tongue. This wasn't some theoretical issue or baseless fear.

The grandmother she would never get to meet had died much the same way.

"I had you, uncle…" she finally breathed out. "I knew you wouldn't let them take me."

Arms reaching out, he held her at the waist. An intimate gesture straddling the line of familial and… something more. "You cannot always be sure of that."

She trembled at the contact, everything a surreal fog as the heat of battle dissipated. "I can. After everything… I still trust you with my life." And just like that the fiery flame of battle was replaced by another heat, one more a gentle simmer but no less hot.

"Your Grace." They were both shaken from their reverie to see Lord Peake approaching. "Is the Princess alright? Should I fetch a Maester?" He seemed, extra attentive, as if interested in Rhaena without saying as much - and having the sense to know when to flirt and when not to, a sense many lacked.

Maegor had to resist wanting to gouge out his eyes even then. "She's fine," he growled. "I'll see her to a bed. She just needs sleep."

Lord Peake had a good survival sense. "Of course, your Grace."

Watching the Lord depart, Rhaena made to speak but was stopped by the outwardly calm expression but dark violet eyes. "Come with me." She merrily nodded, complying only a half step behind him - the two silent yet almost touching as they proceeded towards the obvious sleeping quarters.

Occasionally, their hands would brush. For Maegor, it was something unfamiliar for the longest of times… a feeling he wanted more of than even air.

As soon as the door shut behind them, whatever calm between Maegor and Rhaena evaporated as they launched themselves into each other's arms. Mouths slanted together in a heated, sloppy kiss. Maegor pulled her tight against his armor, a gesture Rhaena completed by melding her body flush against his. Grinding her now needy hips against his leg.

It was simply unavoidable.

There was no stopping them.

Chapter Text

Tongues deep in each other's mouths, Maegor kept enough sense for the both of them in checking the door. Blindly, one hand reaching to drop the latch securely. He sighed into her mouth, much more relieved. "We need to… be quiet…" he murmured, barely audible as his niece was doing her best to devour him whole.

His niece… fuck…

The most beautiful woman in the world. What his kepa undoubtedly thought looking at both of his sisters. The fleeting guilt was just that - fleeting - as Maegor simply lost himself in this.

"Alright, just get this fucking off," Rhaena demanded, desperately trying to loosen the straps on his armor. Her blood was up from the battle and their fight, mind a mush of confused emotions and certain desires. Kessa… Her dreams were playing out before her. Unfortunately, they both had to come up for air. Breaths hard, she stared at her gorgeous uncle with a lustful and possessive gaze. "You're beautiful…"

Maegor snorted. "No, you are."

She wanted to snark back, but her heart did a little catch. He thinks I'm beautiful… A roll of the hips proved his statement, Rhaena feeling all of him. It drove her wild. "All of it, off. Now."

Eyes going black at the lustful, possessive commands, Maegor knew in that moment he would do whatever she wanted. Growling, instead of complying he tore at her own armor and garments. Rhaena gasped, the offending steel, mail, and fabric slithering to the floor. Those gasps turned to lustful moans quickly. Maegor went immediately to his own straps. Piece by piece his armor, leathers, tunic, and belt dropped to the floor.

Smallclothes were all that remained. In an instant, not even that.

By Tessarion, he's breathtaking. From his hungry stare, Rhaena could see no complaints from her uncle. It made her blush without thinking of it. Rhaena sat on the bed, looking up at him with awe and love. Yes, endless love. Please… take me. I love you, Maegor...

She didn't need to wait long. Their lips met in a clash of furious passion as Maegor climbed over her… yet he pulled back. Rhaena didn't have time to grow ire since his mouth began placing wet kisses and nips along her neck… then her breasts, making her moan. "Kessa…"

"Gods be good…" They were round and perfect - large on her frame but not out of place with light pink nipples capping them. Maegor caressed them as his tongue lashed at the tips, drawing the most wondrous sounds from her.

They reminded him of Ceryse's rapture at his touch, yet Rhaena was not her. She was unique, and every little difference Maegor absolutely cherished.

This woman tugged at his soul the way no other could.

Utterly enjoying the lavishing of her breasts, Rhaena didn't notice Maegor between her legs till hot breath teased her cunt. Enough experience with Tyanna knew what was coming next. "Devour me, your Princess demands it."

Smirking, Maegor obliged without a hint of further teasing. Just swiping up the wet slit, then plunging deep inside.

Her eyes rolled back as he feasted on her wildly, fingers weaving into his silver locks. Tyanna had given her the greatest pleasure, but she was more dextrous. Lips softer and tongue more intimate. Her uncle, he dove on her like a dragon - plundering her cunt and channel with the hunger of Balerion. His stubble pricked her smooth thighs… and oh gods, she adored it.

She slowly rolled her hips over his face and he never let up. I cannot give him up… he's a priceless treasure. Born to fight, born to govern, and born to fuck like an animal the perfect Targaryen Prince in her eyes… All thoughts died as he lashed at her clit. "Kessa! KESSA!" Rhaena's whole body shook as she embarrassingly fell over the edge before he could even start.

Maegor pulled back as the last eruption of juice coated his lips. He licked it off, chuckling. "You taste good, niece. Delectable." He licked his lips again, this time for effect.

Rhaena blushed madly, suddenly a bit shy. "Maegor…"

He blinked. "Say my name again."

She met his gaze. "Maegor."

"I like my name on your lips." She usually called him 'uncle,' but this seemed more intimate. A closeness that he used to cherish with Ceryse but was harder to come by. Maegor missed it. An unavoidable question came to mind. "Do we… do you…?"

Understanding, she nodded her head vigorously. "Yes."

Eyes widening, Maegor slowly climbed on top of her. A bulky bear of a man ever so delicate with the strong yet slight flower below him. He stilled as their faces met - eyes searching out her own. "Rhaena…"

Patience running thin, Rhaena was not keen on losing this opportunity. "I'm ready, uncle."

"It'll hurt." Worry was written in his expression. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't." She looped her arms round his neck, leaning up to gently kiss him. "I've been waiting for this for three years, Maegor." She took his thick length and brought it to her opening, as if she had done this before. "Please don't make me wait... ñuha jorrāelagon."

Hearing the words of everlasting love on her lips, all hesitance left Maegor. Already lined up, he gently pushed the tip inside her. Drinking her silent gasp and widened eyes like a man dying of thirst. Kissing her, he gingerly pushed and met resistance. Another push and he broke the little flap of skin - entering her channel.

It was only a little prick of pain, one that discomforted Rhaena for but a second… until the pinprick transformed into burning need. She had felt this before, her fingers spearing into Tyanna as she writhed below her, and now Rhaena felt those same sensations on her end. Reluctance faded to passion, desperately writhing as her hips bucked wildly. Frantically kissing him, Rhaena clawed at his back. "Oh, my love," she moaned, voice pleading. "Please… more… I need it." The moan turned into a scream as he thrust stones-deep inside her. "Oh yes… harder…"

It was so good she dissolved into High Valyrian.

Whatever restraint was left simply dissolved in an instant. Maegor's inner dragon roared, urging him to simply rut. Take this woman with all his might and make her his. Rhaena as mine… mine… Mine!

He understood his kepa all the more now. Maegor loved hard before, but with another dragon… pure magic.

Wrapping his arms under and above her shoulders, the Prince redoubled his thrusts. Piercing her again and again with all the force he could muster. Trying undoubtedly to fuck her into the bed, and from her filthy moans Rhaena loved it. Begging him for more as she panted against his ear.

"Fuck… Maegor… Harder! Give me that dragon cock!" Nothing could have prepared her for this. No lesson or session with Tyanna, equally rapturous as that was. His cock rubbed against every sensitive spot she never knew she had, making her roll against him and claw at him in a frenzy. "More… more… more… Gods! I can take it! Fuck!" Wrapping her legs tight around him, Rhaena needed it as her body betrayed her. Collapsing into a torrent of the purest pleasure that rocked her very system to the core.

He was not far behind, grunting. Spilling his seed deep into her womb.

Soon though, the aftershocks began to dissipate into a sensitive warmth. Breathing slackening to something quiet and serene. Rhaena found the silence as one would the moments before an executioner's blade fell upon one's neck. Waiting for the moment where her uncle - her married uncle - would reject her and send her packing from the bed just as he had after their first kiss…

Only for a slight shift from her to make him hold her tighter to him. The warm kiss pressed upon her forehead felt like a divine touch. "Don't go," he murmured.

Rhaena looked up at him, heart soaring. "I… I thought you would want me to."

He smiled sadly at her, reaching out to fix a strand of hair that wafted over your forehead. "I deserve that, don't I?" She couldn't respond, leading him to continue. "Weeks have gone by with my hope you'd listen to my apologies for that.. I suppose it was simply cause I couldn't face the truth with myself."

"What truth?" There was expectance, yet hesitance in Rhaena's voice.

Pausing, Maegor carefully thought. All his life he had been taught to control his emotions, to never give anything away. Brandon Snow, Gawen Corbray, his muna and kepa… seven hells, even Ralla were very taciturn, and yet… Each loved hard and fierce. Passionately in spite of their self-control. Why should he be different from them?

Maegor could almost hear his muna… or even the echoes in his dreams he was sure was his muna Rhaenys scream at him to just let go. To voice his feelings lest he lose someone more vital than any form of pride or false modesty.

He pledged to heed those voices. "That I love you, Rhaena."

Rhaena's eyes widened to the point of saucers, completely shocked. "You… you love me?" A warmth spread through her belly as the seconds ticked by.

Cupping her cheek, Maegor smiled softly. "Damn me to the seven hells, but I do."

Tears filled her eyes. It was everything she had dreamed for the last three years. "I love you too…" Unable to help herself, Rhaena launched up at him. Arms wrapping tightly around his neck and kissing all over his face. Unable to stop lest this be discovered as a nightmare. "Uncle, I love you. If that is something that…" she sniffled. "That merits condemnation on me, I don't fucking care."

"You sound like my muna," Maegor chuckled dryly. "A compliment, trust me."

"Of course a compliment. I wouldn't think any woman better for me to be more than grandmother." Smiling serenely, she snuggled against his chest. Was this what she wanted? No. I could never have wanted something this blissful. Her experience with Maegor, no dream or desire could compare to how good it was. "You're the one."

It was murmured, but Maegor heard it. "One what?"

She looked up at him. "The one man for me. The only man I've ever had or ever want."

While Maegor was smart enough to likely know this, hearing Rhaena confess it to him was heady for the Prince. "I took your maidenhead." He sighed. "You did deserve that to be your husband."

Rhaena snorted. "Firstly, it wasn't my first sexual experience so don't give me that modest shit. Secondly, it was my choice to sleep with you, uncle. I love you, loved you ever since I was a girl and you gave me Dreamfyre, so it was my choice." She kissed his neck. "I don't care if you're married or my uncle. I love you all the same."

Leaning back into the pillow, Maegor asked the forgiveness from… he didn't even know anymore. "I don't deserve your selfless love, but I cannot reject it." He cupped her cheek. "I do not regret you at all, never think that."

She anticipated his argument. "You worry for Aunt Ceryse."

"And you don't?"

Sighing, Rhaena rested her head against his chest again. "She was always a good person, and I hate that she's in pain from all of this."

"I don't blame her for our babes, you must know that," he insisted. "Please don't blame her."

"Gods, I don't." Looking at it as she grew… from discussions with Tyanna, Rhaena viewed it with suspicion but wouldn't voice that. "She is a good woman, but I am not letting you go, my love." Unable to help herself, she kissed him. Rhaena swooned as he kissed her back. Bed barely made for one - a much smaller man than her tall, strapping uncle. "You're mine, my love."

"Aye, I suppose I am," he said through her kisses. Small as the bed was, they rolled in it, laughing together in a carefree joy that came with being perfectly attuned lovers. It was refreshing and wonderful, especially for the Prince given all his pain and anguish. Stoically he wore it and faced it, but hurt all the same.

As their giggles subsided, Rhaena laid underneath him as he cupped her cheek. When Maegor started to smirk, her brow rose. "What?"

"First sexual experience not me?" His smirk widened. "Is there a lucky lady out there I must be jealous of."

Rhaena groaned. "Of course you're a lecher." That earned another kiss and spate of tickles.

Perhaps they were postponing the heady conversation and reckoning, but at the moment neither bothered to care.

Sword tied to her side, no guards were going to stop Nymeria Sand from entering her cousin's council even if they were ordered to. The only difference was that of the mess she would've made had such orders existed - none would die, but that was the only limitation she allowed herself to have. Most liked her within the keep of Sunspear and the adjoining town, but the mustard tunic-coated guards gave her a wide berth as they opened the door to the council chambers.

Several heads, all but one male even in the more egalitarian Dorne, rose as she entered. "Ah, dearest Nym," remarked Prince Mors, a Rhoynish-style crown on his head and a grin on his lips… though the grin didn't reach his ears. "You're late."

Nymeria was not about to give him the satisfaction of planning whatever he was planning without her presence. "Forgive me, I wasn't told of this meeting."

"Not an excuse, but I shall be having a talk with my servants for this glaring oversight." No you won't. She wasn't stupid enough to believe such horseshit, but Mors might have been to think she'd believe it given his relief at her nod.

Lord Malcolm Wyl however… nothing escaped his placid, snakelike face. "Regardless of the reason, we are glad for your presence, Lady Sand." Nymeria eyed him as she pushed herself into a position between Lord Brynden Vaith - an ancient relic of the First Dornish War - and her sometimes lover Ser Lucius Yronwood, young, blonde, and very pretty. Not as beautiful as Clarisse but comely enough for her taste. Both she could read, Wyl not so much. "A warrior of your prowess is rare indeed. Our very own Visenya Targaryen."

She nodded at that, quite the compliment if one was to ignore petty grudges as her grandmother taught Nymeria to do. "Glad to be of service." Even in Dorne, those women that adopted the sword or the spear tended to be overly aggressive to compensate - Lady Annia Fowler came to mind, standing two spaces away from Nymeria. Her glower could kill a man. "Did I miss anything?"

Before Mors could answer, Wyl cut him off. "We were just starting, my Lady." As but a bastard, she was not a Princess. Nymeria was fine with it. "Lord Uller was simply explaining the progress of our preparations."

Coughing, Lord Michel Uller looked rather pompous - fat and arrogant in spite of the hellish desert climate that was Hellholt, usually producing hard, sour men with the constitution of dried corpses. His mother is Myrish, so that explains it. "Aye, we've been moving stores and stockpiles out of the keeps and into the countryside."

Nymeria looked no different, but inwardly she paid rapt attention. War? Seemed likely. "Do we expect another invasion?"

"We're the last of the holdouts till the dragonspawn take all of Westeros in their grubby claws," hissed Mors. "War is always likely, especially if that cruel brute Maegor is able to manipulate his weakling of a brother…"

"What his Grace means," interjected Wyl, ever suave. "Is that the obvious weakness that King Aenys is perceived to have might convince the more bellicose Targaryens and their advisors to seek to unite the Kingdoms by invading us. It is my contention and is also that of the High Septon."

While she took skepticism at that, Nymeria was soon not the only one to think such. "The High Septon is a Gardener bastard," insisted Ser Yronwood. "Why the fuck would he care about us?"

"We are of his flock," replied Lord Vaith, the most pious of the gathered council. "I doubt he wishes for us to burn even at the hands of his sovereign." So naive. Nym knew more than anyone else that the High Septon had his own agenda. A bastard didn't rise so high without one and the wherewithal to match - her last name made her an expert. "So he feels there's a war?"

"Not that I think there will be, but there could be." Wyl pointed to a map before them. "Such is why I've inflamed tensions in the Dornish Marches. If the situation worsens, we can counterattack and prevent the Targaryens from launching an offensive into our lands. They'll use their dragons, but we can handle that."

Nymeria knew exactly what he meant by inflame. The Vulture King. Everyone in Dorne knew this person… or at least knew of him rather. The man fighting in the name of Dorne and the Rhoynish people against the dragons and their Reach Marcher Lord allies. His cause was doomed after the battle outside of Hornhill, dragons annihilating much of his guerilla band - but still he fought.

Of course he fights. Wyl is supplying him. Burnings, killings, rapings, and sabotage. Not enough to take and hold land, but plenty to render land useless for defense.

A smart tactic, but one fraught with risk. Nymeria was at that moment determined to learn everything she needed to know about him and the effort to supply him. And as always, a pretty woman had her ways to delve information.

The next week passing by, Nymeria engaged in her days with the same vigor as she always did. She fought and trained hard, worked with the maester and her household guard captain to properly manage the affairs of Sunspear town - beneath that of Mors but an action that made her loved there - and writing her friends all over Dorne. It was a life she enjoyed, but the tension in her mind and body didn't dissipate till the information she needed finally arrived.

"My Lady." Into her chambers walked the young knight, a hedge knight from the lands around the ruined keep of Vulture's Roost. Poor and bad land that could only raise goats or scrappy rye fields, but it had produced someone competent in Ser Matthias Rone. Competent and very handsome. "I have what you seek."

"Keep your voice down," Nym whispered harshly, silencing him with a little kiss. Their flirting was heavy, but had stayed merely that - flirting. "Tell me."

Ser Rone nodded. "Wyl's men handle the resupply themselves, using donkey convoys through the Red Mountains. Most of the recruits for the Vulture King are from the dungeons around Dorne or those from Myr and Tyrosh."

Her brows rose. The Three Daughters? Lys wasn't advisable since most would look Valyrian, but Myrmen and those of Tyrosh looked close to Dornish. It also pointed to Volantis having some stake in this, since they controlled the Three Daughters. "Which keep is he using for this?"

"That of House Blackmont mostly, I think knowing the risk of operating out of the ruined Vulture's Roost since the dragons would be likely to see it." He worked close enough with Lord Wyl… one of the reasons Nym was planning to transfer him to her service as soon as possible. "I think he may seek Starfall as a jumping off point."

"Starfall, huh?" She couldn't contain her relief. Now Clarisse could help her nip this war in the bud. "You did well, Ser Rone." Smiling, she made her way back to the bed, letting the straps of her dress fall… as did the rest of the fabric. "Come claim your reward."

He didn't need to be asked twice. Nymeria dared to notice he wasn't as bad as most male lovers she had, as what followed was most enjoyable.

There was no better defensive position between the headwaters of the Milkwater River and the Wall itself. Even a rather mediocre military mind such as Princess Rhaenys - her skills more in the realm of aerial combat - could see that of the large rocky outcrop and surrounding hill known by the locals as the 'Fist of the First Men.'

"Was built by the ancient tribes… even before the Long Night in fact," Brandon reminded her as they glimpsed it earlier. He had his arms wrapped around her from behind, kissing her neck. "Much prettier than Dragonstone," he teased.

She replied by turning, smiling at him, and cupping his prominent crotch even under several layers of fur and leather. "Try making love within it alongside a roaring fire." Rhaenys had to admit though, the Fist had its own rugged beauty - perfect for the North.

Beauty had nothing to do with why Lord Commander Hoare, Brandon, Ralla's Wildlings, and Lord Umber selected it. The hill offered commanding views of the Haunted Forest all around, with the slopes at a dangerous angle to the north and west, and only slightly less dangerous to the east. Such would funnel any attack into just a few approaches that could be easily defended. A brook not iced over provided fresh water, and the top of the stone provided a perfect perch for Arrax to nest… at least until the blizzards happened.

No blizzards yet, of which Rhaenys was grateful. Gave a perfect window for the Rangers, bannermen, and allied wildlings to charge up the Milkwater river valley and set up the position dangerously close to the alliance between the various hostile clans.

"They want us here," Ralla warned as she and Rhaenys talked over heated mulled wine. "No ambush? Thenns love ambushes, as do the Frostfangs."

"We surprised them, I think." Rhaenys had learned a lot, but in certain cases truths were universal. "My father didn't expect the Ironborn to attack across the God's Eye yet they did. That was a close run thing, even though he won."

But Ralla shook her head. "Can't underestimate these fucks. They either want to massacre us or seek to trap us here."

A scoff. "Arrax will kill those possibilities."

"Don't count on it." Her eyes were hard. "I tell your idiot brother a lot, those beasts give you strengths no one else can match, but even bigger egoes that can hurt harder than a fuckin' axe to the head."

Such a lesson was hard even for Rhaenys to grasp, even though she tried. "Think they'll try and treat with us?"

Ralla shrugged. "Maybe."

Four days after the camp was set up, a group of warriors on foot approached the stockade. "We seek an audience!" someone yelled at the guards.

Brandon, overall in command, replied. "Let them in!"

While most masons even in the ramshackle Mountain Clans would die of laughter at the pathetic stockade wreathing the Fist of the First Men, against an enemy without horse or siege engines worth a damn the thickly-bound sharpened logs were akin to a ten foot thick stone block as far as Rhaenys was concerned. Gate opening, the trio of Thenns that led the party of the dozen or so other clansmen looked decisively out of their element in such a den of human civilization. It distracted from their fierce appearances.

Brother, you did not lie.

Each had to be over six feet tall, all bald and one with lines of self-mutilation crossing his face. The senior warrior. "Who's in charge?!" he bellowed out in a gutteral version of the Common Tongue. They speak the old tongue here. Rhaenys remembered Ralla speaking it fluently to her brother long before. "Where's the King Crow?!"

"Lord Commander Hoare isn't here," she heard her husband announce. "But as Lord of Winterfell I have his stead to lead men on a ranging."

The Thenn's lips curled into a hyena grin - showing off a row of blackened teeth. And it didn't look like merely rot that discolored them. "I can smell a Stark in my sleep. Prissy cunt playing a tough warrior." Eyes shifted to Ralla's father, who had just came up on Brandon's other side. "Didn't expect you to ever come back."

"Didn't expect you to want to fucking die like your brother," the rival clan leader replied. "Yet here we fucking are, Boiorix."

A snort. "Aye, here we are."

Turning to them, the crowd around Rhaenys and Brandon now including First Ranger Allard Snow and Lord Marlon Umber, Ralla's father cleared his throat. "My Lords, Princess, this is Boiorix, Magnar of the Thenns. Joining him are Bodugnatus of the Ice Rivers, Gelina of the Frostfangs, and Gelimer of the Naviri." The second and fourth were stereotypical wildling brutes, while the third was a striking woman much like Ralla, only with ice blonde rather than fire-red hair. An almost perfect representation of Queen Visenya. Muna would laugh at the coincidence. "They are here to treat with us."

"Treat with us?" Marlon laughed derisively. "A bunch of dung-burning savages. Only treating we'll do to 'em is with our axes."

"Wanna compare axes, southern cunt?" hissed Gelina, hefting a large one of her own.

Clenching her teeth, Rhaenys closed her eyes and sent out a mental call. Moments later, Arrax let out a loud roar that even made one of the Thenns pale - her own men as well, not used were they to dragons. "Forgive me," she replied sweetly. "But my son does not like those that waste the precious time of a Targaryen Princess."

Boiorix alone among them was nonplussed, gazing at her with a gruff indifference. "You're a long way from home, Valyrian." A smug grin. "That's right, we're not all savages 'ere."

Rhaenys ignored his last. "My home is Winterfell, and you threaten the lands sworn to it. A little cold for me and my son… not a bother."

"Fuck you, princess." Eyes went to Gelina, her blue eyes filled with hate. "We're starvin' and you bitch about threats?"

"We are willing to provide food and other trade goods - not arms - if you disband your army and march back to your lands." Brandon gave the terms. "Any crossing of the wall by armed groups will be considered in breach of the treaty."

Stepping forward, guards raised their blades and crossbows as the massive Boiorix looked to intimidate her husband. "Fuck your treaties, southerner." He slammed his fist against his chest. "Might makes right to the true northerners, and we'll see who's stronger."

Narrowing her eyes, Rhaenys took her own step forward, sandwiching herself between Boiorix and her husband. "Fire and blood, Magnar. Fire and blood."

The Thenn Magnar's snarling grin grew even wider. "All fire dies in the blizzard, Valyrian."

Taking a deep breath, Jaehaerys swung the blade. In front of him were imaginary enemies of House Targaryen. Dornish spears, wildling savages, Rhoynish warriors… all fought against Prince Jaehaerys and he would kill them all. 'Swift… use your power and strength, but never leave yourself without a retreat. Forward. Go, go, then back!' Keeping Ser Karstark's lessons in mind, Jae worked at the moves. Each swing of his blade taking out another foe of his house.

So concentrated was he that he didn't hear the approaching footfalls till a twig snapped. He swiveled around to see his sister tripping. Falling to the ground and tumbling down a tiny hill. "Alysanne!"

But it was only a distraction as a brown blur leapt on him, knocking Jae flat on his ass as laughter rang out. Hands tightly gripping his arms. Beaming sweetly, Arya put a little more pressure on Jae's wrists. "Pinned ya."

"Get off!" Jaehaerys cursed, suddenly shooting out a burst of energy that had them rolling around again…

Only for Arya to fall atop him again, legs holding his down and hands back at his wrists. "Pinned ya again, my Prince." Jae opened his mouth to yell at her, only for Arya to kiss his lips in a peck, giggling.

Off to the side, brushing off grass and dead leaves from her dress, Alysanne giggled as well. "She ambushed you, brother."

"Fuck you," he hissed. "And fuck you, awful Arya."

The cursing didn't bother Arya the way it did the sweeter Alysanne. She heard worse from her father's bannermen. The nickname though… "What did you call me, Targaryen?"

"You heard me, awful Arya and her frog face." In that moment he spit in her face, causing Arya to growl and start clawing at him.

Alysanne's eyes widened. "No, no fighting!"

Before it could grow into a brawl, however, the Prince kicked her off and leapt to his feet. He didn't give Arya another glance, instead grabbing his practice sword. As he was storming off, he glared at Alysanne. "Thank you for ruining my concentration, little sister." Above, Vermithor squawked and flapped after his rider as Jae jogged back to their camp - the Royal procession taking a day's rest before continuing the journey to the Eyrie.

Sighing, Alysanne reached out her hand to let Arya up. "Sorry bout him."

Arya wiped a tear from her eye, one she fought to make sure it was her last. "He's a cunt."

The Princess didn't curse. She supposed she was still too young and innocent-minded. "He means well… just been trying to master his swordsplay like our uncle."

"He needs to learn not to be a cunt," Arya replied fiercely. Perhaps a little too fiercely.

Alysanne shrugged. "You did jump him."

"You thought it was hilarious!" But her ire left her quickly. "But it was my idea. Just… he needs to lighten up. It was just some fun."

"Want me to talk to him?"

But Arya shook her head. "No… let's just get back to camp."

Emerging from the little glade, Alysanne and Arya smiled sheepishly at Big Jon, who merely grinned at them. However, not all were as accepting as their gentle giant of a protector. "Princess!"

"Uh oh," murmured Alysanne.

"Where are you, Princess?!" Septa Egnatia's shout wasn't angry, but it was nevertheless loud. "Come back!"

Snorting, Arya looked at her friend. "She is not gonna like seeing you look like that."

Alysanne gazed at her feet. "I know." Biting her lip, she met Arya's gaze. "Go back to your kepa. No sense in her blaming you for this."

"But it is my fault…" Arya looked guilty then. "I just…" She trailed off, looking cagey.

While it made Ally curious, she didn't dwell on it. "I didn't have to join you, but you'll get all the blame. Go."

In her mud-splattered trousers and crannog boots, anyone within court that had the rank above a common servant would've blamed the heir to Greywater Watch for Alysanne's disheveled appearance. While Arya wasn't in any threat of punishment, the Princess didn't want the trouble for House Reed and Arya wasn't about to argue with her. "Good luck," she sighed, leaning in to press a friendly kiss to Ally's cheek as they usually did… quickly booking into the woods.

She was born to run and jump through the woods.

Thus Alysanne was standing alone - Big Jon waiting about fifteen feet off - Septa Egnatia dashed into view. Upon catching sight of the Princess, she gasped. "Princess Alysanne! What on earth happened to you?" While not sour as her childhood Septas were, the pretty young woman was nevertheless overly pious and strict. Nothing got past her, and she didn't give Alysanne a chance to reply. "Look at you, you're filthy. Did you go running in the woods?"

Waiting, Alysanne only spoke when there wasn't a scold coming. "Just playing with Jae."

The mention of her brother didn't help her. "Princes have their own games and Princesses have theirs." Tugging out some of the burrs tangled in her silver hair, Septa Egnatia ignored Alysanne's winces of pain. "Fighting and swinging swords like your elder sister… you are a sweet girl, Princess. You shouldn't waste your time with men's things."

"Yes, Septa." Alysanne wanted to groan, but she accepted it.

"You were late to your embroidery lesson."

"I was on my way…" While it irked Arya, Alysanne actually enjoyed her lessons. Stitching her own dresses with designs of dragons and flowing fire of their house… she could envision her wedding dress as such. Maybe Arya will let me stitch hers.

Another shake of the head. "Tardiness is disdained by the Mother… Seven Above, you tore your dress!" Alysanne gasped and looked down, seeing a tiny tear in her blue gown. I loved this gown… damn you Jae… "That's it! We're going to see his Grace."

King Aenys was in his tent, hunched upon a camp stool as he went over reports. Alysanne's uncle Maegor was fighting in the south with Rhaena, so the ever-present Murmison was advising her kepa… as well as the thin, severe-looking Lucas Harroway. Alysanne didn't like him. She liked his daughter Alys, the sweetest thing. Lord Lucas, not so much, but kepa did apparently.

Seeing the Princess, the Kingsguards bade them entry and Alysanne could hear some of what they were speaking of. "...just concerns me. What business does Volantis have in Pentos?"

"Something of an unpaid loan in regards to military protection from Dothraki raids," Murmison answered her kepa. "At least that's what the Volentines say."

Lucas Harroway snorted. "Volantis probably paid the Dothraki to attack. We should tell them to knock it off."

"If they have little business there, we have even less." Aenys shook his head. "No, I'm more worried of what my sister tells me of the wildlings."

"Pfft, wildlings. They can't get south of the wall… and if they do, the Northmen can take care of it. We gave them a dragon."

Murmison looked uncomfortable. "The First Men aren't under the light of the Seven, but they are civilized - unlike the wildling savages."

Aenys nodded. "Send a raven to Winterfell. Give my goodbrother my leave to assemble his banners. Three houses and the Night's Watch are not enough…" It was then he noticed Alysanne and his entire expression softened. "Dearest daughter!" His arms opened and Alysanne ran into them. "Sweetling, what happened? Did you trip and tumble through a brier patch?"

Alysanne smiled sheepishly. "Something like that, kepa."

"Your Grace." Septa Egnatia was not amused at her attempt to charm her way out of punishment. "The Princess was playing around with her brother, Prince Jaehaerys. Fighting and carousing like a boy when she was scheduled for her embroidery lessons."

Eyes flickering between the two, Aenys patted Alysanne's head. "Daughter, we've had this discussion about punctuality before. You can't be like your older brother and be late to everything - you're a Princess of House Targaryen."

Hanging her head, she nodded. "Kessa, kepa." The things I do for Arya… But Alysanne wasn't about to rat out her friend.

"Good." Kissing her forehead, Aenys looked to the Septa. "Just start her lessons now. I'm sure it shouldn't throw off her schedule too much."

"But… but…" Knowing the King refused to even address the carousing and roughhousing, there was little the Septa could do. "Yes, your Grace." She curtseyed and took the Princess. Leading her away.

Alysanne couldn't believe her luck. Arya, you owe me.

Ser Gawen Corbray, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and wielder of the Valyrian steel sword Lady Forlorn, couldn't help but be impressed with his pupil. He remembered an arrogant, angry youth that passed into his tutelage molded into a powerful fighter when he was sent North for the Starks to beat the brutality out of him. And now…

A powerful victory, himself and the Princess both. The Dragons learned proper battle tactics, luring away nearly a hundred enemy fighters and slaughtering them almost to a man. Typical of partisans, the Vulture King likely had barely a thousand men at most. A hundred butchered or burned was a disaster for them. Well done, my Prince, well done.

Unfortunately, the Vulture King himself hadn't been there. If he was, then this thing would be over. And if I had a cunt, I'd be Lady Corbray. Prayers were for before a fight, not recriminations, so here Ser Gawen was with a reinforcement of fifty light cavalrymen recruited from the Qoherys lands.

And to think Lord Reyne wanted to send heavy knights. He knew nothing about guerilla warfare. Savage Sam Tarly on the other hand… "How long can your men get into patrol on the Torrentine?"

Corbray raised his brow. "Is the path towards the Dornish border clear?" The Red Mountain passes, perfect for ambushes. Reachmen would know intimately for that. "I won't march my men into certain death or be ripped apart by barbed arrows."

"Scouts report that activity has been lessened since the battle. I think the Vulture King is laying low and waiting for his strength to replenish or forces repositioning…"

"Don't bother with that, brother." From conversing with the maester of Horn Hill, Margaery Tarly looked grim. "They attacked a village near Starpike."

Samwell's eyes widened. "All dead?"

Margaery nodded, scowling. "All dead. Men butchered, women and children raped and with their throats slit… at least the women they could find."

Slamming his fist on the table, Samwell cursed under his breath. "Fucking Dornish… I'll draw and quarter every single one of them." Not an idle threat.

Disgusted that he was, Gawen was also nonplussed. War was war, and the young men that fought it had urges primed to explode. Brutality happened, much as he would rather it not. "We can worry about that when we take prisoners."

"No prisoners! No mercy!"

"Alright then, but worry about finding the fucking Vulture King first. Kill him and the rest of the cunts won't have a head guiding them. They'll be easy pickings."

"And how do we do that, Ser Gawen?" Margaery's tone dripped irritation and snark. "His bounty is already at fifty thousand gold dragons. Think we should raise it?"

A snort caught their attention. "Raising it won't work."

The arrival of the Prince and Princess caused conversations to still. The dozen men and women present - Gawen and the Tarlys only dominating the council rather than helming it by themselves - bent the knee to Maegor and Rhaena, a grunt from the former bringing them back upright. "Welcome, your Graces. Forgive us, but urgent news forced us to start without you."

Holding out his hand, Maegor received the dispatch from Margaery and started reading it. Leaning over to share it with Rhaena, their shoulders touching. Most thought nothing of it, but Gawen narrowed his eyes. They were close, too close for uncle and niece. At least for them, since he knew both of his pupils. Intimates since before he was asked to train Rhaena, this was far different. Oh, my Prince. He would say nothing, but this could end very badly.

From how Lady Tarly watched it, she seemed to know as well. While she approved, others just as perceptive might not be as circumspect as she or Gawen. I'm going to have to have a talk with him.

Eventually, he dropped the dispatch to the table, face like iron. But it was Rhaena that answered for the Prince. "Unfortunate. Seems they are shifting operations to the southern Marches."

"We should move our forces to that region, your Grace," advocated Lord Dondarrion, on loan from Maegor's uncle Orys with five hundred of his crack cavalry and infantry. "They're likely holding these hills as their base. Comb through it and smoke them out."

"My infantry can hold the southern coastal plains, eradicate them as they try to flee south towards Starfall."

Glancing down at his niece, Gawen saw Rhaena give an imperceptible nod to the Prince. Maegor cleared his throat. "See it done, but the Tarly mounted archers stay here with Ser Gawen's reinforcements." Before anyone could ask about the dragons, Maegor preempted them. "I'll fly on Balerion while Princess Rhaena remains here."

It seemed only Gawen noticed that the Prince brushed the Princess' finger inconspicuously.

As the meeting dismissed, Gawen approached the royals, in the middle of a hushed conversation. "You should be more careful, pupils."

Maegor eyed him with a raised eyebrow, while Rhaena was impassive. "I'll take your advice into consideration, Lord Commander," she replied. "But thank you for staying."

"Excuse me?" He was confused.

"Your men and my niece are needed for a special assignment, one that could win the war." Maegor reached into his gambeson and drew out another dispatch. This one more… used. "Read this."

The first line Gawen noticed was the signature.

Clarisse Dayne.

Lady of Starfall.

Chapter Text

"My lady." Jocelyn turned from her stitching to see Jonas Poole, the Steward of Winterfell, enter. "A raven from Castle Black."

Setting down the leather hunting trousers she was mending - hers, naturally, as she hailed from the swamps of the Neck and never lost her roots though being Lady Stark for two-thirds of her life - Jocelyn approached Jonas and took the dispatch. Perusing through it. "Hmmm… the wildlings are surrounding Brandon and his command at the Fist of the First Men."

Jonas Poole may not have been distinguished militarily, but he served his time in the banners and wasn't an idiot. "Gods… should we call the banners?"

But Jocelyn shook her head. "Even the fastest group wouldn't be able to reach them in time." It sounded callous, but she had to think of the entire picture. "Rhaenys is there with her dragon, and Houses Umber and Bolton combine with our banners and the Night's Watch for a very strong force. We can only trust them."

"Of course, my Lady."

A bell rang from the gatehouse, followed by loud shrieks from the dragons. "Make way for the young lords!" called out the guard at the watch.

Jocelyn went to the window, first seeing Vermax and Tessarion dancing in flight above Winterfell. They had clearly enjoyed themselves. Yipping of direwolves dragged her eyes down to the courtyard where the children dismounted from their horses. The Targaryen coloring of Aegon and Saera was evident and easily noticed, while Alaric's darker complexion was more common in the North.

In her eyes, though, they were the perfect Starks. Strong of mind and of body, tough against the cold and hardy land in which they were raised in. She couldn't be prouder. "I shall visit my grandchildren, Jonas. Would you be so kind as to escort me."

He nodded. "Of course, my Lady. It is my honor."

The cobblestone courtyard was much easier to walk upon than the bare, often muddy ground of her early marriage… back when she was a Queen. Only emphasized how much House Stark gained from their submission to House Targaryen. From their alliance with House Targaryen. Material rewards and comforts… alongside three strong, beautiful, intelligent children to forge the future of the North. Said children were dismounting, petting their direwolves or their dragons. Aegon, tall for his age and growing his silver hair long, first noticed Jocelyn. "Grandmother."

"Greetings, my grandchildren." She eyed the many carcasses being hefted off the pack horses. "Burn marks. Did the dragons help you hunt?"

"Oh, did they ever," grinned Saera, stroking Tessarion with love in her eyes. "They were perfect. So perfect."

Jocelyn raised her brow. "How so?"

Aegon himself chuckled, patting Vermax's snout as the dragon purred. "We've been training the dragons to hunt in pack tactics like the direwolves do. Find a distinctly northern way of riding them and whatnot. Worked like a charm too."

She was impressed. "Commendable work, my sweetlings."

But Aegon shook his head. "We just tried it out. Alaric here was the one that came up with the whole theory and tactics." The most Stark of the three dragonwolves was stroking his direwolf alongside Ryah Bolton, the latter giggling to something he said.

The dowager Lady of Winterfell pursed her lips, regarding them. The likely future betrothed to Aegon… yet she often prefers Alaric's company. Such could be bad if continued… but they were but babes still. Jocelyn wouldn't say anything, but keep an eye out she would. "You are truly like both your grandfathers, my boy." She hugged Alaric. "A dragon or a wolf."

He sighed in her grasp, prone to brood. "One without a dragon."

"Nonsense. You are a dragon." She kissed his forehead. "Enough of that. Let us clean up and then eat these fine meals you've brought us." Not to mention a stop in the godswood. Jocelyn would pray to the old gods that Brandon and Rhaenys would return.

These children deserved to hear their parents' praise.

Clinking glasses, the King of Westeros chuckled as he listened to the tale. "So it was initially proposed that you marry King Artys XI's son?"

Sharra Arryn, whom even grey-haired looked the Flower of the Mountain as she once had, nodded. "Aye, Ronnel's half-brother. I met him while at a tourney in Highgarden. Very dashing and fit."

"He was the winner of five jousting competitions, all out of the Vale," Ronnel boasted. "A record I shall beat for House Arryn since Hubert here prefers the melee like a true Andal." Short, stocky Hubert Arryn could only smile and nod at his cousin and liege Lord. A rider he wasn't, but a swordsman he was.

"I'm sure you can, Ronnel. Runs in the family." Ever since his fostering in King's Landing, Ronnel had been one of Aenys' closest friends and boon companions, both loving life and merriment. It helped that their mothers ended up rather friendly with each other as the memories of the war faded and a new sense of cooperation took hold. "Lady Sharra, I do not wish to ask something that may dig up bad memories…"

"Forgive me your Grace, but I never felt more than a little infatuation for the man." Sharra took a sip of her Arbor gold. "He was killed in his last joust. Splinter through the side of the neck, bled out in a few minutes. Horrible, horrible day."

"His soul is undoubtedly in the heavens, my Lady," Murmison remarked, standing next to the King.

Sharra regarded him curiously. Weak man. The King ultimately surrounded himself with weak men - her son included - something she picked up on rather easily when the royal party arrived on the progress to the Vale. Thirty years ago Sharra likely would've laughed to see something like this, but now all she could feel was worry for the Kingdoms and pity for poor Visenya. Some might wish to see the Kingdom fail. Sharra wasn't one of them anymore.

"Ah, Lord Royce." Now if there was one strong man in the Vale, it was Lord Allard Royce of Runestone. "Have you said your greetings to Lord Royce, your Grace?"

Aenys looked aghast at the thought. "Heavens no… and he's brought Alayne. Delightful, delightful girl. Companion to my beautiful Rhaena."

Hopefully not that sort of companion for her reputation's sake. But Sharra wouldn't embarrass the King with the few rumors surrounding Princess Rhaena. "Lord Allard," she called out.

Lord Royce, arm in arm with his daughter as his companion - Allard was a known widower - approached the King and former Queen. "Your Grace. My Lady." He eyed Ronnel, as if an afterthought. "My Lord."

"Greetings Lord Royce." Aenys shook his hand and took the palm of Lady Alayne. "Young lady, you look enchanting this evening."

She curtseyed, blushing. "Thank you, Your Grace." Her hands clasped together. "I heard of the battle near Hornhill. Thank the gods that Rhaena is alright."

Aenys' expression grew grim. "Oh, dreadful business. I never expected her to be sent into battle… but my brother knows best, I assume. He and my mother arranged her entire martial education."

"While we are on the topic, your Grace, I must ask." Allard could be as pleasant as anyone, but here he was all business. "Rebellions in the Marches, expeditions against the wildlings… I've even heard of some sort of banditry in the Riverlands becoming a nuisance."

Blinking, Aenys wracked his brain for what Allard was speaking of. A conversation in passing with Lord Daeron Qoherys came to mind and it hit him. "Oh, the Lord of Harrenhal has that under control, my Lord. As for the Wildlings and Marches, my sister and goodbrother handle that while my brother and daughter take care of the other respectively. You shan't need to worry."

Royce was not buying it. "Perhaps we should call the banners just to be safe. Been centuries since the Wildlings made it over the wall in numbers and I wouldn't want to fight them and the Dornish at the same time."

Ronnell held up his hands. "That would be far too drastic, Lord Royce."

"Then just me and my knights. Send us to the South or the North and we can nip this in the bud quickly."

"Rhaena could use more cavalry," Alayne added, remembering their letters.

"Perhaps you should consider this, your Grace…" Sharra could glimpse her second son listening rather… intently.

But the King wouldn't be budged. "Seven hells, this is supposed to be a feast, not a meeting of the war council. I'll have no more of this, understood?" Glum nods that only seemed desired by Ronnel and Murmison followed. The King's word was law.

Slipping out one of the side doors, Jaehaerys took a deep breath of the clean, mountain air - allowing the prickly cold to soothe his lungs. Gods, it was insufferable in there. Honeyed words, condescending men and women all trying to both put down yet also curry favor with his kepa. Sharra Arryn in her older age was somewhat forthright, reminding him of Jocelyn Stark, but Jonos Arryn was a snake. He would've wished to advise his kepa to get rid of him, but who would listen to someone of his age?

Not to mention Ronnel Arryn was essentially a child. Jaehaerys knew that even his Stark cousins were more mature than him. How he was made a Lord I cannot understand. Ser Hubert Arryn was far superior.

Feeling the snowflakes fall around him, Jaehaerys sighed and bundled his cloak tighter round his frame. The howling winds from this far up were not as comforting as he wished them to be, though at least the battlements provided protection that the tiny ring around the Moon Door didn't - he'd be having nightmares of that insidious device for weeks. Ultimately, what caused him to leave wasn't the disingenuousness that he often heard his uncle and his elder sister complain about.

No, it was the loneliness. None of the Lords brought their young children with them - the closest were Ronnel's young daughter Sharra and Alayne Royce, Rhaena's friend, but the former was barely seven while the latter was older than Rhaena. Not keen company, and where were all the children his age? A keep this size should be filled with them.

And Alysanne… just didn't feel the same without her, even if that witch Arya Reed was always around.

Hearing a shriek from above, down swept the bronze form of Vermithor. Still small and sleek, he'd nevertheless doubled in size from birth. Jae went to the battlement on which he landed and stroked his scales. "Love you, boy." He pressed a kiss to his snout. "Least I have you as a friend." Another shriek found Silverwing land right beside them, her eyes inquisitive. "Ah, girl, do you know where Ally is?"

Silverwing chirped and dove down to the courtyard below. Through the darkness Jae squinted, but could make out a thatch of silver glittering in the orange torchlight. There you are, Ally. Smiling, he hurried towards the steps leading down to the courtyard.

With a swoosh, the practice blade bashed aside its twin and found itself pointed at the neck of the wielder's opponent. "Yield, yield."

"I accept your capitulation," replied young Qarl Corbray, heir to the great House of the Vale. He bowed at the claps and cheers, only interested in one. "And how did you find that, Princess?"

Alysanne, having clapped the loudest of the small group present, blushed as the handsome young Qarl addressed her. "Quite skilled, I have to say. You could be a complement to my brother Aegon."

Qarl smiled brilliantly. While most boys his age were awkward and trended to acne, he was smooth and well built, yet the perfect epitome of chivalry. "To serve the Crown Prince would be a great honor for a simple Vale highborn such as myself."

"Oh please, Aegon isn't the Crown Prince." Arya Reed sat on a barrel against the wall, arms crossed - she and Alysanne weren't the only women here as the two daughters of the Eyrie's steward were present, but they were both the youngest. She, however, acted as if she were ten feet tall and built like Argilac Durrandon in his prime. "Princess Rhaena will become Queen after his Grace the King."

"Ha! A woman rule?" That voice was one of Qarl's companions, a squire for Ser Jonos Arryn. "I'd sooner put a dog on the Iron Throne. Less prone to flights of fancy that could send the realm to ruin."

Arya narrowed her eyes. "Like you could know what would ruin a realm."

"Arya… enough," Alysanne murmured. She was having a wonderful time that night, first entertained by the steward's daughters after young Euphima Arryn was put to bed and then by this impromptu competition said girls brought her to. Arya was like a sister to her, but sometimes she could be… confrontational.

As if proving her declaration, Arya ignored her friend. "Your Lord's entire minority was under the regency of Lady Sharra."

"And where did the Vale end up? Conquered and without a crown. All cause of a woman." This wasn't from the squire, but someone else. A hedge knight's boy from Heart's Home.

"I was unaware that Loren Lannister, Mern Gardener, and those others were women." The girl from the Crannogs wasn't backing down. "Meria Martell kept her land going while having a cunt. An old one at that."

One of the boys, this one a bit smarter, cut in. "Are you speaking treason against the King?" That seemed to affect Arya, who gulped and went quiet.

Before Alysanne could interject again, Qarl did. "Stop it, we're supposed to be future knights. There's a Princess among us. Behave."The boys grumbled, while Alysanne smiled gratefully at the young highborn. "Forgive me for that. They can be a little excitable."

She shook her head. "No, it's fine. I have brothers." Alysanne placed her hands together at her lap, still smiling. "So, what to do now, Ser Qarl?"

"I'm not a Ser yet, Princess. Hopefully soon though." He chuckled. "So, what would you like?"

Hmmmm… "How about archery? That way I can compete!"

His eyes widened slightly. "You can use a bow?" Qarl looked skeptical. "I find that hard to believe."

Arya huffed. "Taught her myself. As a woman of Greywater Watch, we all learn how to shoot." Mocking frog croaks aside, Arya grabbed a bow and handed it to Alysanne. "Too big to properly hunt with but it'll do. Show these cunts how we do it."

A little shy, Alysanne nevertheless wanted to show off her skills. Grabbing the bow, she nocked an arrow and let it fly. Just an inch to the right of center.

"Hmmm, impressive," remarked Qarl.

"Beginner's luck," snarked one of the boys, earning a glare from Arya he responded to with a kissy face, making her roll her eyes.

Qarl took the bow, nocking his own arrow and loosing it. Closer to center than Alysanne's. "Not as good as with a sword, but I won't be going hungry on any hunt." He grinned, winking at the Princess.

Alysanne took the bow back and was about to nock another arrow when Jonos Arryn's squire marched to her. "No, you've had enough, Princess."

"It's my turn," she defended, though was frozen in place. No one ever was so brazen with her and she didn't know what to do.

Some pilfered ale and rather chauvinist attitudes overcame the boy's deference to authority. "Women shouldn't play with bows. Give it here." He yanked harder, making Alysanne stumble and fall.

"Princess," Qarl said, but he was ignored after…

"Cunt!" The squire cried out as Arya slogged him in the mouth. Then the nose. "Don't touch her!" Again and again she hit until another boy hit her calf with his training sword, making her scream.

Alysanne watched in horror. "Arya! Qarl, do something!" But the heir to Heart's Home did nothing. "Help her! Get them to stop."

He shrugged. "Your friend really needs to know when to keep her mouth shut. Even I was growing ire with her." Alysanne couldn't reply to that, getting to her feet to do something herself when Qarl grabbed her. "Let it happen. It's for her own good."

His grip on her wrist hurt. "Let go!" she started to wriggle, only for him to hold her tighter.

Suddenly a flash of steel bashed him upside the head, causing him to grunt and fall. "Don't touch my sister." Alysanne turned. Jae.

Not noticing it was the Prince, the boys ignored the groaning Arya and charged at Jaehaerys, who defended himself as best he could. Broken noses and bruised chests were dished out, but the boys had a five to one advantage over Jae and he was close to being overwhelmed.

"Break it up!" The harsh voice of an adult stilled the scene. Ser Marden Karstark strode to the Prince and Princess with his blade drawn. A real blade. "What's going on here?"

"They… they attacked my sister and Lady Arya," Jae croaked out, nursing a bruised belly.

Marden's eyes widened. "What?! You could be beheaded for this!" Six sets of eyes, eight if one counted the meek steward's daughters watching on the sidelines, widened in terror. "Shall I dispense with the King's justice for them, my Prince? Harming a member of the royal family?"

"No, Ser Marden," Jaehaerys replied. "My sister was wronged first, it should be her decision."

The northern knight's grey eyes cast upon Alysanne. "I shall do what you order, Princess. Should I take their heads?"

Alysanne bit her lip and looked at the boys. Qarl was firm but his eyes showed fear… the others were practically pissing themselves. It would've been funny had it not also been so serious. In the end, she shook her head. "Just let them go. This isn't worth execution."

Seeing her shy away - Arya Reed also doing so - while the Prince glared daggers at them, Marden flashed his blade menacingly. "Be grateful to your Princess for her mercy. Thank her!" he barked. Quick words of thanks followed, even from Qarl Corbray, though there was the stirrings of resentment in his expression. Ser Marden didn't care. "Now get!" Each ran as fast as they could, booking it for… wherever.

Before Jae could look away, his sister leapt into him. "Thank you, brother. Thank you, thank you." She peppered his face with kisses, making him blush madly.

"Um… you're my sister… of course I would…" Alysanne merely smiled and cupped his cheek lovingly, making his blush deepen.

"I won't tell his Grace about this unless you wish me to, young ones," Ser Marden remarked. "Children will be children, at least that's what it was tonight thanks to you, my Prince. Your sister is right to thank you." There was a swell of pride in Jae's chest at the praise. "Let me escort you to bed."

Following behind, Jae felt a hand tug at his, causing him to lag. "Jae." Arya Reed didn't wear her angry or smug face around him like she usually did. Now, it was rather subdued… and grateful. Her bruises accentuated that.

Jae narrowed his eyes even so. "Gonna hiss at me for intruding on your heroic moment?"

She merely shook her head. "Thank you, Jae. I… I was defenseless and you saved me." Quickly, she darted forward and pecked him on the lips. Not like before, which was teasing. This was completely genuine.

The Prince could only stare in shock as she blushed slightly before running to catch up with Alysanne, leaving him behind.

It seemed so… farcical. Seated at a lacquered wooden table - likely more expensive than the worth of a thousand smallfolk in King's Landing - Prince Aegon Targaryen didn't know why he was here. Some religious thing having to do with the Crone or the Smith he was told, but didn't bother to remember. An Archsepton was here, someone that blathered loudly about piety. Something else he didn't bother to listen to.

His father wasn't here. His brother wasn't here. His sisters weren't here. Neither was the Hand of the King or Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the former being his uncle making it even more galling. This feast was useless and yet here he was forced to stuff himself into a tight doublet rather than his training gear listening to giggling maidens and obsequious courtiers.

The maidens were better than the courtiers… until they talked.

It helped that he wasn't at the head table - instructing the servants to keep his goblet filled and his favorite dinner of auroch steak, potato soup, and fresh bread not being possible if he was forced next to his mother and middle brother not to mention the rest of the Small Council. However, that also meant that his menacing stare, one said to be a perfect copy of his grandfather or uncle, couldn't protect his mother from those same obsequious courtiers.

Like the maidens were with him, their looks held contained or barely contained lust for the beautiful Queen Alyssa. Aegon wanted to run them through with his sword.

However, there was one that stood out. One of the advisors his father most recently placed there, Rogar Baratheon - closer to his age than his mother's but not one to run in the circles of the younger royals, rather in the elder one. And Aegon could only watch as Rogar sat next to his mother with the innate Durrandon swagger, swinging his legs confidently on the table as he chatted with Queen Alyssa. Making her laugh at his jokes, smile at his stories.

A coy smile from his mother made his blood boil. Aegon never remembered her looking at his father like that… in his head he was sure there was no threat but the audaciousness was what bothered him.

"Oh, your Grace." He looked up to see a beautiful golden-blonde with vibrant green eyes gazing at him with a nervous adoration. "I don't think you've listened to a word I said." It was said with amusement, so his guard wasn't as up as usual.

He raised a brow at her. "Forgive me, I'm a little distracted tonight since my sister is at war." She placed a hand on her heart and swooned to that. "What was your name again?"

She giggled. "Lady Elinor Costayne of Three Towers." Ah, the Reach.

Looking back at the high table and seeing Rogar glancing at him, Aegon closed his eyes before focusing on her. "Would you like a dance? Elinor practically fainted as she accepted.

It turned out that Elinor was a good dancer, and her interest in him did puff up Aegon's ego, but she didn't truly catch his fancy. Perhaps I could have her. The Prince certainly had sampled some of the maids around the Dragonpalace and each one of them satisfied beyond belief, yet… all were lacking. This one lacked compared to his sister and future Queen if Aegon had to say something about it.

"You are beautiful, my Prince," Elinor complimented.

"You as well," he replied, keeping himself from rolling his eyes.

A movement to his left and Aegon quickly averted his gaze. He noticed another woman on the dance floor, someone that was quite connected to his sister - the reason Aegon truly knew her. Alys Harroway. If he desired Rhaena for what she represented, Alys was one his loins burned for. Skin the color of a peach, in all other coloring she was the exact opposite of his. Black of hair, brown of eye, slight in build, and slender in figure. Ripe and begging for his hands to peel that tight dress off of her.

The dance ended and Aegon kissed Elinor's hand, making her putty in his hands. If I want her I can have her. But there was only one he wanted… yet would he take her? Aegon was undecided at this point.

"Your Grace?"

Blinking, Aegon looked up only to narrow his eyes, the object of his disdain that night right in front of him. "Ser Rogar. What do you want?"

Black of hair and blue of eye, Rogar sported a thick but trimmed bushy beard like Aegon's great uncle Orys - making Rogar his second-cousin by blood. He smiled at him, almost as burly and well-built as his uncle Maegor. Aside from the longer hair, their features were close companions. "Your mother the Queen is worried of you. That you're not having a good time."

"And she sends you to ask me rather than summon me to the table?"

Ser Rogar smirked in pride, his swagger obvious. "She saw you dancing with Lady Elinor and didn't want to summon you out of your fun." He raised a brow. "But I can see you don't truly desire her."

"What's it to you?"

"You're a Prince. This is your domain as the heir. Take what you truly want - my advice as your blood." He bowed. "I shall inform her Grace that you are fine." He left a blinking Aegon. Take what I want...

Searching for Lady Alys, he noticed his sister's loyal friend leave the great hall and into a corridor that no doubt led to her chambers. All of his sister's favorites had their own chambers, small yet comfortable so they could always be in her confidence. Aegon thought it ridiculous… until it allowed him to keep track of the object of his desire. Whenever the beautiful Riverlands maiden retired for the night, it was that same corridor she emerged from the next day.

Making his decision, following Rogar's advice, Aegon quickly downed the last bit of wine in his goblet and stood up. Briskly making his way after her, intending on an interception just as she disappeared into heer chambers.

In spite of the torches, the black walls of Valyrian design and lack of windows within the holdfast made it seem darker than it was - adding to the tension of what Aegon was about to do. Squinting, he could still make out her form as she approached her chamber. It was across from one of the few windows, bathing her beauty in moonlight. Aegon, hungry and enraptured, slowed his step as he approached.

When she finally noticed him, he was only a few feet away, close enough to smell a whiff of scented oils sprinkled in her hair - ones of flowers and lavender. Not something my sister does.

"Prince Aegon," she murmured, otherwise trying to compose herself.

"Lady Alys." When was the last time he was so close to her? The night of the Jubilee long ago? Seemed that long, and older and wiser left Aegon greatly troubled by that. His moral compass knew this was wrong. That he should not deflower such a noble lady as he had done the servants. But… he didn't quite care. Many men - many princes - had seduced and bedded noblewomen before. Was it wrong for him to do the same?

The fact he hadn't sampled the woman that haunted his dreams for so long seemed an obscenity needing of correction under the light of the moon. And thus his decision was made.

He stepped forward once, arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against him. She froze in his grip but didn't scream. "We cannot, my Prince," she whispered, in contrast to her flush face and lidded eyes.

Aegon snorted. "I think you want this as much as I do." He was deep in his cups, but a dragon needed far more to be truly inebriated. His mind was still sharp and his reflexes still powerful, evident as he pressed Alys against the door, making her gasp. "You're mine tonight.

Snaking his hand to untie the laces holding up her bodice, Alys placed a hand on his. "No" she told him, but her thumb caressed the back of his hand.

Chuckling, Aegon ignored her words. Another hand moved to hike up her dress just enough for him to slip underneath. Alys gasped when Aegon simultaneously latched onto her neck and brushed against her smallclothes. She was soaked.

Running his tongue over her smooth skin, a tug of the dress revealed her bare breasts and he hungrily blazed a trail downward. "No." she said with a firmer voice, grabbing at his arm that was against her core.

"Kessa," he hissed, almost laughing at her feeble attempts. Aegon tugged at her smallclothes, grinning against her skin as he heard a rip - he was impatient and wanted her. Enjoying the wetness of her folds. "You want this," he insisted, taking a nipple. Breasts small yet also as firm as ripe apples.

Alys threw her head back and melded against him, panting as her hands just fell to the side. Aegon assaulting her sensitive pearl with a furious lashing. There was no more resistance on her part. Instead, Alys enabled it, sought it out. Her hands grasped his silver hair, urging him on. Aegon lavished love on her nipples before blazing back upward, wet kisses again on her neck.

"Tell me you want this," he growled into her ear, sucking on a lobe. Fingering her nub in the middle of a dark corridor.

"Yes…" she moaned, writhing much more furiously against him. "I want this… ohhh…" Unlike the maids and whores he had previously sampled, Alys' climax wasn't a strong tremor but more a gasping bliss.

It made Aegon grin, but he could do better. Kissing from his ear across her jaw and cheek, that was all she needed before she sought him out with hers. Their resulting kiss sloppy and filled with want. A decisive attack, Aegon dominating her mouth with his powerful tongue.

He wasted no more time. Her door was thrown open, Alys shoved inside with only a pause to kick it shut again. He shoved her to the bed and hastily removed his doublet and trousers. Aegon grinned as she wasn't wasting time either, peeling off her dress and waiting perfectly bare for him. Shy yet hungry, a combination that made him hard as steel. Climbing atop her and meeting her lips again, his cock poked at her soaked entrance. "Tell me yes."

"Yes…" she moaned.

With one motion he entered her fully, making him grunt. So tight, so perfect. A maiden yet she felt no pain, only wrapping her luscious legs round his hips and pulling him deeper. The two of them never breaking their kiss.

Would this be what it felt to take his sister's maidenhead? Somehow Aegon didn't think it could compare, yet desire it less he didn't.

Seconds later, all thoughts of his sister died as she tightened around him, the Prince lost forever to this woman even if he didn't know it.

"Princess… I find no comfort in advancing without your horse guard."

Ser Dick Bean was by no means physically unfit, but even his well-built form was having difficulty traversing the Red Mountains of Dorne. Perhaps due to his size and strength. Shorter and sleeker, Rhaena had little trouble - though without the adept skill the mountain-bred Gawen Corbray could endeavour to hold. She swore, the man was part goat at how he scrambled up the rocks and crags.

"No one must know we're here, Ser Bean," she whispered back. "Lady Dayne's letter stated she was to meet us similarly situated."

"Forgive me, but that could be a trap as well."

"Then Dreamfyre will protect us." Thanking the gods for the cloud cover, she looked up at the overcast sky and couldn't make out her beloved dragon by vision alone. Yet she was there regardless. Stay tight, girl. I'll call if I need you.

'Yes, muna.'

It felt strange for Dark Sister to be strapped to her back rather than her waist, but the tight confines of much of the paths up the mountain slope proved Ser Gawen's advice correct. Aside from the silver hair tied back - though underneath a Dornish headscarf tied tightly round her face to hide it - she looked more akin to a Dornish irregular than a Princess of House Targaryen. Mustard-yellow trousers, a loose shirt covered with leather armor, and brown boots all shrouded her royal lineage.

Such was likely the point, and it felt oddly freeing to wear this. Nevermind the aches and pains from such climbing.

Nevermind the fact she'd rather be in her dragonriding dress… or bare of all clothes while riding Maegor…

The headscarf thankfully covered her blush at the thought… that and her cheeky grin.

Leather gloves keeping the sharp rocks from slicing at her hands, one haul that strained her muscles drew her to an outcrop along the mountainside where Ser Gawen had stopped on. For a moment she thought it was for a water break, but Lady Forlorn drawn and ready got her guard up. "Where is your flock?" the Lord Commander asked, cream cloak dirty and streaked with red dust - not the Kingsguard cloak but close enough to distinguish him among the other Dornish clothing.

Across was another man dressed similarly, but the skin shown by the vision slit was swarthy. Dornish. "On the east side of the mountain. Can't have Reachmen stealing my sheep."

Sighing, Gawen sheathed his blade. "It's them," he told Rhaena and Dick, the latter only lowering his guard slightly while Rhaena's tension eased. "Take me to Lady Dayne."

The guard nodded. "Follow me." Rhaena raised a brow but complied, flanked in front and rear by her bodyguards. Her eyes glanced at the other outcrops overlooking the overhang. How many of them contain hidden archers? Hopefully she would never know.

A small cave was inhabited by three others. Two guards, one with the lithe body of a woman though one that looked like she could handle the scimitar strapped to her belt, and a figured dressed similarly to Rhaena. Only her headscarf was off and she slowly sipped at a cup. She was very pretty in a delicate sort of way. "Princess Rhaena, it is an honor."

Rhaena could see her eyes - they weren't anything but cunning and sharp. Rhaena only lowered her mouth guard, exposing her face but nothing else. "You are correct."

A snort. "Good supposition that you'd be sent. Was expecting one of the Tarlys… or Maegor himself though.

"My uncle knows I can take care of myself, and I would consider the Lady of Starfall important enough to need a royal to parlay with."

"Astute. You are truly one of the strong ones, Princess." Water was passed out, which was greatly appreciated by the three Westerosi even if they didn't show their gratitude. Tension still predominated. "To business?"

"Aye, that is appreciated."

Clarisse set her hands on her lap. "The Vulture King, as he is called. You are having difficulty in bringing him to justice."

Rhaena narrowed her eyes. "We are close to eradicating him. He's made mistakes."

"Eradicating his men, perhaps, but he can get more." She shifted. "Perhaps we can come to an arrangement?"

"Why would you help us?" That was Ser Gawen. Bean meanwhile, kept eyeing the exit to make sure no Dornish tried to block them off from an escape route.

"I understand it isn't your… experience to find a Dornishwoman trustworthy, but we have common ground. The Vulture King embarrasses us and threatens my lands with war. Reachmen have raided across the Torrentine and I would like it stopped."

"I'm sensing there are other reasons, but that doesn't matter at this point. What can you offer?"

Clarisse smiled, one that truly made her beautiful - if she wasn't married, some man would be very happy to be bound to her. "The location of the Vulture King."

"Sounds too good to be true. If you betray me with false information?"

"Then I assume your dragon would break any ambush." She and Rhaena stared at each other, a certain understanding and respect being passed forth.

Chapter Text

Practical to the core, Visenya knew herself inhabiting a dream. The surroundings were too idyllic, a grassy field with a gentle breeze in the shadow of a snow-capped mountain. Her appearance wasn't the wrinkles or the growing stiff fingers but her in her prime, fighting leathers and tunic over a body toned and slender. One that made men lust after her and fear her presence at the same time. It felt great.

No, what truly surprised her was how… real everything felt. As if she were in an actual plane of reality rather than the surreal haze dreams often were. Her blood was magic, she figured. Perhaps this was a dragon dream as Daenys once had?

"Gods… Vis!"

Hearing the voice calling out to her from behind, Visenya swiveled around. Just managing a tearful gasp before Rhaenys leapt into her embrace. The two women crying and laughing and hugging tightly. "Rhae… sister." Visenya trembled with joyful tears as she held her sister-wife. "You look more beautiful than I remember."

Rhaenys pulled back, her smile wider than Visenya had ever seen. "Ditto." They both chuckled before the younger Targareyn captured Vis' lips in a kiss. A kiss eagerly returned, quickly growing heated.

"I do hope you won't start something without my presence." Visenya had barely managed a breath before she lurched for Aegon's own mouth, the kiss just as heated and ever more powerful. The Dowager Queen drinking her fill as if dying of thirst. Aegon was breathless afterwards. "You don't know how much I missed that."

"You've been getting plenty all your life," Rhaenys teased, swatting him in the arm. "Especially from me these last few years."

"Not the same without the both of you." Both wore sad smiles, first at each other and then to Vis.

It brought her elation down to earth. "Oh, issa jorrāelagon…" There were no tears, but Visenya collapsed into their shared embrace all the same. "How I've missed you."

"Whatever feelings you feel, they burn in us just as strongly," replied Rhaenys. "Muna and kepa are here as well… they send their love and their pride in you." It made Visenya smile as she rested her head in the crook of Egg's neck. "Yet our time is short."

She looked up, giving a raised brow. "What is there that we must discuss?"

Rhaenys looked nervously to Egg before fidgeting with her fingers. "That… we cannot tell you. Not explicitly - the gods don't approve of it."

"The gods?"

Egg shrugged. "We cheat their rules in the mortal realm, but not here. Ironic, no?"

"So what can you tell me?"

"Just to be cautious… and ensure that our son finds his dragon as we each did." Rhaenys took her hand. "That is the key, Vis. Only then can our family truly survive."

Seeing Egg nod as well, Visenya's eyes narrowed in determination. "Of course." She bit her lip. "Does that mean this is over? I… I miss you too much to let you go so soon."

The reply was a sultry grin from Rhaenys. "Well… I believe we have some time." Smirking at Egg, who was just starting to unlace his tunic, Rhae captured Visenya's lips in another kiss...

Reaching out, when Visenya registered her squeezing fingers… it wasn't the warm, supple flesh of her sister-wife she gripped but the soft yet cold mattress she slept on. Eyes fluttering open, the Dowager Queen realized quickly the nature of her life. No longer was she blissfully in the field with Egg and Rhae - his cock deep inside of her while she laid in between her legs - or even simply Egg as were the days when she truly was happy. Alone again, the last of the conquerors.

Clinging to life when those that she loved were long dead, an existence leaving Visenya's heart - one commonly suggested by those of court and the population as a myth or obvious falsehood - empty and pained.

Yet she wouldn't cry.

Visenya Targaryen couldn't cry. Without Egg or Rhae there, she didn't have anyone to comfort her when she did.

A knock on the door finally managed to push her to sit up. Stretching out the kinks in her back and legs. "Who is it?"

"Tyanna, your Grace."

"Come in." The beautiful Pentoshi was rather shabbily dressed that morning, unlike her. "You seem like you've only slept well after the hour of the wolf," Visenya stated tersely.

"Forgive me, my Queen," Tyanna replied. "I have been up, but it was not wasted time." Visenya raised a brow, expectant. Not since Rhaena left has she been wasteful with her duties, and even then she didn't dawdle. Given Visenya's tastes, she couldn't fault either her granddaughter or Lady in Waiting for their illicit affair, even if Tyanna wasn't whom Visenya had in mind for Rhaena in the end. "I tried again with reconnecting the trail of whispers."

This drew Visenya's interest. "After you almost died the last time? I trust you were more careful." Not only did she like Tyanna, but she was competent. Losing her would be a huge blow.

A nod. "I've learned from my mistakes, your Grace. The girl didn't give me much yet, but she knew certain whispers of arms shipments from the armories of King's Landing to the port of Oldtown."

"Hmmm… I would think Oldtown has armories. Which one is involved?"

"The main armory of the Poor Fellows."

To this, Visenya listened, thoughts of her dream pushed back for the moment. There would be an eternity with her loves in the afterlife. While still in the mortal realm, her children and grandchildren drew importance. And Visenya knew that Egg and Rhae felt the same.

"No."

Hands on her hips, Rhaena glared at her uncle as he shut the door to his chambers. "You will not deny me this chance, uncle," she hissed. After what had happened at the war council meeting prior to dinner - a dinner each took separately as a result - she had sought him out late at night once the keep turned in.

She is much like her muna… and my muna. The thought almost softened Maegor, but he remained resolute regardless. "The answer is no, plain and simple. Niece." Given their new closeness, her calling him 'uncle' rather than 'Maegor' hurt - he'd live with it if she was safe.

"I am a woman grown, trained by Queen Visenya and your own mentor, Ser Gawen." Rhaena didn't back down either, the epitome of draconic stubbornness. "You may be the Hand of the King but you do not command me."

"You are my charge, and that means I command you," he shot back, toeing off his boots. Getting ready for bed. Wasn't like there was any mystery left between them and he was tired. "It is simply too dangerous for you to lead this ambush on your own."

Raising a brow, she looked over his actions and decided to mirror them. Slipping off her sandals and going for the laces of her dress. "I will not be on my own, uncle. Ser Gawen and his cavalry will be there, as will Dreamfyre." The dress came down, revealing her undertunic and thin breeches. "You just want me cloistered like a Septa!"

"Gods know not like that… but you almost died, Rhaena." Maegor tried not to raise his voice, nor dive into matters that were best not to be revisited. "I'm not risking you again." Off went his own tunic, leaving his scarred chest bare with just a loose pair of breeches blocking his nude form.

Rhaena, doffing her tunic and breeches leaving naught but a nightgown, softened. "You don't risk me… I'll be fine." She approached him, hand on his chest. "Ser Gawen and Ser Dick won't let anyone harm me, nor would Dark Sister or Dreamfyre."

Trailing up, Maegor cupped her cheek. "You can't begrudge me for worrying. The plan… it is an audacious one with many moving parts that can go wrong. We cannot even be sure that the Vulture King is in the area."

Clarisse Dayne's information was partially verified, but there were still holes as Dick Bean presented rather competently for a hedge knight and former man-at-arms. The ambush party that Rhaena insisted on leading would be going into some very dangerous waters. She knew the risks though and was willing to take them. "This is likely our only chance to end the war, and I cannot let the Realm see me as some weak woman."

"You're not."

"You know that, I want them to."

Sighing, Maegor knew when he was beat. Those two pleading violet eyes… they entranced him. He couldn't say no to her. "Alright, but full armor, and I want a guard around you the whole time of my choosing."

The terms were acceptable. "Done." With that, Rhaena threw herself into her uncle's arms, unabashedly kissing him. "I love you, Maegor…" It was easy for her to come to his chambers because it was a nightly occurrence. It was easy to strip down because for weeks now his bed was in actuality their bed. The Tarly servants didn't come into the guest wing, leaving Maegor with only the most trustworthy of his own retinue to service the area. All could keep a secret, and they still were discrete anyway.

What desperate, frenzied passion accompanied their initial couplings hadn't cooled in the slightest, but familiarity bred a more… gentle pace. Their lips were melded powerfully, Maegor with experience, Rhaena with boundless youthful energy, and both with dragonfire igniting in their veins. The exhaustions and irritations of the day were forgotten, both simply comfortable in each other's embrace.

Maegor guided them to the large bed, draping her over the furs. He smiled as she laughed throatily, bidding him forward. Pulling him heavy atop her when he climbed above onto the bed. Kisses deepened in intensity and reach, hands wandering and exploring their most intimate areas. Her nightgown and his breeches joined their other clothes upon the ground, leaving them bare as their nameday.

Thus leading to their current configuration.

"Kessa…" Rhaena moaned, one hand fisting the furs underneath her while the other speared through Maegor's silver hair. Silently begging for him to continue. "More… I need it…" His lips hot along the curve of her neck. Sucking her nipples, the sensitive nubs nearly making her shatter on their own. How he trailed his tongue down her belly and then between her legs. "Gods… you're wonderful."

Maegor smiled to himself, blowing air on her wet cunt and watching her squirm. "Do you want it, Rhaena?"

"Oh, yes please, uncle. Please, avy jorrāelan." Rhaena was rewarded right after, her dragon's tongue licking a slow strip up her slit. "Kessa... please..." She tried not to moan as he swiped through her folds, finger flicking at her clit and making Rhaena want to scream.

So primed by his touch, by the sheer love they had come to share for each other, Maegor grinned against her heat as she came onto his face. Her soft mewls music to his ears. "I love you, Rhaena." A gentle kiss to her cunt led to a trail of kisses up her body, ending with a languid one on her lips. Tongue plunging into her mouth as his cock slipped inside her. "Oh gods, I love you so much."

She kissed him hard in lieu of an answer, biting on his bottom lip. Rhaena rocked her hips into his thrusts - he was her only male lover and the one that took her maidenhead, but weeks upon weeks of practice had led her into a rhythm. Was this normal, or just them? Rhaena thought the latter and simply let go. Enjoying both her pleasure and the bliss that overcame Maegor's expression each time they made love.

Limbs tangled together, Maegor's thrusts began to deepen. He bottomed out with each stroke, making her mewl loudly and grip his muscular back. Their lips never broke, fused together in a tangle of love and passion. Eyes never wavering from each other as they screamed their climaxes into each other's mouths.

Sighing in contentment, Rhaena snuggled against him. Never feeling more loved or secure as when she laid in her uncle's arms. Her lover's arms. Maegor's arms. If this was all a dream she never would've wanted to wake up.

"The war will be over soon, if we catch him," she heard him speak.

"Aye, an end to the fighting and dying."

But he sighed. "That is true, but also an end to our being away from King's Landing."

Suddenly Rhaena put it together. "So… what of us?"

"I don't know, Rhaena." Feeling her tremble, Maegor tilted her head to his. "I love you… gods, I've fallen for you deeper than the greatest abyss."

"Yet we can't be together." A tear pricked at her eye in spite of it all.

He cupped her cheek. "I… I don't know. Ceryse… she doesn't deserve this and I love her still, yet imagining you married to someone else makes me…" Maegor clenched a fist. "When we return, we will need to break from this."

"Forever?" The thought made her react as if struck.

Maegor kissed her. Pouring his heart long enough for her to relax in his embrace. "Not forever… just long enough for me to find some solution. Muna would help, as would Rhaenys if I asked."

"Kepa wouldn't support us… definitely not muna." Rhaena hugged him tighter. "I don't want to hurt you, uncle."

"You don't. You are the greatest balm for me." Rhaena said nothing, just leaning up and kissing him again.

Dulled blades clashing together, Prince Aegon feinted retreat, forcing his opponent to come after him and disrupt his footing. He quickly took advantage, twirling and hacking down… just barely parried and countered, Aegon leaping to the side.

Rogar Baratheon kept his greatsword up, but smirked. "Impressive, your Grace." He and Aegon circled each other, eyes peeled for any movement. "I see much of your grandfather in you."

"I share his might as well as his name and looks, Ser Rogar," the Prince observed, trying to fight his exhaustion with a burning fury. Easing his wrist, he twirled the longsword to keep ready to strike - determined to show the gathered crowd he truly was worthy of his namesake. That Blackfyre should've been his.

Only the best of instructors, the finest of training in swordsplay arts from all over Westeros and the east and yet he strained against the pure fury of Rogar Baratheon, already a veteran of a dozen battles and fights. He still had a long way to go it seemed, but Aegon was certain he would… simply in his blood.

He would beat the future Lord of Storm's End this day.

"Waiting patiently, my Prince," Rogar taunted, halting in place and smirking provocatively at Aegon. "Are you waiting for me to sing you to sleep?"

Seeing his mother suddenly arrive, watching from the sidelines, Aegon felt an extra incentive to win the spar - to impress her, and reject the barbs sent his way by his new instructor. Bellowing a war cry, he raised his blade and charged… not a mad dash deprived of any thought, but calculating. Managing to dart down and sweep at Ser Rogar's legs.

A good move, but one Rogar had anticipated. He leapt up before landing a foot on the blade. Jerking forward, he forced Aegon back, causing the Prince to lose grip of his sword still pinned underneath Rogar's boot. The Baratheon knight then leveled his own blade at Aegon's chest, smiling. "Yield, my Prince."

Aegon burned with anger and embarrassment. "I yield," he ground out.

Rogar let his sword fall to his side, claps resonating from the onlookers as his posture relaxed. "You are improving daily, your Grace. Soon you shall be as fine a swordsman as your uncle."

Those weren't the right words, making Aegon roll his eyes. "Thank you, Ser," he nevertheless stated. His father wanted well-mannered children, and it wouldn't do Aegon any bit of good if Aenys found out he insulted the Baratheon heir. Bowing… to which Rogar did as well, Egg tossed his blade to a servant and stormed out.

"My darling son." Before he could leave he was intercepted by Alyssa, hugging him close. "You are my warrior son - I'm so proud of you." She kissed his cheek.

"I lost, mother," he replied.

"You are still so young and Ser Rogar is an experienced warrior. It would be like losing to Lord Commander Gawen or Lord Myles Smallwood."

"Or uncle Maegor."

Alyssa swallowed, trying not to grimace. "Yes, like your… uncle." She sighed. "A word of advice from your loving mother, please try and keep your temper in check. You have no need to rush or prove yourself, just to become better. Better each day until you can claim your grandfather's mantle."

He glowered. "Easy for you to say, mother. You have your prodigy with her dragon and her military command." Before Alyssa could respond, her son stormed off - leaving her alone.

Wiping an errant tear from her face, Alyssa clasped her hands together. He is too much like his father for his own good. Once that would've given her heart nothing but flutters of happiness at the thought of it, but now…? Aenys and I tried to raise him, but such personalities always arise. Just like him, which was why the Queen prayed Rhaena would come to her senses.

Then again, seeing his elder sister and youngest siblings gain dragons of their own was likely creating jealousy and inadequacy in Aegon. Perhaps he is like Maegor… ready to bond with a living dragon. Perhaps Vhagar would be his, as Visenya couldn't last much longer. Right?

"Forgive me, your Grace, but I find that worrying so plainly can cause beauty to fade." She turned to see Rogar next to her.

"Oh, Ser Rogar." Alyssa greatly enjoyed the young knight's company, not to mention his rather competent advice raised in the Small Council sessions. Polite and decisive in fighting, he was like Maegor… only without the sadistic, callous streak Alyssa knew all too well. "You shouldn't be so informal with me."

Rogar bowed. "Forgiveness. I merely find myself in ease of serving you and his Grace. We are kin, as well." The Queen was beautiful… age not having harmed a single percent of her looks, but such wasn't why Rogar was here. "You need not be worried about the Prince. He is progressing perfectly for a young royal in the art of war."

"Thank you, good Ser." That was a relief. "I am hoping my husband sends him to his first campaign. The wildlings are massing and it is worrying my goodsister."

The North? No, cannot have that. "The frozen wastes are not where a Prince should be. There are rumblings of resistance against House Qoherys in the Riverlands. Perhaps I can make sure he's stationed there as co-commander alongside Myles Smallwood."

"You would do that?" Alyssa smiled. "Thank you, Ser Rogar." She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was chaste, but lit a fire in her belly.

One he noticed.

Ser Rogar was in a good mood after that, it even improving when he saw almost a minute after he left the sparring grounds just the person he wished to visit next. "Ah, Ser Damon. How are you this fine day?"

"What do you want, Baratheon?" the Grand Captain of the Warrior's Sons asked him gruffly. "I am a very busy man."

"Nothing major," Rogar replied. "Just was hoping that I could seek a prayer to the warrior before the tourney next week. When conducted by his most holy servant, I am sure he'd listen to my pleas for victory."

Damon Morrigen shook his head. "The Warrior doesn't concern himself with your tourney winnings, so run off and pray yourself if you so desire for it. As I said, I…"

"Am a very busy man, yes, I know." Rogar found Ser Damon rigid and stupid, but even those people had their uses. "Perhaps my solo prayer will find his favor. My father speaks otherwise, but the decree of the Seven's most holy servant to take up the sword outweighs his in my view.

Blinking, Ser Damon was confused. "Wait, what did Lord Orys say?"

Rogar shrugged. "I never see him in the sept, though I'm sure he keeps a shrine to the gods of Old Valyria as his Targaryen ancestors did - while that is all well and good, I find myself called to the Seven." At Morrigen's barely concealed anger, Rogar wanted to laugh. This was only too easy.

"Your father should repent, good Ser… I mean no offense," Damon hastily added. "The Seven will bless Lord Orys' soul if he repents and accepts the Father's light."