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Chapter Text

When the knocks came at his office door Lyman was just about at his wits’ end. He was looking over the annual taxes from the Reach and, once again, the Redwyne’s seemed somewhat lacking. While they had still delivered several times the coin of their nearest neighbours, with the Arbor under their control Lyman would have expected more. Their wines were the most popular in the realm. By the gods, he had a carafe of Arbor Red sitting on his desk!

However, it was a measly sum of twenty thousand golden dragons in taxes that the crown had received this year. Lyman was sure that the Redwynes were falsifying their ledgers but had never been able to find proof. He had brought the matter to the attention of the king, wishing to press for a full accounting, but found his concerns brushed aside. In previous years this would not have bothered him so much but the crown’s coffers were still suffering from Prince Daemon’s short tenure as Master of Coin.

Therefore it was somewhat of a relief when the three powerful knocks rang out and turned his attention from the vexing figures. “Enter,” Lyman called, placing his quill down upon the desk. When the door swung open he was surprised to see the figure of Ser Harrold Westerling, resplendent in the white armour of the Kingsguard.

“Princess Rhaenyra to see you, my lord,” Ser Harrold announced, stepping aside to allow the princess to stride confidently into the room.

Lyman rose from his seat to greet her. “Princess,” he said as he dropped into a respectful bow. “How fare you this day?”

“Well, Lord Beesbury. How are the realm’s ledgers?”she replied, giving a cursory glance to his desk.

“Ignoring several … discrepancies they are as expected.”

Now that pleasantries were out of the way Lyman wondered at the reason for her visit. “Has the king sent you with a message?”

Princess Rhaenyra was no mere page but Lyman could think of no other reason for her to visit him in his office. Aside from idle conversation prior to Small Council meetings and at feasts, Lyman could not recall ever actually speaking to the young princess.

“No, I have come to you for assistance. You see my father has entrusted me with a task and I find myself rather unsure how to go about it. I believe your ledgers would be a good starting point.”

“A task, princess?” he enquired.

“Yes.” Princess Rhaenyra’s chin lifted and a hint of pride entered her voice. “Septa Marlow has been teaching Alicent and I about the founding of King’s Landing and I was discussing it with my parents at dinner. My father said that if I was so interested in the city, I should present a report to the Small Council on what ails its people.” Her hands came together to fidget with one of the several rings she wore. “I have never been given such a responsibility before but I thought to ask you for information on what works are being funded in the city at present.”

Lyman felt his brow furrow at this. While the princess had served as her father’s cupbearer since she was eight years old, the king had never shown an inclination to involve her further in the politics of the realm. The compilation of such a report seemed too large an issue for her to cut her teeth on. For that matter King Viserys had never expressed much interest in the state of King’s Landing at all.

However, it was not for Lyman to question the will of the king.

“I fear I have little information that will be of use to you, princess,” he said as he walked over to one of the shelves lining the wall and pulled out a ledger. “The only coin being funnelled into King’s Landing at present is going to Prince Daemon and his reforms of the City Watch.”

Gesturing for the princess to take the chair opposite his desk, Lyman returned and sank back into his own seat. Opening the ledger to the relevant pages, he laid it in front of her so she could view the figures.

Glancing at the columns, Princess Rhaenyra’s eyes widened as she took in the exorbitant sums her uncle required and a low curse escaped her lips. Remembering herself, the princess raised her head to meet his gaze once again. “Forgive me, Lord Beesbury. I was unaware that it cost so much to dye cloaks gold.”

“More than one would expect, though thousands were required,” Lyman replied, unable to contain his grimace. The gold cloaks had been a particular point of contention when negotiating the City Watch’s expenses and he still believed them to be wholly superfluous. However, Prince Daemon had deemed them essential and so more coin had been carved out.

Returning to the matter at hand, Lyman continued, “While the crown previously took an interest in the city, I fear such efforts have … lapsed during King Viserys’s reign.”

A frown came over Princess Rhaenyra’s face. “How? Surely it is important that we maintain our capital and its people?”

“During the reign of King Jaehaerys it was Queen Alysanne that was the main advocate for the smallfolk,” he explained. “Her women’s courts allowed women of all births to discuss their fears and needs. The queen attended Small Council meetings alongside the king and was able to bring these issues to attention. This resulted in the abolishment of the right of first night and the passing of the Widow’s Law, among others. The queen also pressed for the construction of fountains throughout King’s Landing to provide the smallfolk with clean drinking water, as well as funding for various other charitable works.”

“I have been taught of my great-grandmother’s works, Lord Beesbury,” Princess Rhaenyra replied primly. “What I do not understand is why such projects seem to have entirely ceased.”

Lyman thought carefully on his next words so as not to cause offence to the princess. The simple truth was that Queen Aemma had never been well enough to don the mantle Queen Alysanne had left behind. It had been asked during one of King Viserys’s early Small Council meetings whether the queen would be joining them. The king had dismissed the notion as the queen had recently experienced a stillbirth and was recovering. It was decided to revisit the queen’s attendance when a healthy prince had been born. Which had never come to pass.

With each successive babe lost the queen had been participating less and less in court life. For her last few pregnancies Queen Aemma had been mostly confined to her chambers by order of the Grand Maester. It was hoped that bed rest and a lack of stress would lead to a successful pregnancy.

“Following the example set by Queen Alysanne, it was expected that the next queen would represent the interests of the smallfolk,” Lyman finally said. “However, Queen Aemma’s wellbeing was considered to be of the utmost importance and it was thought that such responsibilities would unduly burden her.”

“I see,” the princess scoffed. “Was my mother even consulted over this decision?”

Lyman hesitated, unsure how to respond as Queen Aemma had not been, to the best of his knowledge.

“I suppose it makes no difference now,” she continued, a definite bite in her tone. “And no member of the Small Council has given any thought to King’s Landing since?”

He shook his head. “To be frank, aside from the City Watch and matters of crime, the city has been given little attention.”

“Very well.” The disappointment was clear as Princess Rhaenyra slumped in her chair. “I had been hoping for rather more information than that. Might any of your fellow councillors have anything more?”

“I doubt it, princess,” Lyman replied. Lord Velaryon cared for nothing more inland than the city’s harbour, Lord Lyonel only its judiciary and neither Ser Otto nor the Grand Maester had any interest that he was aware of.

Princess Rhaenyra thought for a few moments. “In that case I suppose I shall just have to question the people directly. There must be some servants around with opinions on the state of the city. Although most of them live in the Red Keep.” She stared into the distance before her gaze focused again. “Ser Harrold could accompany me into King’s Landing and I could speak to people there.”

Lyman felt his face blanch at the thought of the princess wandering around the city talking to random smallfolk. “Or there is another organisation that you could turn to for information.”

She looked at him blankly.

“The Faith, princess. They are involved in many charitable works throughout King’s Landing and would be better able to discuss the needs of the people.”

At this she could not stop a low groan from escaping her lips. “Does it need to be the Faith?”

“I believe they may be the ones best able to advise you on this.”

“I do not get on well with members of the Faith, Lord Beesbury,” the princess said. “Nor do they get on well with me.”

Lyman recalled that she had gone through several septas in as many years. Most of them had found her to be too unruly and wilful from what he had heard. It was true that Princess Rhaenyra was hardly the most pious maiden in the realm. Indeed, Lyman only remembered seeing her at a service in the sept once. It had been the previous year in the aftermath of the death of Ser Otto’s wife, Lady Melara. The princess had accompanied her bereaved lady-in-waiting, Lady Alicent, who had clung to her arm for the whole service.

“Oh.” Princess Rhaenyra brightened. “I can ask Alicent to help me. She is much better with such matters than I am. The septons and septas will love talking to her.”

That was not a bad idea. House Hightower of Oldtown, home of the Starry Sept and the High Septon, had always been a house known for its piety. Many of their number served as septons and septas throughout the realm. From her regular attendance at the sept, Lady Alicent seemed to be no exception to her family’s devotion to the Faith.

“I thank you for your assistance, Lord Beesbury,” the princess continued, her expression resolute. “Alicent will speak with the Faith and I can question the servants and the smallfolk.” She stood to leave.

Lyman stood as well, feeling that he had not actually been of much help. “Once you have gathered information on what the people of King’s Landing need I would be happy to look over your findings. I can show you how to compile a report if you wish.”

Princess Rhaenyra looked surprised but grateful for the offer. “That would be most kind. I have never been trusted with such a responsibility before and do not want to let my father down. Thank you.”

It struck Lyman then how young the princess still was. While three-and-ten and a woman flowered – as had been reported during an awkward Small Council meeting – youthful fat still clung to her cheeks and she remained several inches shorter than his own insubstantial height. However, Princess Rhaenyra seemed earnestly enthusiastic about completing the task that the king had assigned her.

“You are most welcome, princess,” Lyman responded with a short bow.

Returning this with a nod of acknowledgement, she turned and left his office.

Lyman stood for several heartbeats, mulling over what had just taken place. Well, that was a change. With a shake of his head, he retook his seat and returned his focus to House Redwyne’s taxes.

It was several weeks before Princess Rhaenyra returned to his office. During that time Lyman had come across her several times in the corridors of the keep, quill in hand, taking notes as a bewildered servant talked to her.

When the princess arrived it was with several sheaves of parchment in hand. Barely giving Ser Harrold time to announce her, she burst into his office and threw herself down into the chair opposite him. Spreading the papers on his desk, Princess Rhaenyra looked up at him expectantly. “I think I have gathered enough information about what ails the people of King’s Landing. How do I write a report?”

Lyman took a moment to try and calm his heart and regain his composure after her abrupt entry before responding. “The king prefers for reports to contain a brief summary followed by explanations in more detail,” he said, although he privately wondered how often the king read beyond the brief summaries. “Might I have a look over what you have compiled, princess?”

The pile of parchment Princess Rhaenyra had brought was handed over with a faint look of pride. Flicking through the papers, it did not appear that this was the most orderly collection of information Lyman had ever received. Indeed, much of it consisted of disjointed statements like ‘price of bread too high’ and ‘Hobb on Street of Flour using false weights’. Several of the pages also appeared to be written in High Valyrian. He raised an eyebrow questioningly at her.

“The Dragonkeepers live in the city,” she replied to his unanswered question. “And I see them most days when I visit Syrax. It made sense to ask them.”

As far as Lyman was aware, the Dragonkeepers lived in special barracks attached to the Dragonpit. He was unsure what knowledge they would possess on the general needs of the people. “Might I ask, how are these pages currently organised?”

“Information from the servants is at the top, then the smallfolk, the Dragonkeepers, Mysaria and what Alicent found out from the Faith is at the bottom.”

“Mysaria?” Lyman questioned. He thought he recognised the name but could not recall where from. One of the courtiers that resided within the keep?

“Oh, well, given how often my uncle spends time in the city, I asked him if he knew anyone I could speak with.” The princess gestured in the general direction of King’s Landing proper. “He brought Mysaria to meet with me when she was visiting him several days later. I believe she is his current paramour.”

Gods be good! Lyman recalled where he had heard the name now. Ser Otto often brought up Prince Daemon’s depravities and had recently made special mention of the Lysene brothel owner he flaunted. The thought of a princess of the blood speaking with a … a … denizen of the Street of Silk! Lyman could not imagine the scandal if such information became known around court.

“Mysaria was actually very informative,” Princess Rhaenyra continued, seemingly taking no notice of his reaction. “According to her it is far too expensive to see a learned healer in the city. Many of her girls struggle to pay if they catch any diseases.” Her nose scrunched up. “Although Mysaria would not give me any details of what the diseases they suffer from are.”

Deciding it was best to move on from this topic as hastily as possible, Lyman interjected, “You said you were able to gather information from the smallfolk?”

“Yes,” the princess replied. “Ser Harrold prevented me from venturing off the main streets but I have been able to speak to people when going to-and-fro the Dragonpit.”

“And Lady Alicent was able to find information from the Faith?”

Princess Rhaenyra pulled out the bottom-most papers and handed them over to him. “Alicent said the septons and septas of King’s Landing were most eager to speak to a Hightower, especially one who is the daughter of the lord Hand and has the ear of the princess.”

This section was more organised and in a far neater hand than the princess’s cramped writing. Indeed, looking over the meticulous presentation of the information, Lyman wondered if Ser Otto had been passing some of his own work onto his daughter.

The contents were at first disappointing although unsurprising: the septons that Lady Alicent had consulted believed that many in King’s Landing had turned away from the light of the Seven. They believed that the most pressing needs of the smallfolk were spiritual and that a new sept should be built for the lowborn. However, there were reports from some septas with a more pragmatic view. They had commented on the grim fate that met the destitute, the lack of trained midwives and the crime that plagued King’s Landing. While the last of those was now under the purview of Prince Daemon, Lady Alicent had gathered plenty of useful material.

“Very well then.” Lyman took a deep breath and began explaining to Princess Rhaenyra how to organise all her information into something resembling a coherent report.

Chapter Text

A Small Council meeting was scheduled to take place a few days later, where Princess Rhaenyra planned to present her report. While Lyman had gone over with her how best to organise the information she had gathered, the princess was insistent that she could write it by herself.

When he arrived at the Small Council chamber that day he was the first councillor there but Princess Rhaenyra was already present. Standing next to the side table that held a jug of wine, she appeared to be reviewing her work as she flicked through a small pile of parchment.

“Good day, princess,” Lyman greeted as he reached her. “How are you feeling?”

“Good day, Lord Beesbury.” She placed down her papers and turned to face him. The shadows under her eyes stood out against the pallor of her skin. “I am … eager to share my findings. Hopefully my father will find them useful.”

“Is everything in order then?”

Princess Rhaenyra nodded. “I had Alicent look over my report and she considered it presentable.”

Glancing down, Lyman could see that her papers did indeed appear neat and orderly. Though it seemed to have cost the princess at least one sleepless night.

“Just remember to speak slowly and clearly,” he advised. “Do not feel the need to rush. The first report I gave in this chamber, I was so nervous that half of it came out garbled!”

“Thank you, Lord Beesbury. Both for your advice and for your instruction.” Sincerity shined in her eyes as she thanked him.

“You are most welcome, princess,” Lyman replied, unable to stop a smile from curling the corner of his lip.

Their conversation halted with the arrival of Lord Lyonel and Grand Maester Mellos. Lyman took his seat and placed his orb in its holder while Princess Rhaenyra began readying the wine. Soon all the members of the Small Council had arrived barring Prince Daemon, who was apparently too occupied with his work with the City Watch. The king then opened the meeting with a discussion on how best to respond to new incursions by Dorne into the Marches.

From there the Small Council session proceeded much as normal. Although Lyman thought he heard the princess fidgeting behind him several times and she was unusually diligent in keeping everyone’s goblets topped up.

Finally, after several hours, the king began to bring the meeting to a close. “Very well then, does anyone have any further matters they wish to discuss?”

Hearing Princess Rhaenyra approach the table from behind him, Lyman turned to give her a nod and an encouraging smile.

“If I might, Your Grace, my lords, I have a report on the needs of the people of King’s Landing,” she said, coming to stand between him and the Grand Maester.

An expression of confusion passed over the king’s face as he stared at his daughter. “You have a report to deliver?”

Lyman noticed his fellow councillors exchanging glances out of the corners of his eyes.

The confusion on the princess’s face mirrored the king’s. “Yes.” There was a note of hesitation in her voice. “At dinner with mother, about a moon ago, you asked me to put together a report on the people of King’s Landing. I have completed it.”

The king just looked at his daughter blankly for several heartbeats. Lyman felt a sinking sensation in his belly. Then the king burst into laughter. This continued for several moments until he had gathered breath enough to speak. “Gods be good, that was a jest, Rhaenyra!”

“A jest?" she replied incredulously.

“Yes! It had been a long day and you spent all of dinner that night jabbering on about your lessons on King’s Landing. I was just trying to move to another topic of conversation.”

The princess’s cheeks flared red, although whether this was from anger or humiliation Lyman could not tell.

Unfortunately taking no heed of her reaction, the king continued on. “The most learned men in the realm at my command and you thought I wanted to know the state of this city from my thirteen-year-old daughter?" He guffawed.

This comment prompted a ripple of mirth around the room. Even Ser Ryam Redwyne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, let out a quiet snigger. Only Lyman himself and Lord Lyonel remained silent.

For a moment Lyman thought that Princess Rhaenyra would flee the chamber. There was a definite sheen to her eyes and her breathing was slightly uneven. Then, with a slow inhale, she seemed to gather herself. Her spine straightened and chin rose with an arrogant tilt that reminded him of Prince Daemon.

“Well, Your Grace, I have prepared the report so it may as well be heard.” The princess’s voice did not waver and Lyman felt a rush of pride at her comportment.

The king stood, the rest of the Small Council hastening to follow suit, and made his way around the table to his daughter’s side. Taking the papers none too gently from her hands, he set them down before moving to the side table containing the wine.

“You are here as a cupbearer, not an advisor,” the king said. He then picked up the jug of wine and pressed it into her hands. “Remember your duties. Now, we will speak no more of this.” The smile on his face had a definite patronising hint to it. “If there are no further matters I believe we are done for the day.”

After his councillors murmured their agreement, King Viserys walked out of the chamber with Ser Ryam following in his wake. Slowly, the others gathered their things and followed, Ser Otto with a definite smirk on his face. Princess Rhaenyra stood unmoving at Lyman’s side, the jug of wine grasped tightly in her hands.

When they were alone Lyman turned to her. “Princess, I—”

“Wine, Lord Beesbury?” She interrupted, gesturing with the jug towards his goblet. “It seems it is all I am good for.”

He shook his head in response.

At this the princess turned to the side table, grabbed one of the spare goblets, poured herself a generous measure of wine and then returned to the Small Council table, sinking into the chair next to him that was traditionally occupied by the Grand Maester. Wasting little time, Princess Rhaenyra drained about half the goblet. She then began absent-mindedly fiddling with the papers she had brought to the meeting.

“If it pleases you, I would be interested in viewing your findings,” Lyman said into the ensuing silence. Their talks had made him rather curious about the state of the populace of King’s Landing. Also, it seemed unfair that all the work the princess had done in the last moon should be disregarded.

“There is no need to placate me.” Her tone was waspish. “I am sure it is just childish nonsense anyway.” Abruptly, Princess Rhaenyra rose again with her report in hand, strode to the nearest fireplace and threw it into the flames. The anger seemed to drain out of her then as she rejoined him at the table, gaze downcast. “I must apologise, I have wasted a great deal of your time.”

It was not Princess Rhaenyra who should be apologising, Lyman thought with a sudden surge of anger towards the king. “It was no trouble, princess,” he replied. “I rather enjoyed the reprieve from counting coppers.”

Her lips did not even twitch at his poor attempt at humour. Indeed, the princess seemed to be lost in thought. “I should have known better than to think the king was being serious. As if he pays me enough attention to notice my efforts.”

“Your efforts, princess?” Lyman queried, unsure what she was referring to.

Though her gaze rose to meet his own there was still a faraway look to Princess Rhaenyra’s violet eyes. “Since last year I have been the first to arrive at every Small Council meeting and have not missed a single one. I have been diligent in my studies, even requested extra work. I doubt Septa Marlow would have a bad word to say about me. I thought if I could make the king see me, see that I could handle more responsibility …” she trailed off.

“You were hoping to be given extra duties, a more prominent position at court?” Lyman asked, feeling his brow furrow in confusion. The princess was only three-and-ten and had never struck him as being particularly ambitious. Despite all the courtiers present in the keep, leeching off King Viserys’s good will and finite coin, she made little attempt to foster good relations and future alliances. Indeed, Princess Rhaenyra’s only companion and lady-in-waiting was Lady Alicent Hightower.

She sat quietly for several moments, twisting one of the ornate rings on her fingers. “I love my mother.”

It was a strange non sequitur so Lyman remained silent.

“I remember she used to play with me when I was a child,” the princess continued. “Chase me, laughing, through the godswood. Do you know, Lord Beesbury, I cannot recall the last time I saw my mother truly happy.” Her voice broke on that last word. “After she lost Aerion last year, the Grand Maester was unsure if my mother would survive. There was a significant amount of blood lost. I was even brought in to say my final goodbyes.”

Lyman thought back to the previous year when the queen had delivered a stillborn son after six months of pregnancy. He did not know the poor babe had been given a name. “I was unaware that Queen Aemma came so close to meeting the Stranger.” Such information should have been disclosed to the Small Council at the very least.

That provoked a humourless chuckle. “Ah, but that would involve the king admitting the truth to himself. No, he would much prefer to force my mother into the childbed once again, damn the consequences. I thought if I could prove myself to him, if I could show I was as competent as any son would be, show I was worthy …” She looked to the head of the table, the seat normally occupied by her father. By the king.

It slotted into place for Lyman then. “You were hoping to be named heir.”

Princess Rhaenyra nodded in affirmation. “If he names me as heir then he has no need of a son. My mother can finally be allowed to rest.”

It was a bold plan. There had been several women with credible claims to the throne since Aegon the Conqueror but all had been passed over in favour of male relatives, most notably Princess Rhaenys.

“No queen has ever held the Iron Throne,” he said gently, reflecting on that day at Harrenhal when the lords of the realm had selected the then Prince Viserys as his grandsire’s heir. Despite, Lyman could admit in his own thoughts, Princess Rhaenys being more suited to the crown and the one that had gained his own vote.

“Do you think I do not know that?” The princess sounded resigned. “I thought at first for my uncle to be officially named Prince of Dragonstone. He boasts enough that he is already the heir. I suggested to the king that a position on the Small Council might temper Daemon. Maybe if he showed he could take his duties seriously … However, he lacked the inclination for it.”

“The prince joining the Small Council was your idea?” Lyman still remembered the sting of humiliation as the king replaced him as Master of Coin with Prince Daemon. And the terrible state the crown’s finances had been in when he got the position back. The thought of the prince becoming king sent a shudder down Lyman’s spine.

“I expected that the king would name him an advisor, not Master of Laws or Master of Coin,” the princess defended. “The only experience my uncle has with coin is spending it. Anyway, none of that matters now. When it became clear the king would never name my uncle heir I had to present a new candidate.”

“Yourself,” Lyman replied. He could see the logic of the idea from her perspective.

“I have not put a foot wrong since last year. When he asked me to write a report on the city’s people I thought it was a test. Something to gauge my competence. But no, it was just a jest.” Lyman thought he could see wetness shimmering in Princess Rhaenyra’s eyes.

“The king neglecting to name you heir is not because of a personal failing on your part.” Frankly, Lyman was unsure if the idea had ever crossed the king’s mind, despite the law of the land favouring her over Prince Daemon; a man’s daughter inherited before his brother.

“Just the failing that I was born a daughter rather than a son.” With that statement the princess stood. “If you will excuse me, Lord Beesbury, it has been entirely too long since Syrax stretched her wings.”

“Of course,” Lyman replied, rising to his own feet. “And my office will always be open to you, princess. If you ever wished to speak.” It was all the support he could offer.

Returning this gesture with a nod of acknowledgement, she turned and walked out of the Small Council chamber.

The next time Lyman saw the princess was when she came to his office and apologised for her emotional outburst in the Small Council chamber. He assured her that no apology was necessary but Princess Rhaenyra seemed rather embarrassed by the whole affair.

After that, matters in the Red Keep largely returned to normal. The princess remained diligent in her attendance of Small Council meetings but had not made any further attempts to speak. He did though often see her in the keep’s library with Lady Alicent, poring over various tomes.

It was therefore somewhat of a surprise when, half a year later, Lyman arrived at a Small Council meeting to a young page pouring the wine. Before he could enquire as to Princess Rhaenyra’s whereabouts, he noticed the beaming smile on the king’s face. Queen Aemma was pregnant once again.

Chapter Text

With the announcement of Queen Aemma’s latest pregnancy, Princess Rhaenyra’s behaviour reverted to that of past years. She often turned up late to Small Council meetings, a pungent aroma that Lyman soon realised was that of dragon wafting off her. While before the princess had attended to her cupbearer duties diligently, she now often appeared lost in thought with a melancholy look upon her face. It likely did not help that King Viserys could frequently be heard saying how much he looked forward to the birth of his son.

In celebration the king decided to organise a tourney to coincide with when his wife was expected to take to childbed. Lyman protested this. Given the queen’s previous difficulties, he suggested they wait to host the tourney until after the babe had been safely born. The king, however, would not be deterred, insisting that he would finally have his son and heir and that this should be marked.

The tourney was not to be a small affair. Ravens were sent out to lords and knights across the realm inviting them to partake in the events. Alongside the joust, there was to be a melee, hand-to-hand combat and an archery contest. The winner of each event would be awarded a generous purse as their prize. It was these purses that caused Lyman no end of aggravation in the lead-up to the tourney.

While King Viserys had inherited a healthy treasury from his grandsire, his predilection for lavish feasts, tourneys and hunts was steadily diminishing it. Lyman only hoped he could recoup some of the costs of the tourney from all the coin that visiting nobles would spend in the city. He made a note to again raise with the Small Council the possibility of increasing the tax on bringing luxury items into the realm. Lord Velaryon would not be pleased but Lyman would weather that storm when it came.

Soon, knights and lords from all over the realm were converging on King’s Landing for what promised to be a week of festivities and valour.

The morning of the heir’s tourney – as the Small Council had dubbed it – dawned bright and clear, conditions at the grounds as good as could be. After putting so much effort into organising the events Lyman was looking forward to taking a break and enjoying himself. It also served to take his mind off the brutal horde that Prince Daemon had unleashed in his so-called gold cloaks. With all the coin Lyman had invested in the City Watch, he had been hoping for more than a force of violent, upjumped thugs.

It seemed the day was off to an auspicious start when King Viserys announced that the queen’s labours had begun, which also explained Princess Rhaenyra’s tardiness at taking her seat. After an early upset in the lists as Lord Boremund Baratheon was defeated by a knight of little standing, Lyman won several golden dragons when Prince Daemon rather dishonourably unhorsed Ser Gwayne Hightower. Ser Otto would be angry for a long time over that result. While Lyman was not fond of the Rogue Prince, he was fond of anything that took the Hand down a peg or two.

With House Beesbury sworn to House Hightower he had known Ser Otto since boyhood, often seeing him at various events in or around Oldtown. Ser Otto had always been self-serious with a haughty attitude towards those he considered his lessers. Lyman remembered one instance from a feast that took place about halfway through his third decade. Seated next to Ser Otto, he had attempted idle conversation with the young man but found himself repeatedly rebuffed in favour of the Florent on Ser Otto’s other side. Back then Lyman had stood to inherit nothing but the rudeness still rankled.

Other second sons with Ser Otto’s aptitude for learning might have gone to the Citadel but he had higher aspirations. When asked to serve as Hand of the King upon the death of Prince Baelon, Ser Otto took control of the realm due to the Old King’s failing health. While this would have been a suitable time for the then Prince Viserys to come into his role as heir and begin taking on more duties, it had been the newly installed Hand that governed.

The under-prepared King Viserys had then leaned much on his lord Hand during the initial years of his reign. Even now, after ten years of ruling, Lyman thought that the king followed the opinions of Ser Otto far too closely.

Shaking such thoughts from his mind Lyman watched as a maester relayed a message to the king, who then left the stands. He doubted it was good news. The queen could not possibly have laboured long enough to give birth yet; it had only been a couple of hours.

After that the day took a turn for the worse. Bloodshed erupted in the tourney as several of the competing knights met violent ends, forcing Lyman to cast his gaze away several times. Throughout this Ser Otto kept the Small Council appraised of the queen’s worsening state as she weakened with no sign that the birth was progressing.

Lyman sent up a prayer to the Mother for the health of Queen Aemma and the babe. He was unsure how any member of the royal family would cope with another child lost. While he and his wife had been blessed enough to suffer only one early miscarriage, that had been devastating enough. It was a testament to the queen that she found the strength to continue after losing five children since her husband had been crowned.

His prayers went unanswered. With each new message from the Red Keep, Ser Otto’s face grew graver. By the time Prince Daemon was defeated at the hands of a common-born knight, Lyman found he could barely pay attention to the tourney.

Finally he received the dreaded news, whispered to him by Lord Lyonel. “The queen is dead and the young prince is not expected to live out the day. We are needed.”

Lyman sat for a moment in stunned silence. By the gods! Queen Aemma dead and her long-awaited son due to swiftly follow. Princess Rhaenyra and the king would be devastated. And what this meant for the succession he could not even fathom. Gathering his composure, Lyman hastened to follow his fellow Small Council members out of the stands. However, it was then that his eyes caught on the silver hair of Princess Rhaenyra, still sitting in the front row with Lady Alicent.

He looked around to see if any attendants were going to the princess. Surely the king had sent someone to summon her so he could inform his daughter of the tragedy that was unfolding. Even now whispers were spreading throughout the stands. However, Princess Rhaenyra and her lady-in-waiting sat undisturbed, Ser Harrold standing behind them.

Lyman hesitated. Surely it was not his place to break such calamitous news to the princess. While they saw each other at Small Council meetings they had barely exchanged a word since her ill-fated report the previous year. On the other hand, was it not better coming from him, someone Princess Rhaenyra knew, than some faceless servant or overheard from the rumours passing between the courtiers present? Mind made up he moved towards her. Ser Harrold met his eyes questioningly as he approached but Lyman just shook his head in response.

“Princess,” he greeted when he was standing behind her.

She did not turn to look at him but Lyman could see her reach over to grip Lady Alicent’s hand, knuckles white.

“Princess,” he tried again.

At this she slowly turned to face him. Lyman could tell by her expression that the princess already expected to hear the worst.

“I am so very sorry. The queen—”

Before he could finish, Princess Rhaenyra leapt to her feet and began running through the stands towards the exit, Ser Harrold and Lady Alicent following behind as they struggled to keep up with her. By the time Lyman made it outside the tourney grounds the three of them were gone.

The following days were among Lyman’s darkest at court. While the exact manner of Queen Aemma’s death was never publicly disclosed, multiple people in the keep knew the lengths King Viserys had gone to in his quest for a son. From what Ser Otto reported later, Princess Rhaenyra had burst into her mother’s chambers before anyone could prevent her from seeing the queen’s body. At the terrible sight the princess fled to her own chambers, only emerging when informed by Lady Alicent of her brother’s deteriorating condition.

Little Prince Baelon had been born with lungs too weak to sustain him. Upon hearing that his son was not going to survive the night, the king had locked himself away with a carafe of strongwine and his grief. It had been Princess Rhaenyra who stayed in the royal nursery with the prince, who had comforted his cries, who was holding him when his fragile body gave out and he ceased breathing.

With the king inconsolable much had fallen to the Small Council. Ser Otto and Lyman himself had been on the council for the death of King Jaehaerys and knew the basics of a Targaryen funeral. Aided by Prince Daemon, they made the appropriate arrangements for Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon. After the princess’s dragon had lit the funeral pyre, Lyman made a point to go over to her and express his sincere condolences. She seemed not to even hear him.

With the funeral over with, grief had to be set aside as the Small Council quickly turned to the matter of succession. It was imperative now for the continuing stability of the realm that King Viserys name an heir. The only question was who that heir would be.

They were fairly divided over the issue. Ser Otto supported Princess Rhaenyra but that was out of fear of how the Rogue Prince would act as king. The Grand Maester concurred with Ser Otto that Prince Daemon was too wild and unpredictable, backing the princess as well. Lord Lyonel, however, worried over the disorder that could come from breaking over a hundred years of male rulership. Lord Velaryon had at first seemed to support Prince Daemon but then brought up his wife’s old claim.

Lyman himself postulated that Princess Rhaenyra would be a fine heir and had shown herself to be dutiful and of good temperament, especially when compared to the tempestuous Prince Daemon.

In the end the debates of the Small Council made no difference. When Prince Daemon had been caught celebrating and toasting the ‘heir for a day’, his fate was sealed. Sent away to his wife at Runestone, the prince’s long-held ambition for the title of Prince of Dragonstone would not be fulfilled.

Instead, Princess Rhaenyra was to be the first Princess of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne.

Hundreds of lords and landed knights were summoned to the Red Keep to swear obeisance to the new heir, the date of Princess Rhaenyra’s investiture set as two moons hence. This was deemed sufficient time for ravens to fly to the northernmost reaches of the realm and allow for the lords of the North to travel down the kingsroad.

Lady Jeyne Arryn was one of the first to arrive. She had descended from the Eyrie and begun travelling to King’s Landing at the news of the death of Queen Aemma, her aunt. When Lady Arryn was greeted by Princess Rhaenyra at the city’s harbour, she had broken all rules of propriety and pulled her younger cousin into a crushing embrace. Amongst all the frenetic planning the two could often be seen strolling through the gardens together, deep in conversation.

Journeying as part of the contingent from the Vale, this also marked the first time that Lady Rhea Royce had appeared at court since the king’s coronation. For all that Prince Daemon derided his so-called bronze bitch, Lyman found her to be straightforward, if taciturn, in their limited interactions. However, Lady Royce also brought to court the worrying news that Prince Daemon had ignored the king’s directive to return to the Vale. Indeed, he had not been seen there for a few years.

Then the reports had emerged of City Watchmen abandoning their posts. It soon transpired that Prince Daemon was on Dragonstone where many of his loyal gold cloaks had followed. With the force of the City Watch effectively halved, a temporary commander had been installed and visiting household knights were conscripted to keep order in King’s Landing during the large event.

Lyman’s days soon became filled with greeting the arriving lords and ladies as befitted their stations and ensuring that coin was kept flowing to fund food and suitable lodgings. With the Red Keep not having near sufficient rooms for all the guests, accommodation had been found throughout the city and as far afield as Duskendale.

Near all the realm’s nobles being in one place did allow the opportunity to converse with those that did not frequent King’s Landing often. This led Lyman to his current mission on the eve of Princess Rhaenyra’s investiture as heir: tracking down Lord Thaddeus Redwyne. He was determined to speak to the Lord of the Arbor about the inconsistencies in his taxes. However, the man was proving rather elusive. After a false report that Lord Redwyne was conversing in a courtyard, Lyman was heading despondently back to his chambers. He made a mental note to corner Lord Redwyne at the feast following the investiture; he could not slip away there.

It was then that Lyman saw Ser Harrold standing outside the throne room. The princess did not go anywhere without her sword shield, especially with her recent increase in status. So what could she be doing in the throne room at this time of day? Giving in to his curiosity and concern Lyman walked up to the large doors and, when Ser Harrold made no move to stop him, entered.

All preparations for the investiture had ceased several hours ago. The room was empty apart from one lone silver-haired figure. Princess Rhaenyra stood in front of the dais, gazing up at the Iron Throne.

“Princess.” Lyman spoke quietly, both to not startle her and because of the oppressive atmosphere of the room.

She looked towards him as he made himself known.

“Rather ugly is it not, Lord Beesbury?” the princess asked.

Moving his attention to the throne in front of them Lyman could do naught but agree. “I do not think King Aegon had prettiness in mind when he constructed it.”

“Certainly not comfort either by all accounts.” The princess reached over and lightly ran her finger over one of the pointed swords protruding from the throne’s steps. “The king called it the most dangerous seat in the realm.”

“He is probably right,” said Lyman, thinking of Maegor the Cruel who had slain two nephews for that throne. Who had later himself been found dead impaled upon its spikes. While Lyman did not consider himself superstitious, with the Iron Throne looming over them in the waning light of dusk, it was not hard to imagine it could be possessed of some malevolent magic.

Princess Rhaenyra was silent for a time. “I do not know if I can do this,” she eventually said, her voice a mere whisper in the cavernous room. “Nearly every lord in the realm is now in King’s Landing to swear obeisance to me.”

“The king has faith in you,” he replied, trying to assuage her fears. “He would not be doing all this if he did not.”

“No he does not, not truly. I am merely his best option to keep the throne from my uncle. Do you know there are already whispers around court of when the king will take a new wife?”

While it was indecent to discuss such matters barely two moons after the queen’s death Lyman was not surprised. There was nothing the courtiers loved so much as gossip. “Such rumours had not reached my ears, princess.”

“According to my cousin, Lady Jeyne, the king is expected to begin searching for a wife as soon as the mourning period for my mother has ended.” The princess’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Then he will finally have his long-awaited son and replace me as heir. They all see me as a temporary measure to stop my uncle gaining power in the meantime.”

“I do not believe that the king holds your heirship to be temporary,” Lyman said. None of those gossiping courtiers had been at the Small Council meeting where King Viserys announced that his daughter was to be named heir. There had been steel in the king then, steel that Lyman had not seen in him before in the twenty years he had been at court. “Every lord, lady and landed knight in the realm has been summoned to swear fealty to you. The king has not done this on a whim. He means for you to follow him as queen.”

“I hope he is not making a mistake, that grief is not clouding his judgement in this.” The princess’s hands came together, fingers spinning one of the rings she wore.

While Lyman was sure the decision had been influenced by the deaths of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon, he did not hold this to necessarily be a negative thing. Rather that the tragedy had awakened the king to the daughter he already had, over the son he so wanted. However, Lyman sensed that the princess was looking for a more solid reassurance than this.

“It was not solely the king’s desire that you be made heir. You had supporters on the Small Council too,” he revealed. “Both Ser Otto and the Grand Maester spoke to your claim.”

“Ser Otto would rather a rooster sit the Iron Throne than my uncle. And given that Mellos carved into my lady mother with a knife you will excuse me if I do not value his opinion,” the princes replied, bitter fury lacing her words.

Lyman winced at that last remark. While the king had no influence on the appointment of Grand Maester, he hoped some pretext could be found for sending Mellos back to Oldtown. He could not imagine what it would be like for Princess Rhaenyra to see every day the man that had killed her mother. Although the Grand Maester had withdrawn from court recently in the lead-up to the princess’s investiture. Lyman had heard him complaining of bouts of dizziness.

He decided that honesty was the best path forward here. “It was not just them, I spoke in support of you as well.”

Princess Rhaenyra turned fully to face him at this. “You did? Why?” Her tone was one of surprise but Lyman was sure he could hear a note of hope in there too.

“I think you are well suited for the role. You showed last year with your report on the city that you are capable of hard work and diligence. I do not believe you are unintelligent.”

The princess still did not look convinced, likely remembering how her attempt to present her report had gone.

“With time and guidance I think you have all the makings of a fine queen,” he finished.

“That is what the king said. He said my mother believed it too.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “It all seems a cruel jape for the king to name me heir now. I wished to be heir last year to save my mother. Instead, it is her and Baelon’s deaths that have thrust this responsibility on me. It would never have fallen to me otherwise.” The princess sank down to sit upon the steps leading up to the throne, her hands rising up to cover her face. “I just wish she was still here.” Her voice was choked as if she was trying to contain sobs.

Lyman had never been gifted at speaking words of comfort and was unsure what to say to the grieving young woman. He still sometimes felt the sting of the loss of his own mother and had been several decades older than the princess when that had come to pass. Hesitantly, he decided that opening up about his own past might help Princess Rhaenyra with the doubts that plagued her.

“Princess, if I might tell you a story?”

She took a shuddering breath and then nodded him on.

“I was never meant to be the Lord of Honeyholt,” he continued. “I served as steward to my older brother, Greydon. He was the lord, I was just the second son who had always trailed after him. I believed I would live out my life in that manner; Greydon had three healthy sons to succeed him so I never imagined that I would end up as Lord Beesbury.”

“What happened?” the princess asked, her hands lowering from her face to look at him.

“A combination of ill luck and ill sense,” Lyman responded. “My oldest nephew, Braxton, was one of Princess Saera’s favourites.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s face scrunched up slightly as if she was trying to recall a forgotten fact.

“He was better known around court as Stinger.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s face showed recognition at this. Lyman was sure she had been informed of the exploits of her great-aunt, Princess Saera, as a cautionary tale by her septas.

“When it was revealed that Braxton was one of the three men that had despoiled Princess Saera,” he continued, “King Jaehaerys offered him a choice: be gelded, disfigured and crippled or face trial by combat. Braxton chose trial by combat. I do not believe he expected to face the king himself. King Jaehaerys slew him to avenge his daughter’s honour.”

“I am sorry, Lord Beesbury,” the princess said sincerely.

Lyman shook his head. “It was not without just cause.” Truthfully, he had not been very fond of his oldest nephew. Braxton was far too proud of his skill with the lance and had never taken much heed in his lessons. What the foolish boy had been thinking, bedding a princess, he had no idea. Though for all his nephew’s arrogance, Lyman had never wished harm on him.

“Shortly after Braxton died, my youngest nephew had a fatal accident in a tourney.” Nyles had never had Braxton’s talent for jousting. A poor deflection sent a lance shard straight through his throat. Squires had rushed to assist but there was nothing that could be done. “My only remaining nephew and my brother then died from redspots of all things.” Lyman remembered those terrible days well. Honeyholt’s maester had little knowledge in the art of healing so a specialist had been sent for from the Citadel in Oldtown. Although the maester had arrived quickly nothing could be done for Greydon and Harlon. They died within three days of each other. “After that I was Lord Beesbury and Honeyholt and its surrounding lands were mine.”

“What was it like?” the princess asked. “Becoming a lord so unexpectedly.”

“I was terrified,” he admitted frankly. “Everyone was looking to me for answers and instruction. I agonised over every decision I made, worried about making a mistake. Truthfully, I do not know how I would have coped without the support of my lady wife.” Rosamund had been invaluable in those days, when the grief of losing half his family was still fresh and everything felt overwhelming.

“But soon my fears lessened and I grew more comfortable as Lord Beesbury,” Lyman continued. “In time we doubled the number of apiaries at Honeyholt and our income increased accordingly. It was that, I believe, that caught the attention of King Jaehaerys and led to him naming me Master of Coin.” Being raised to Master of Coin had been Lyman’s proudest moment. That he, a former second son of House Beesbury, had come to serve in one of the highest positions in the realm.

While Princess Rhaenyra initially looked heartened by his words, her eyes soon dimmed. “With respect, Lord Beesbury, Honeyholt is not the realm. It is not the Iron Throne.” She gestured at the twisted pile of metal upon the dais behind her.

Realising that his words were not getting through to her, Lyman decided on a different approach. “If you truly do not think you can be heir, if the responsibilities are so unwanted, then leave.”

“What?” the princess asked, her eyes widening.

“If you truly do not want this, leave King’s Landing,” he said. “Leave Westeros. You have a dragon, none could stop you. The king would name Prince Daemon heir. Or Princess Rhaenys. Or Laenor Velaryon. But it would not matter to you anymore. You would be free.”

“Free.” Princess Rhaenyra’s voice was wistful. “Fly away on dragonback, see the great wonders across the Narrow Sea and eat only cake.” She stood and moved to look out of a window eastward over Blackwater Bay and, beyond it, all the world.

“Princess, to be frank, if you did not have these doubts I would think you were arrogant or a fool,” Lyman said. “The king is placing a heavy burden on your shoulders. The only question now is if you will rise to meet it.”

“But how do I know? If I am capable or not?”

“None of us can truly know what we are capable of. If you had asked me thirty years ago if I was capable of being Master of Coin, I would have said no. But I like to think I have not done too poor a job,” Lyman commented wryly.

The corners of Princess Rhaenyra’s lips quirked upwards.

“I will not lie to you, it will not be easy,” he said. “A prince would have been trained in the duties of heir since birth. While you are not uneducated there is much you need to learn. The eyes of the realm will always be upon you. A prince would be allowed missteps and leeway with his behaviour but you will need to be beyond reproach. Any faults will be seen as indicative of a lack of suitability and the weakness of your sex. But I believe you can do it,” he finished. “That you were meant to do it.” The Seven would not have set them all on this path otherwise.

Following this the princess stood motionless in silence for so long that Lyman had been about to take his leave. Then she nodded to herself, seeming to come to a decision. Princess Rhaenyra turned her back on the windows facing out towards Essos, towards freedom, towards a life free from responsibility. Then she slowly but decisively ascended the dais, turned to face him, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sat upon the Iron Throne.

The next day, Lyman knelt in front of that selfsame throne gazing up at Princess Rhaenyra.

“I, Lord Lyman Beesbury, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra. I pledge fealty to them and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

In that moment he could not have meant those words more.

Chapter Text

Lyman was not looking forward to the first Small Council meeting following Princess Rhaenyra’s investiture as heir. Several important matters needed to be discussed and all would require coin. The most significant issue was the City Watch. With the lords and ladies of the realm travelling back to their own castles and keeps, the household knights that had been drafted to support the Watch left with them. A new commander needed to be chosen and new recruits found and trained. With all the coin he had invested in the Watch under Prince Daemon, Lyman was dreading having to pour in yet more.

There was also Princess Rhaenyra’s fifteenth nameday which was to take place in under a moon’s turn. Luckily for him there was too little time to organise one of the lavish events of which the king was so fond. Also, the court was still in mourning for Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon so any large celebration would be deemed inappropriate. A feast in the princess’s name should strike the correct balance between being respectful to the dead and honouring the status of the new heir.

Then there were all the petitions which needed to be discussed. Many of the visiting lords had taken advantage of their time in King’s Landing to bring ‘urgent’ matters to the king’s attention. Lyman had notes on issues ranging from boundary disputes to grain stores.

It was with all these matters on his mind that he walked into the Small Council chamber. Having broken his fast somewhat early that day he expected to be the first person to arrive. Lyman was therefore surprised to find the room already occupied by Princess Rhaenyra, who was arranging goblets on the table.

“Princess,” he greeted with a bow, dropping lower than he had in the past out of deference to her new station.

“Lord Beesbury.” The princess returned his greeting with a smile and a nod. She then reached for the jug of wine and began filling each goblet up.

“If I might ask, what are you doing?” Had force of habit driven her to carry out her former tasks in this room?

“My duties as cupbearer,” she replied, confusion clear in her tone. “As I have for near seven years.”

Lyman felt his eyes widen at this and barely stopped his mouth from opening in shock. While serving as cupbearer to the king was a great honour, it was hardly a duty suitable for the heir to the throne at near five-and-ten. He had expected that the king would give one of the high-ranking children in the keep the role of cupbearer.

“The king intends to keep you as cupbearer?” he asked.

“He has said nothing to me to indicate otherwise,” the princess replied somewhat hesitantly, perhaps picking up on his surprise. Having finished pouring all the goblets, Princess Rhaenyra placed the jug of wine back on the side table.

“I would have assumed you would be too occupied with learning.” While Lyman knew there had not been opportunity yet for formal tutors to be arranged for the princess, the Red Keep had a library with volumes on a wide range of subjects. Surely some of these would be useful reading for a newly declared heir.

“Learning?” Her face scrunched up in confusion. “I do not believe there is much Septa Marlow has left to teach me. Gods, I might finally be rid of her.” This last was muttered under the princess’s breath.

“Septa Mar—?” Lyman thought that he and Princess Rhaenyra must be speaking at cross purposes. “No, I meant learning how to be heir, not your lessons with your septa.”

She just looked at him blankly for a few moments. “Learning how to be heir?”

“Yes, princess,” he replied. “I assume the king has discussed engaging tutors to make sure you are properly educated. Likely a maester from the Citadel. Or perhaps have you shadow King Viserys and start attending court sessions so you are fully aware of how the realm is run.” This should put the princess on the right path to attain the skills and the knowledge that she would need going forward.

“Well we have not really tal— That is to say … no, the king has not informed me of any new responsibilities I am being given,” she eventually finished, glancing down at her feet.

“Nothing about how he intends to train you as his heir?” Lyman asked incredulously.

The princess shook her head.

He tried not to think ill of the king but this was ridiculous. When he had unexpectedly become Lord Beesbury one of the first things he had done was recall his eldest son, Mathis, to Honeyholt. Mathis had been raised under the assumption that he would inherit nothing and had joined Oldtown’s City Watch as a young man. He had none of the skills or knowledge required to one day inherit a lordship. Lyman had put a great deal of effort into preparing Mathis to eventually succeed him and making sure he understood his duties towards Honeyholt and its lands. And that was for a minor lordship in the Reach; the princess’s task was much harder.

Raised with the expectation that she would one day be queen consort to her brother, the princess had been educated as befitted a highborn girl. The several septas assigned to her over the years had taught her the basics of running a keep, history, heraldry, courtly manners, sewing, singing and dancing with, by all accounts, varying levels of success. This had little in common with the education that a prince would have received, especially one in line to the throne.

Lyman would have to raise this during the meeting. If something happened to the king, Seven forbid, the princess would be able to rule without a regent when she came of age in little more than a year. She needed to be prepared.

His thoughts were cut off as Lord Lyonel entered the Small Council chamber. “I will bring this up later, princess,” Lyman said reassuringly before turning to exchange pleasantries with the Master of Laws.

Eventually all of the Small Council was gathered and ready to proceed with the meeting. Grand Maester Mellos had been late and seemed to not be in a fit state. Lyman observed him struggle to sit down and it looked like he had misplaced his orb of office. Once the king had officially opened the meeting it was time for deliberations to begin.

“I believe we should first turn our attention to the City Watch and the mess the prince has left it in,” said Ser Otto, an undercurrent of anger audible in his normally composed voice. “Lord Strong, what are the final figures?”

As Master of Laws, the City Watch technically fell under Lord Lyonel’s purview. Prince Daemon’s lack of oversight and his seat on the Small Council had been afforded due to his station. Any other Commander of the City Watch would not have been granted such liberties.

“Of the 2,156 men in the City Watch under Prince Daemon, it is thought that 1,015 followed him to Dragonstone,” Lord Lyonel replied, looking at the papers he had in front of him. “This includes three out of the seven captains and over twoscore of the serjeants.”

The king let out an exasperated sigh and leant backwards in his chair. “Will my brother never cease to be a thorn in my side?”

“What has been done in response?” Ser Otto asked.

“Ser Thoron Massey, one of the remaining captains, was installed as the temporary commander,” Lord Lyonel said. “He has performed well, especially with the pressures of the princess’s investiture.” He nodded in acknowledgement at Princess Rhaenyra. “If there are no objections I would like to give him the position permanently.”

They all agreed.

“However,” Lord Lyonel continued, turning to look at Lyman himself, “the Watch will require a significant investment of coin. New recruits need to be trained to replace those that were lost. Also, the majority of those that followed Prince Daemon to Dragonstone took their armaments with them. The Watch needs more equipment.”

Lyman cringed at that. He had hoped that the deserters would at least have had the decency to leave their armour and weaponry behind. “I will check my ledgers and work out how much coin can be so allocated,” he said.

“Would you not agree, Lord Beesbury, that the safety of this city is of paramount importance?” Lord Velaryon asked.

“I do not disagree with the sentiment but I feel I must remind you all, once again, that our coffers are not limitless,” he replied. “Prince Daemon required a large amount of gold to fund his gold cloaks and the princess’s investiture was not an inexpensive event. As it stands we simply do not have the available coin.”

“I have faith that you can find the funds, Lyman,” the king said with a dismissive wave of his arm. “The City Watch must be restored to what it once was.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied, fighting the urge to slump in his seat. “I will see what arrangements can be made to generate the necessary coin.” The tax on luxury goods would almost certainly need to be increased. Perhaps an increase in tax on those merchants operating in King’s Landing too? It was them that the City Watch was protecting after all. He would have to give the idea more thought later.

“The recruitment of new men for the Watch is also being hampered by the legacy of the gold cloaks,” Lord Lyonel said. “Although they were only active for a short time, they garnered a reputation for brutality. Ser Thoron is concerned that, as it stands, it will be violent, cruel men that are attracted to the Watch.”

“Prince Daemon was granted far too much leeway,” Ser Otto said. “Meting out summary justice in the streets? The City Watchmen are meant to arrest criminals and maintain the peace; it is for the justiciars to decide punishment.”

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught Lyman’s attention and he noticed that the Grand Maester’s arm was twitching. Mellos had been silent in the meeting so far but Lyman had not thought much of it. Looking over, the Grand Maester did not appear to be following the discussion at all. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the far corner of the room, hands shaking upon the table. It was then that a particularly violent tremor went through him and his arm jerked, knocking over his goblet of wine.

While the rest of the table moved their papers out of the way of the wine, Mellos offered a series of half-formed apologies. His words were clumsy and Lyman wondered to himself if the Grand Maester was drunk or suffering another bout of dizziness.

It was decided that they would take a brief recess while a maid was summoned to clean up the mess. Mellos was excused and advised to rest under the care of one of his apprentices.

During the recess, Lyman got up and joined Princess Rhaenyra over by the side table.

“So, princess, what do you think about the City Watch?” Lyman asked.

“What do I think?” she replied.

“Yes. I am sure you heard what was being discussed. The City Watch, what do you think would be the best path forward?” It would do her good to start considering the matters that were brought before the Small Council. After all, she would one day preside over it and be responsible for making decisions.

“I fear I do not know enough to offer much of an opinion,” she demurred.

“Come, princess,” Lyman encouraged. “You have listened to the same reports that I have. What do you think would be the best option for restoring the city’s faith in the gold cloaks?”

“How to restore faith in the gold cloaks,” Princes Rhaenyra whispered under her breath. She thought on it for a few moments. “The gold cloaks!” Her eyes lit up. “What was it my uncle apparently said? ‘King’s Landing will learn to fear the colour gold’. Get rid of the cloaks themselves. Show the people of the city that they are not the same watchmen that brutalised them.”

The idea was a good one. Provide a clean break from the old Watch under Prince Daemon. Get rid of the negative associations of the gold cloaks and give the City Watch a fresh start in the eyes of the populace.

“Oh, also, see about promoting captains from men native to King’s Landing,” she continued. “That was something the smallfolk complained about when I was doing my report last year: that the City Watch officers were all second sons and lordlings. None of them were raised in the city and they do not understand life there.”

The men in the senior echelons of the Watch had likely lived lives far removed from those they protected. Lyman had never considered before that this might be detrimental to the Watch’s operations.

“These ideas have merit,” he complimented. “You should bring them to the attention of the king or Lord Lyonel.”

Princess Rhaenyra seemed to consider the idea for a moment before shaking her head, turning her attention to topping up the carafe of wine. “I think not, Lord Beesbury. I remember well what happened the last time I tried to share my ideas here. I would not wish to impose.”

Lyman thought back to when the princess had tried to present her report on the city. If only the king had not been so dismissive of it.

“If you allow it, might I present your ideas on the City Watch?” he asked instead. Hopefully if they were received well the princess would grow more confident voicing her opinion.

She nodded her consent.

Shortly after that the Small Council resumed their session, minus Grand Maester Mellos. Lyman voiced the princess’s ideas on the City Watch and found his fellow councillors to be somewhat amenable. It was swiftly agreed that changing the cloaks from gold to another colour would help remove Prince Daemon’s taint from the organisation.

More controversial was the suggestion of raising a common-born Kingslander to one of the four available captaincies. Traditionally these positions had always been held by nobles. It was decided that Lord Lyonel would discuss with Ser Thoron whether there were any suitable men. In the meantime, Lord Lyonel’s son, Ser Harwin, would fill one of the other captaincies, having distinguished himself well as a serjeant. Ser Otto’s son, Ser Gwayne, was also to join the Watch as a serjeant. With measures for restoring the Watch now decided, Lyman was tasked with finding the necessary funds before the next Small Council meeting.

Ser Otto then wished to discuss what was to be done about Prince Daemon and his small army on Dragonstone. The king shrugged it off, saying that his brother was causing no harm and it was better to have him away from court. Lyman argued that it undermined the crown for the prince to be occupying the seat traditionally held by the heir but found his protests fell on deaf ears. The king would hear no more on the subject and moved the discussion along.

Arrangements were made for Princess Rhaenyra’s fifteenth nameday. As Lyman expected, the celebrations were to be kept austere out of respect for Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon. The petitions of several minor lords were decided and others delegated for further investigation.

The king clapped his hands together. “Are there any other matters that need to be brought up?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lyman said. “I feel it is necessary that we discuss Princess Rhaenyra’s education.”

“Her education?” Ser Otto asked hesitantly, looking over Lyman’s shoulder to where the princess stood.

“Yes,” he replied. “To be frank, she was not raised with the expectation that she would ever be required to rule. Princess Rhaenyra does not have the same knowledge or training that a male heir would possess.”

The king looked contemplative at this. “What would you suggest, Lyman?”

“Send for a maester from the Citadel,” he replied. “One trained in a wide range of subjects to best fill the gaps in her education.” Behind him, Lyman thought he heard the princess move towards the table.

“A girl being taught by a maester?” The amusement was clear in Ser Otto’s voice. “It would be most irregular.”

“No more irregular than having a princess as heir to the throne,” Lord Lyonel replied.

“Is engaging a maester truly necessary?” Lord Velaryon interjected. “I learned far more on the deck of a ship than in some chamber with a dull man lecturing out of a book. The princess has attended Small Council meetings for over six years, hearing us discuss the state of the realm. Surely that is all the education she needs.”

“I must disagree, Lord Velaryon,” Lyman replied. “A prince would have been taught about trade, economics, agriculture, philosophy, warcraft—”

“Warcraft?” Ser Otto interrupted incredulously. “We have not been at war for nigh on seventy years!”

Lord Lyonel rubbed a hand over his beard. “That does not mean we never will be again.”

Looking tired of their debate, the king raised his hand for silence. Turning to Lyman he asked, “You believe that this is necessary?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The princess needs to be educated as befits the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Nodding slowly, the king then turned to his daughter. “Rhaenyra?”

She moved to stand behind the Grand Maester’s unoccupied chair. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“If I arrange a maester for you will you be dutiful in attending your lessons?” The king asked. “I know that your septas have reported … a certain wilfulness when they have been trying to teach you.”

Before the princess could respond, the lord Hand interrupted. “Your Grace, I do not think—”

“Yes, my king,” Princess Rhaenyra said, talking over Ser Otto. “I will be the perfect student, I promise”.

“Very well then,” the king agreed, letting out a tired sigh. “Arrangements will be made for a maester to be sent for from the Citadel. Rhaenyra can begin lessons with him when he arrives.”

After that declaration the Small Council meeting drew to a close. However, as Lyman began to gather up his papers to leave, he noticed the princess subtly jerking her head at the side table. Taking this as a sign she wished to talk, he walked over to join her.

“Yes, princess?” he asked.

“I just wanted to say thank you, Lord Beesbury,” Princess Rhaenyra replied, fiddling with one of the empty wine goblets. “It is nice to know I have someone on my side. I confess I feel somewhat adrift with this whole heir business.” Her free arm gestured all around them.

“It is my pleasure,” Lyman said sincerely. “The Small Council is here to serve the realm and the crown. If you ever need my help with anything, you need but ask.”

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”

With that Lyman bowed in farewell and left the Small Council chamber.

A raven was sent to the Citadel asking for a maester to educate the newly declared heir. Maester Petyr arrived about a moon later. The man looked to be midway through his third decade with an accent that suggested he originally came from the Riverlands or the Westerlands. His chain was composed of a variety of different metals, indicating Maester Petyr was knowledgeable on a wide range of subjects. It became a common sight to see the maester and Princess Rhaenyra going over tomes together in the keep’s library.

In the meantime, Lyman continued to question the princess during Small Council meetings and encouraged her to form opinions on the matters being discussed. It was all well and good to be educated on a subject but that would matter little if she could not apply that knowledge to real circumstances. He hoped that with time the princess would feel confident enough to voice her opinions to the king or to others on the Small Council.

The Grand Maester’s health continued to deteriorate. His apprentice maesters attempted to help his condition but there was little that could be done. They thought at first that the tremors were indicative of the shaking sickness but Mellos was also suffering from delusions of the mind. This led to the conclusion that the deaths of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon had caused Grand Maester Mellos to lose his nerve. All that could be done was to make sure he was comfortable and try and ease his symptoms.

This put the Small Council in an awkward position. Mellos was not well enough to serve in his position as Grand Maester and there was no guarantee that his condition would improve. However, no Grand Maester had ever been replaced while still living. Eventually, after a particularly violent episode during which Mellos struck a maid and destroyed half of his quarters, it was decided that he could no longer serve the realm. Mellos was sent back to Oldtown and the Citadel Conclave instructed to elect a replacement.

Chapter Text

Despite not having known Ser Ryam Redwyne well, Lyman was still sad to hear of his passing at that morning’s Small Council meeting. The knight had long been a stalwart presence at the king’s back. Indeed, Lyman remembered when King Jaehaerys had raised Ser Ryam to the position of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The knight had shed a tear during the ceremony.

Lyman also felt sorry for Princess Rhaenyra as Ser Harrold Westerling, her sworn shield, was to become the new Lord Commander. While Ser Harrold had proven himself to be competent and was a worthy choice for the position, he had been guarding the princess since she was a young girl. After losing her mother and being declared heir shortly thereafter, the last thing she needed in her life was further upheaval. Hopefully Princess Rhaenyra’s new sworn shield would be just as dutiful.

“Your Grace, my lords,” Ser Harrold said from where he stood to one side of the table. “The Kingsguard must soon be restored to its full complement of seven. With the help of the Hand, I have invited a number of fine candidates to court. All have passed fair trials.”

That was good news. While the Kingsguard was hardly stretched to the limit given the small number of royals residing in the Red Keep, it was better that it operated at peak efficiency. With Ser Ryam’s deteriorating health having kept him bedbound for some time, the Kingsguard had been making do with just six knights.

It was then that the Small Council doors bust open and Lord Velaryon strode into the room. Lyman had been wondering where he was. The Small Council was small enough already while they waited for the new Grand Maester to arrive from Oldtown.

“Four ships have now been lost,” Lord Velaryon said, tension clear upon his face. “The last one was flying my banner. The Stepstones have now grown into a conflagration, yet you sit here and dither about court business.”

Lyman could understand Lord Velaryon’s frustration; much of his fortune had been made through trade. Trade that was now threatened by the pirates occupying the Stepstones. Port fees on the realm’s east coast also generated much coin for the crown. If trade continued to be disrupted a great deal of income would be lost from King’s Landing, White Harbour, Gulltown, Driftmark and Duskendale.

“If you have something to discuss, Lord Corlys …” Ser Otto prompted, calm in the face of the other man’s ire.

Lord Velaryon’s jaw clenched, still not taking his seat as he remained standing. “I want to know what is to be done about my ships and my men.”

“The crown will compensate you for your ship and crew, and make an offering to the men's families,” Ser Otto said.

“I do not want compensation.” The grit of a seasoned admiral had entered his tone. “I want to seize the Stepstones by force and burn out this Crabfeeder.”

The so-called Crabfeeder. Whenever Lyman thought he had learned the worst horrors of what the world could offer there was always another. He suppressed a shiver at the thought of being feasted on alive by crabs.

“I am not prepared to start a war with the Free Cities,” King Viserys interjected.

“These pirates are not the Free Cities,” Lord Velaryon replied.

“Who do you think provides them with their ships and tender?” the king asked.

The pirates were obviously receiving funding from somewhere. To be so bold as to attack a ship flying House Velaryon’s colours indicated a powerful backer.

“In all of its history, my lord, the Seven Kingdoms have never entered open war with the Free Cities,” Lyman said in an attempt to make Lord Velaryon see reason. “Were that to happen, the losses would be incalculable.” If the Seven Kingdoms committed to a campaign in the Stepstones and the Free Cities met them with force it would be a disaster.

Lord Velaryon moved to stand over him in what was a clear attempt at intimidation. “What reason does the Crabfeeder have to fear us? The king's own brother has been allowed to seize Dragonstone and fortify it with an army of his gold cloaks. Daemon has squatted there for over half a year without even a protest from the crown.”

The issue of Prince Daemon had been a divisive one for the Small Council over the last half year. Most of them believed that the prince should be forcibly removed from Dragonstone, which was traditionally the seat of the heir. However, the king would not hear of moving against his brother, no matter his borderline-treasonous actions.

“I will caution you, Lord Corlys, a seat at the king's table does not make you his equal,” Ser Otto reprimanded.

At this Lord Velaryon began striding in Ser Otto’s direction. Lyman had never seen a Small Council meeting come to blows and he hoped today would not be the first. At least Ser Harrold was on hand to prevent any escalation.

“I have acted, Corlys,” the king interrupted, stopping Lord Velaryon’s advance. “I have sent envoys to Pentos and Volantis to see if we might find common cause. Ships and men are at the ready. The Stepstones will be settled in time.”

Lyman did not think this news would placate the Lord of the Tides. It was obvious that he wanted something done about this now, not mere empty words carried by messengers.

“You have dragonriders, Father,” the princess suddenly said from behind him. “Send us.”

He had not been expecting Princess Rhaenyra to interject in their debate. The two of them had been discussing Small Council matters for the past several moons but she had yet to voice an opinion to his fellow councillors. Lyman was sure this was partly due to embarrassment over how her report had been received the previous year. Although he had been encouraging the princess to speak out, he wished she had picked a topic that was less contentious to wade into.

Looking around, he felt his heart sink at the reactions to the princess’s suggestion. Lord Lyonel looked perplexed that she had spoken at all while both the king and Ser Otto were visibly amused.

“It is not that simple, Rhaenyra,” the king said with a patronising smile, one that had Lyman’s toes curling in his boots.

“It would be a show of force,” Princess Rhaenyra defended.

Well, Lyman thought, sending dragonriders to the Stepstones would certainly be that. Maybe dragonfire would make the pirates think twice about attacking their ships. On the other hand, he could not see the king’s only heir being given leave to fly off to battle.

“At least the princess has a plan.” Lord Velaryon’s satisfaction was clear.

“The sight of a dragon over the Stepstones would certainly send a strong message that we intend to protect our shipping lanes,” Lyman added. It would be too risky to send Princess Rhaenyra but Princess Rhaenys was an option. Especially with her husband so infuriated over the issue. Maybe Prince Daemon as well if he could be coaxed out of Dragonstone.

Despite his own and Lord Velaryon’s words, the rest of the Small Council did not seem inclined to discuss this option further. Turning to glance at her, he could see that the princess was rapidly losing confidence.

“I only meant that we should at least—”

“Perhaps there is some better use for the princess's talents, Your Grace,” Ser Otto interrupted.

Lyman waited to see if there would be any censure for the lord Hand so disrespectfully talking over the crown princess but none seemed forthcoming.

“Why do you not take the princess to see about the new Kingsguard posting, Lord Commander?” the king said.

There was the smallest moment of hesitation before Ser Harrold replied, “A fine idea, Your Grace.”

“This knight will protect you as well,” King Viserys said to his daughter. “You should choose.” It was a clear ploy to remove her from the room and from the discussion.

With a scoff followed by a brittle smile at the dismissal, the princess turned and left the Small Council chamber, Ser Harrold following in her wake.

“Apologies, my lords,” the king said after the doors had closed behind them. “My daughter spoke out of turn. She has no need to concern herself with matters of the realm.”

Lyman bit back a retort that if it was not for the heir to concern herself with the realm, then who?

However, Lord Velaryon was not mollified. “That still leaves us without a path forward—”

“Enough, Corlys!” The king had reached his limit over the Stepstones. “I will hear no more of this today.”

Not long after that the meeting drew to a close. Ser Otto went to join the princess and Ser Harrold to select a new knight for the Kingsguard. Lord Velaryon was still angry over the situation in the Stepstones and left the Small Council chamber as soon as they were dismissed. Lyman himself was unhappy with the way the princess had been treated. The heir to the throne and the king had sent her from the room like a misbehaving child!

It confirmed his belief that Princess Rhaenyra could no longer serve as cupbearer. How were the men on the Small Council meant to respect the crown princess when her main responsibility was pouring their wine? While it would be advantageous that she continue to attend Small Council meetings and keep abreast of matters affecting the realm, at five-and-ten she was too young to occupy a formal position or act as an advisor. Perhaps the princess could listen to their discussions and take notes or something similar?

Lyman then spent an hour working in his office before returning to his chambers to take luncheon. It was there that he learned from his wife the latest gossip in the keep. According to what Rosamund had heard, the princess had rejected every highborn knight that sought to join the Kingsguard and instead selected a common-born knight of Dornish origin. Most of the men had not even been given leave to speak and were smarting from the princess’s curt dismissal.

A weary sigh escaped him at this. While Princess Rhaenyra was studying diligently under Maester Petyr, it seemed the nuances of court politics continued to elude her. It would not do for her to unwittingly alienate several noble houses. He resolved to find the princess and talk with her when he had finished his meal.

As expected at this hour, Lyman found Princess Rhaenyra with Maester Petyr in the library. The Red Keep’s library was the biggest he had been in excepting a visit to the Citadel in his youth. Comprising of two floors, thousands of books and scrolls and a dozen or so tables, the library was an oasis of calm in the often-bustling keep. As he approached their secluded table near a window, the princess took notes attentively as her maester lectured.

“—so it is important to leave the fields fallow for a time,” Maester Petyr finished.

They both looked up as Lyman approached their table, the princess placing her quill back in its holder.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” he greeted. “Maester Petyr. If it is not too much of an inconvenience, princess, might I have a moment of your time?”

Glancing to her maester for approval and receiving a nod, she replied, “Of course, Lord Beesbury. We were just finishing up. How can I help you?” She looked curious as to what he needed to discuss.

“I shall leave you to it,” the maester said as he stood and left them in privacy.

Taking the newly vacated chair, Lyman thought for a moment on how to begin this conversation.

“I hear you chose a new knight for the Kingsguard?” he asked.

She nodded, a smile lighting up her face. “Yes, Ser Criston Cole.”

“There have been reports that some of the rejected knights feel … disgruntled with your choice,” Lyman said carefully. That was putting it mildly. By what Rosamund had reported, Ser Desmond Caron was incensed.

“The rest of them were all tourney knights,” Princess Rhaenyra defended. “None but Ser Criston has seen real combat.”

With the realm having been largely at peace since Maegor the Cruel it was unsurprising that most of the knights were untested in true battle. While Ser Criston likely was the best choice for defending the king, the other knights were still miffed by the rejection. It did not help that Ser Criston was far beneath them in station and would not have even been considered were it not for his victory in the ill-fated heir’s tourney.

“You rejected knights from Houses Caron, Tarly and Rowan among others,” Lyman said. “All of proud and noble lineages. Appointments that could have curried favour.” It was important that Princess Rhaenyra learned how to gain allies and support from the nobles of the realm. She could not hope to rule them otherwise.

However, it seemed the princess did not take his point as her brow furrowed. “The Kingsguard is not a political appointment. Its purpose is to protect the king. The knights my great-grandsire selected for his Kingsguard included sworn swords and hedge knights. It was their skill that mattered. Ser Criston was the most able,” she finished decisively.

Lyman thought about the so-called War for the White Cloaks, a tourney held shortly after King Jaehaerys’s ascension to fill five spaces in the Kingsguard. Of the five champions that were given white cloaks that day, only one had been highborn.

“While I do not disagree with your choice, princess, these matters need to be dealt with delicately,” he explained. “Apparently you barely spoke to any of the knights before selecting Ser Criston. Most of them travelled a long way to be here.”

“So I should have dithered more over my decision so as not to hurt their feelings?” she asked incredulously.

After being at court for near two decades, Lyman knew how easily offence could be taken at a perceived slight. With Princess Rhaenyra starting to be involved in more weighty matters, it was important she learned to comport herself properly.

“Men can be proud creatures and have long memories.” He spoke with care so it did not sound as if he was reproaching her. “It is best not to make enemies where it can easily be avoided. You never know when you will need a lord’s support.”

The princess let out a disgruntled sigh and muttered something under her breath. Lyman could not make out all the words but thought he caught ‘men’ and ‘ridiculous’.

“What would you suggest then?” she asked, rubbing her forehead. “I can hardly redo the selection process for the Kingsguard and allow all the knights to say their piece.”

“Talk with the knights you rejected,” Lyman suggested. “Invite them to dine with you. Acknowledge the service they provide to the realm. State that the swiftness of the appointment was necessary to ensure the Kingsguard operated at full strength.”

The princess groaned. “You truly think this is necessary? My uncle never worried about causing offence when he was heir in all but name.”

“No he did not,” Lyman agreed. The Rogue Prince had never concerned himself with placating others. “An attitude that has earned him many enemies, the lord Hand chief among them. A small overture from you now could prevent relations with these houses souring in the future.”

“Very well, Lord Beesbury,” Princess Rhaenyra said, standing from her chair. "If you will excuse me, it seems I now have a luncheon to organise.”

The next day Prince Daemon showed that he would no longer be ignored. Sneaking into the city like a common brigand, the Rogue Prince stole a dragon egg before departing again, leaving only a missive behind. Declaring himself the Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the throne, he announced his intent to take his pregnant paramour as a second wife and had stolen the egg to place in the babe’s cradle.

Gods be good.

It was decided that the lord Hand would go to Dragonstone to confront Prince Daemon and retrieve the stolen egg, accompanied by Ser Harrold, Ser Criston and a number of household guards. Lyman did not think sending Ser Otto to confront Prince Daemon was the best choice, to put it mildly. Their enmity for each other was well known and, in his opinion, the situation was more likely to turn into a bloodbath than Ser Otto proving successful. But the decision had been made and the lord Hand had sailed out to Dragonstone with his party earlier that week. They were expected to land on the island later that day.

Lyman himself was on his way to an early morning meeting with the Harbourmaster of King’s Landing. He needed to review if the situation in the Stepstones was affecting the number of ships that were docking and the port fees being generated for the crown.

On his way across the courtyard he passed the princess dressed in her black leathers. While the sight of Princess Rhaenyra in her dragonriding gear was not unusual, the timing was. It was first thing in the morning and most of the keep would not have even broken their fasts yet. As she spotted him, Lyman noticed her eyes widen.

“Good morning, princess,” he greeted with a bow. “Rather early to be taking your dragon out is it not?”

“Lord Beesbury … yes, it is a good morning,” the princess said, stumbling slightly over the sentence. “And you know what they say: early dragon catches the … seagull?” She paused for a moment. “Not my best play on words, I will admit.”

The princess’s manner was most peculiar this morning. Her eyes were darting around nervously as she twisted one of the rings on her fingers. She was also continuing to inch towards the carriage that no doubt waited to take her to the Dragonpit. This seemed like more than the excitement of an early morning ride.

“Might I ask, is something the matter?” He hoped the princess saw him as someone she could confide in if she needed to. If there was an issue bothering her, Lyman was more than happy to lend an ear.

Bouncing on the balls of her feet, Princess Rhaenyra cast another furtive glance around them before speaking with a lowered voice. “Lord Beesbury, if I tell you something, do you promise not to tell the king?”

Lyman hesitated. He had always considered himself a leal servant of the crown and his first loyalty should always be to King Viserys. On the other hand, he had grown fond of Princess Rhaenyra during their conversations over recent moons and had started to regard her as almost a friend. Also, he was sure that the crown princess could not be involved in anything nefarious. It was probably just a harmless youthful escapade.

“I promise, princess,” he eventually agreed.

Her spine straightened as she squarely met his gaze. “I intend to go to Dragonstone to confront my uncle and retrieve the stolen dragon egg.”

Gods! This was a bit more serious than a youthful escapade.

“Surely that is not necessary,” Lyman said. “The matter is being dealt with.”

“Yes, by the lord Hand of all people,” the princess argued. “My uncle’s pride would never allow him to back down to Otto Hightower. Nor do I believe Ser Otto would allow himself to return from Dragonstone empty-handed.”

That was true enough. The two men had despised each other since Ser Otto started gaining influence at court. Both had fought for the king’s ear and his trust, with the lord Hand emerging the victor. Neither would want to yield ground to the other.

“If it comes to bloodshed, Daemon has over a thousand gold cloaks and Caraxes,” she continued. “Ser Otto would not have a chance. And gods know what my father would do then.”

The lord Hand’s force was vastly outnumbered by the one that awaited it on Dragonstone. While Ser Otto had been knighted in his youth, his mental prowess was far more fabled than that with the sword. And, as the princess rightly pointed out, Prince Daemon had a dragon.

“While I agree that Ser Otto was perhaps not the best choice for this mission—”

The princess let out an inelegant snort.

“—you are the heir to the throne,” Lyman finished. “Prince Daemon may seek to remove you from his path to kingship.”

Princess Rhaenyra shook her head. “I know you all regard my uncle as some kind of monster without limit but I do not believe he would hurt me. If he truly wanted the throne he could have pressed his own claim at the Great Council. He had the army, he had a dragon. Instead, he threw his support behind his brother. All of this is just a desperate bid for the king’s attention.”

Lyman was not sure if he agreed with her assessment of Prince Daemon’s character. Just because he had been unwilling to go against his older brother, it did not mean that he would have the same consideration for his niece. How easily might the prince’s sword carve through her?

“Even so,” he replied, trying to push the gruesome image from his mind, “it does not mean that you have to confront him.”

A melancholy look crossed Princess Rhaenyra’s face. “Do you know which egg my uncle has taken?”

He shook his head in response.

“Baelon’s. The one that I picked out for him.”

Lyman winced. It had only been six months since the queen and Prince Baelon’s passing. That Prince Daemon had stolen that particular egg spoke to a callous disregard for his niece’s feelings.

“It is my brother’s egg that my uncle has stolen,” the princess continued, resolution clear in her tone. “It is my seat that he occupies, my title he lays claim to. It should be me that confronts him. How will the lords of the realm ever respect me if I hide behind my father’s skirts? I need to do this.”

He could feel himself wavering. The princess spoke true: the lords respected strength and would never follow her if she shied away from fighting her own battles. Looking at the determination shining in her eyes, he let any further protests die on his lips.

“Just be careful, please.”

“Do not fret, Lord Beesbury,” the princess said with a smile. “Syrax will keep me safe.” Giving a nod to him, she began walking towards her carriage before pausing after about ten feet and looking back. “Oh, and do not worry. I will not tell my father you were aware of my plans.” With that Princess Rhaenyra left for Dragonstone.

Lyman stayed up that night awaiting her return. He breathed a sigh of relief when one of the guards reported that the princess had arrived back unharmed.

The news was all over the keep the next morning that Princess Rhaenyra had returned having secured the stolen dragon egg. Prince Daemon had capitulated and bloodshed had been avoided. Ser Otto’s party was sailing back to King’s Landing and should arrive within a couple of days.

Lyman had just settled into his office and was beginning his work for the day when there was a knock on the door. After he bid entry, it was Princess Rhaenyra who entered the room.

“Ah, princess,” Lyman greeted. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

She flushed at the praise. “Thank you, Lord Beesbury, although my uncle gave up the egg without too much fuss.”

“Even so, getting the Rogue Prince to concede is no mean feat.” It was something even the king struggled with.

The princess dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I actually came to speak with you regarding the prospective Kingsguard knights. I believe I have smoothed over any ruffled feathers.”

“Indeed?” With everything that had been going on in recent days the matter had slipped his mind.

“Yes, I hosted the men at luncheon the day before yesterday. Allowed them to boast of their valour and prowess.” She rolled her eyes. “I emphasised that the crown recognised their service. They seemed to appreciate it. Ser Rymun Mallister even gave me a petition to pass onto the king; there have been some raids by the ironborn recently. I did not think it prudent to inform him that Father hardly listens to my opinions,” she finished sardonically.

“I would not be so sure of that,” Lyman replied. After the princess’s recent victory he hoped that the king would be more amenable to her ideas.

“I actually spoke to my father last night,” Princess Rhaenyra said. “We discussed him taking a new wife.”

Lyman felt his eyes widen. While the topic was being much talked about, he had hoped it would be kept from the princess’s ears out of consideration for the late queen.

“Oh, do not look so surprised, Lord Beesbury,” she continued. “Half the keep is talking about the walk he took in the gardens with Laena.”

Lord Velaryon’s daughter had always been regarded as the foremost of those ladies the king might seek to marry. The match would sooth the wounds left by the Great Council and bring the only other house with dragons back into the crown’s fold. Although Lyman could not imagine that Princess Rhaenyra was enthused about the possibility of gaining a stepmother that was three years her junior.

“And what did you say to him?” he asked.

The princess’s jaw tightened for a moment before the tension released as she sighed. “I have given him my leave to remarry. I know that he has a duty to the realm, that the line of succession needs to be secured.”

Lyman felt a surge of pride for the young princess then. “That is very mature of you,” he said. The queen had only passed six moons ago and he knew that Princess Rhaenyra still grieved.

“He also told me that he intends to keep me as heir, come what may,” she revealed.

Well, that rather complicated matters. From both the king’s fervour when speaking of it and his summoning every lord in the realm to swear obeisance to his daughter, Lyman had suspected that the princess’s heirship was not intended to be temporary. However, Lord Velaryon – and most of the realm – would expect that if King Viserys fathered a son on Lady Laena, it would be that boy who one day sat the Iron Throne.

Lyman knew that some of his fellow councillors had been talking to the king about taking a new wife. Perhaps it was time for him to do the same.

Chapter Text

Lyman went to the king’s chambers late in the afternoon. With Ser Harrold still travelling back from Dragonstone with the lord Hand, it was Ser Rickard and Ser Steffon that guarded the door. At his approach Ser Rickard turned and knocked. “Lord Lyman Beesbury to see you, Your Grace.”

With the king’s assent, the door was opened and Lyman allowed entry. Walking in, he saw that King Viserys was sitting reading what looked like one of his Valyrian histories.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a bow.

“Lord Lyman,” the king replied, putting his book aside. “How can I help you?” He gestured towards a chair.

“If I might have a moment of your time, Your Grace,” he said, taking the offered seat, “I wished to ask about your plans for marriage.”

“Gods, am I to be given no peace from this topic?” The king reached for a goblet of wine, exasperation clear.

“If you do not wish to discuss it, I can take my leave if you would prefer?” He did not want to overstep.

“No, no.” King Viserys waved his protests off. “I have spoken to all the others on the Small Council, you may as well say your piece.”

That statement surprised Lyman. He knew Lord Velaryon had approached the king about a match with Lady Laena but had not known there had been conversations with both Lord Lyonel and Ser Otto too. Given that the king’s marriage was a matter of the realm, it should have been discussed formally by the Small Council. However, discussing it behind closed doors did give Lyman an opportunity to offer his opinion without input from his fellow councillors.

“The rumour around the keep is that you are going to take a new wife,” he said.

King Viserys nodded in acknowledgement.

“And that it shall be Lady Laena Velaryon.” Lyman did not even think any other ladies were being considered at present.

At this the king hesitated. “She has been presented as the most sensible option,” he finally said, not sounding enthused at the prospect.

“But you are unsure?” Lyman asked. His manner was proof enough of this.

“She is a child!” the king burst out. “All she wanted to speak of when we walked together were dragons.”

Lady Laena was young. Having seen just twelve namedays, the king was more than thrice her age. Despite this, Lord Velaryon was pushing the match to finally succeed in getting his blood upon the Iron Throne.

A marriage between King Viserys and Lady Laena seemed like the best option to secure the ongoing stability of the Seven Kingdoms. The Velaryons were the richest family in the realm, had two dragons under their control and were of Valyrian descent. Any bitterness caused by the result of the Great Council would finally be assuaged. There was just one important issue that was causing Lyman to be reticent about the match.

“Your Grace, if I might ask you a somewhat impertinent question?”

The king nodded him on.

“If you did remarry and the new queen were to give you a son, would you keep Princess Rhaenyra as heir?” he asked.

A flash of anger crossed the king’s face. “I did not have every lord in the realm swear to Rhaenyra on a whim. When I pass it will be her that follows me as queen, no matter how many other children you all demand I have!” He slammed his goblet down upon the table.

That declaration confirmed what the king had told Princess Rhaenyra and what Lyman himself had suspected. It also significantly complicated the prospect of King Viserys taking a new wife. Law and precedent decreed that a son always inherited before a daughter. Any sons that the king had on his second wife would be expected to come before Princess Rhaenyra in the line of succession. The new queen and her family would anticipate nothing else. However, the word of the king was law and if King Viserys wished to keep his daughter as his heir none could gainsay him. Though it would put the princess in a precarious position upon his death. Especially if her new stepmother hailed from a powerful house.

The Velaryons were such a house. Lord Velaryon was a proud man and at the Great Council he had lost the chance to become king consort and one day have his child sit the Iron Throne. He would never be content watching his grandson be passed over for Princess Rhaenyra. If there was to be an uncontested succession, the king could not marry Lady Laena. Lyman needed to present an alternative option.

“If it is only spares that you seek then marry a widow with children, a lady of proven fertility,” he suggested. He had given the matter some thought and this was the best option for securing the line of the king. For all they knew, Lady Laena could be barren or experience the same struggles that Queen Aemma had. No, better the king marry a woman who had fared well in childbed before.

“Not a widow from one of the great houses,” Lyman continued. “Perhaps a lady from the Crownlands.” A family that was sworn directly to House Targaryen would have far less leverage to press a future prince’s claim if it ever came to that. With the king’s support, Princess Rhaenyra’s position as heir should be secure. “I am sure that there are several ladies who would be happy for your companionship and the opportunity to be queen. Positions of influence could be offered for any existing and future children.”

The king appeared to be lost in thought, rubbing at the light beard that covered his jaw. “Companionship?” he asked absent-mindedly.

“Yes,” Lyman replied. “The sort of companionship you could only receive from a woman grown. Support, comfort, somebody to talk to at the end of the day.” He imagined it must be lonely being king and a woman grown would be a more fulfilling companion than young Lady Laena.

King Viserys’s expression was wistful. “I must say, the idea is not without appeal.”

Taking advantage of his receptiveness, Lyman said, “Advise Lord Velaryon you are refusing him on account of Lady Laena’s age.” Maesters had suggested that the late queen’s difficulties in the birthing bed could have been caused by her being bedded too young at just three-and-ten. It provided a fine excuse for keeping Lord Velaryon’s daughter away from the throne as the king needed spares now.

Next came the part Lyman found most distasteful. “Speak to Princess Rhaenyra about the possibility of a betrothal between her and Laenor Velaryon. I am sure he would make a fine consort. That should appease the Sea Snake.” Some concessions would need to be made to the Velaryons and a fitting match for the princess arranged at some point anyway.

“Betroth Rhaenyra?” the king asked incredulously. “She is too young for such matters.” He waved his hand dismissively.

Lyman refrained from pointing out that King Viserys was currently considering marrying a girl several years his daughter’s junior.

“They need not get married straight away,” he argued. “Perhaps in a few years.”

The king stood then. “I will consider what you have said, Lyman, but I must now prepare for dinner.”

Rising to his feet as well, he replied, “Of course, Your Grace.” After dropping into a bow, he departed from the king’s chambers. Hopefully King Viserys would take his suggestions to heart. For the sake of Princess Rhaenyra and for the realm.

It was several days later that the king called a Small Council meeting to discuss his betrothal. Ser Otto’s ship had finally arrived back from Dragonstone so all the councillors were present apart from the new Grand Maester, who had just set off from Oldtown. In that time Lyman, with the help of his wife, had gathered information on three relatively young highborn widows within the Crownlands. Rosamund had advised that Lady Falena Bar Emmon especially was said to possess many fine attributes and had safely birthed two children in quick succession with her now-deceased husband. Lyman hoped to present these ladies to the council if the king proved amenable to his idea.

He arrived at the Small Council chamber with Lord Lyonel and Lord Velaryon, having met them on the way. When they entered, the king, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Otto were already there. As was Ser Otto’s daughter, Lady Alicent. That was unusual; Ser Otto had never brought his daughter to one of their sessions before. Perhaps she was there to give the princess moral support while her father’s future marriage was discussed? Although surely she would be standing with the princess in that case and not behind her father.

There was no time to think on it further. As they took their seats, the king turned from where he had been standing at the window. “Good morrow, my lords,” he greeted while walking to the head of the table. “I have decided to take a new wife.”

Lord Velaryon straightened in his chair at this news.

Lyman felt a kernel of dread enter his belly. He had presumed that this morning’s meeting would be to discuss prospective brides but it seemed the king was going to announce his betrothal. Which could only mean that King Viserys had ignored his advice and was going to marry Lady Laena.

The king looked behind Lyman to where Princess Rhaenyra stood before speaking. “I intend to marry” – he paused, gaze moving to his right towards Ser Otto. No, towards Ser Otto’s daughter – “the Lady Alicent Hightower, before spring's end.”

Seven hells. What was the king doing?

Still processing his shock at this declaration, Lyman could not help but notice that Lady Alicent did not look happy at the prospect of marrying the king. Indeed, she was not even looking at her new betrothed. Instead, her eyes were fixed guiltily over Lyman’s head where the princess stood.

The princess. He fought the urge to look behind him to see how Princess Rhaenyra was reacting. Had she known that her father planned to marry her closest friend? It was only a few days ago that they were discussing the possibility of him marrying Lady Laena.

Lord Velaryon rose to his feet. “This is an absurdity,” he said through gritted teeth. “My house is Valyrian, the greatest power in the realm.” So the king had not informed him in advance that he was not choosing Lady Laena.

“And I am your king,” His Grace asserted.

At this the Sea Snake turned and stormed out of the room. The Velaryons passed over yet again; the Lord of the Tides would not take this insult lightly. Lyman did not think the crown would be able to depend on House Velaryon for support in the future.

King Viserys then looked to his daughter, silent since his announcement. “Rhaenyra?” he asked, his expression one of concern.

Lyman heard the princess move from behind him and watched as she fled out the chamber, her sworn shield following in her wake.

No one spoke for a few moments. Then, seemingly ignoring the two abrupt departures, Ser Otto reached forward for his wine. “A toast,” he said, raising the goblet. “To King Viserys and Lady Alicent.”

The gall of the man! Propriety leaving him with little choice, Lyman raised his own goblet and echoed the toast alongside Lord Lyonel. The king looked rather awkward while Lady Alicent’s cheeks were red with embarrassment at the attention. She still had not smiled.

After nodding in acknowledgement of their toast, Lady Alicent returned her gaze to the door. “Excuse me, Your Grace, my lords,” she said. “I need to speak to Rhaenyra.” Not even waiting for a response, Lady Alicent followed the princess out of the room.

This left Lyman himself, the king, Lord Lyonel and Ser Otto around the table. Ser Otto. Lyman had not ever seen the man look so smug, not even when he had been named the Hand of the King. And now he would be father to the queen. Lyman had thought the lord Hand was content with being the king’s closest advisor but he continued to reach ever higher.

How deeply were Ser Otto’s claws sunk into the king, to have persuaded him to reject House Velaryon for the daughter of a second son. The Hightowers were an old and proud house but a betrothal with Lady Laena would have been far more advantageous. There was nothing gained by the king marrying Lady Alicent. Nothing but a good-father who clearly put his own interests above those of the realm.

The king did not appear to realise the danger he had put Princess Rhaenyra’s heirship in. For Lyman did not think Ser Otto’s apparently limitless ambition would be sated with his daughter as queen consort. No, the lord Hand wanted his blood on the Iron Throne.

There was much upheaval in the following weeks. In reaction to the king’s insult, Lord Velaryon had taken his entire household from the Red Keep and returned to Driftmark. The Small Council therefore found itself short a Master of Ships. After some debate Ser Tyland Lannister was invited to fill the vacant position. While the Lannisters did have a sizeable fleet, it was nowhere near the might of that of House Velaryon. Lyman also doubted Ser Tyland had anything approaching Lord Velaryon’s skill as a naval commander.

The new Grand Maester had also finally arrived from the Citadel. Alester was a soft-spoken man and had so far been diligent in performing his duties. His presence was a great relief as with Ser Tyland not yet in the capital, the Small Council only had three members for a time which increased their workload.

Much of Lyman’s time was taken up by arguing with the lord Hand about the upcoming royal wedding. Ser Otto was demanding that the occasion have every possible extravagance while Lyman was desperate to try and reduce the costs. There was no need to have three separate mummers’ troupes in attendance!

With everything going on, it was some time before he had the opportunity to look in on the princess. Unsurprisingly, Princess Rhaenyra had not taken the news of her father’s betrothal to her closest friend well. Apparently there had been an argument between the two young women after the announcement and they had not been seen together outside of formal events since.

The princess still carried out her cupbearer duties at Small Council meetings but was noticeably withdrawn, refusing Lyman’s attempts to discuss the issues that were brought up. Although, with so much focus on the wedding, there was little to discuss at present. She also did not appear to be speaking to the king. He had not seen them interact apart from when her father’s goblet required a refill.

It was a few weeks after the betrothal announcement that Lyman resolved to seek the princess out. Asking guards and pages around the keep, he was told that she was at the training yard. Confused, he walked outside to find Princess Rhaenyra at the end of the yard with a bow and arrow. Ser Criston was providing instruction as the princess lined up her shot towards a target about twenty yards away.

“Watch your right elbow, princess,” he said, eyeing her stance critically.

Princess Rhaenyra adjusted her arm.

“Good. Release when you are ready and remember to follow through.”

The arrow thudded into the target about a handspan from the centre. She turned to Ser Criston and he nodded to acknowledge her success.

“I did not know you practised archery,” Lyman said as he approached.

“Lord Beesbury,” the princess greeted. “Lady Rhea Royce suggested it when she was in King’s Landing for my investiture. She thought it would be useful if I had some kind of martial skill.”

Lady Royce had suggested it? That was a surprise. “I was not aware you and your lady aunt were close,” he replied.

“My aunt?” The princess’s lips turned up in the first smile he had seen from her in weeks. “Gods, do not ever call her that to her face. I think she would prefer to be reminded of her marriage to my uncle as little as possible.”

Given the way Prince Daemon openly mocked his wife in public, Lady Royce could hardly be blamed for that.

“We talked briefly at the feast after the lords had sworn to me,” Princess Rhaenyra continued. “I think she was rather amused that Daemon had lost his position as heir.”

Lyman had never considered how Lady Royce would react to the change in succession. With Princess Rhaenyra being named heir, Lady Royce had lost the opportunity to become queen consort. However, if her feelings towards her husband were similar to those he held for her, it might be a small price to pay for denying Prince Daemon the throne.

“I was wondering if we might speak privately, princess,” he requested, with a glance towards the knight.

“It is all right, Ser Criston,” she said, dismissing her sworn shield who moved to stand at the other end of the yard.

“I wanted to discuss your duties as cupbearer,” Lyman said once Ser Criston was out of earshot. “I believe you should turn them over to another.” It was well past the point that the princess should have been released from the position.

“Lord Beesbury, with all due respect, I am not in the mood for talking about this right now.” The princess pulled another arrow from the quiver at her side, nocked it and turned back to her target.

“You cannot continue pouring wine, princess. It undermines your position as heir. An undermining you can ill afford with Ser Otto’s certain ambitions for his future grandson.” Lyman knew that Lord Lyonel still had doubts about a female heir to the Iron Throne. If others on the Small Council took up Ser Otto’s side, it would not bode well for Princess Rhaenyra.

“My uncle was right, the Hand is a fucking cunt.” The arrow thudded nearer the target’s centre than her previous shot. “I do not understand how the king can be so blind to his plans.”

Crude language aside, Lyman could not say he disagreed with the princess’s assessment of Ser Otto’s character. Or of the king’s myopia. “Anything that further secures your position as crown princess would be helpful in hindering Ser Otto’s plans.”

She turned back to him, looking intrigued at the possibility of blocking the lord Hand. “What would you suggest then? Serving as cupbearer is the only official duty I have at present.”

“Ask the king to assign your cupbearer duties to another,” he replied. “Shadow Small Council sessions until you are six-and-ten and then join as a formal advisor.”

The princess scoffed. “I am not exactly on speaking terms with the king at the moment.” She nocked a new arrow and began to draw her bow. “I doubt he would listen to me anyway.”

“I know that you are unhappy with his betrothal. The king perhaps made a … rash decision taking Lady Alicent to bride.”

“A rash decision?” she asked incredulously, releasing her arrow. It barely found purchase in the outside edge of the target. “I do not know what on earth he was thinking!”

“Ser Otto will undoubtedly try and press his future grandson’s claim but you can weather it,” Lyman said, trying to reassure her.

The princess cocked her head to the side as she regarded him. “You think that is why I am angry with my father: the threat to my claim?”

“Of course. He has put you in a precarious position.” There were ladies the king could have chosen with families not nearly as covetous of power.

“Yes, by betrothing himself to my … closest companion. I do not care about my position. I care that it is her!” Her knuckles whitened with the strong grip she had on her bow.

“I know that you and Lady Alicent were as close as sisters—”

“As sisters?” the princess interrupted, letting out a hysterical laugh. “Well, I suppose I am a Targaryen after all!” Lyman did not know what to make of that last comment but did not have time to ponder it as the princess kept speaking. “There is no gain to him marrying Ali– Lady Alicent. There was not even a dowry!”

Oh gods, he did not wish to think any more on the dowry. With Ser Otto being landless and without an official income, the king had forgone requesting a dowry as part of the betrothal agreement. He told Lyman that he did not wish to embarrass his future good-father. On top of that it would be the crown that paid in full for the wedding.

“If he is not marrying her for gain, then he is marrying Lady Alicent because he wants to,” the princess continued. “I gave him leave to marry again for the good of the realm. That would have been Laena. Instead, he went behind my back. They both did.”

It was understandable why Princess Rhaenyra felt so betrayed. With the death of her mother, the king and Lady Alicent were the two closest people she had left. Lyman was unsure how he would react in her situation.

“Your father lacked forethought in not telling you of the betrothal in advance,” he said. The king could at least have had the courtesy of telling his daughter in private before announcing his decision to the Small Council.

“It is not just that,” she replied, gaze moving to somewhere over his shoulder. “I spoke to some of the servants, the king and Lady Alicent have been meeting in secret for many moons. Apparently she first went to his chambers the night of my mother’s funeral.”

Lyman felt heat rush to his cheeks at the implication. He would never have expected such a lapse in propriety from the notably pious Lady Alicent. Especially so soon after the queen’s death. If that was true and not just baseless gossip around the keep, then Ser Otto had taken a great risk. If the news had spread of Lady Alicent meeting the king unchaperoned her reputation would have been ruined. It also meant Ser Otto had been planning this for far longer than he had realised.

“So you will forgive me if I do not want to appeal to the king for help right now,” the princess concluded. “Now if you will excuse me, Lord Beesbury, I really must concentrate on my archery.”

“At least think on it, princess,” he said, knowing he would get no further with her this day. “You cannot remain as cupbearer forever.”

Princess Rhaenyra nodded in acknowledgement before reaching for another arrow.

Luckily it was not long before the princess saw the sense of his advice. Her tipping point came at a Small Council meeting two weeks later. When discussing wedding preparations, Ser Otto suggested that Princess Rhaenyra might pour the wine for her father and new stepmother during the feast. From the look on her face, Lyman suspected that the lord Hand narrowly escaped having wine poured over his own head. Breaking her silence towards the king, the princess asked him to remain behind after the meeting.

The next time the Small Council convened it was a young page that poured the wine while Princess Rhaenyra sat to one side, attentively listening to the proceedings and taking notes. The king announced she would join them as a full advisor after her sixteenth nameday. Lyman took a great deal of pleasure in the look of fury that passed over Ser Otto’s face at this.

All told, despite Ser Otto’s aspirations, it was hardly the largest royal wedding that had ever been held. It was of no surprise that the Velaryons were not in attendance. There had been no response to the ravens sent to Driftmark but news had reached King’s Landing that the Sea Snake had gone to war. Lord Velaryon and Prince Daemon had gathered their forces and started a campaign to reclaim the Stepstones.

However, several of the great houses had also made their excuses. Lady Jeyne Arryn replied that she would be unable to attend due to the swiftness of the wedding and the need to deal with raids by the Vale’s mountain clans. The king missed the censure in her remarks. Princess Rhaenyra later told Lyman she was rather disappointed her cousin would not be in attendance. Apparently the two had maintained a correspondence since the princess’s investiture as heir and she had been looking forward to seeing her mother’s family again.

The Baratheons were not in attendance either. Lord Boremund Baratheon, Princess Rhaenys’s uncle, cited a resurgence of hostilities in the Dornish Marches as the reason for his absence. Lyman expected they felt slighted on behalf of their kinswomen. The Starks too made their excuses about recovering from winter and no reply had even been received from the Greyjoys.

While the Tyrells were in attendance, the gossip around the Reach was that they were unhappy with the king’s choice of wife. Rosamund had heard from several ladies that the Tyrells felt that the Hightowers were being shown too much favour from the crown. The Tyrells worried that their vassals had designs on their position as Lord Paramount of the Mander and Warden of the South.

It was a bright, cloudless day when the wedding took place. Lyman could feel his shirt sticking to his back from the heat as he stood near the front in the Grand Sept. The ceremony itself was performed by the High Septon who had journeyed from Oldtown for the occasion. It had been Ser Otto who arranged this, taking advantage of the close ties between House Hightower and the Faith.

The princess stood with the king between the statues of the Father and Mother as Ser Otto escorted his daughter to them. It had been decided that Princess Rhaenyra would act as her father’s attendant, holding the cloak of House Targaryen until the king was ready to bring Lady Alicent under his protection. Lyman noticed that the princess did not look altogether well; her face was pale and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

After the High Septon led them through the requisite prayers, vows and singing, Ser Otto stepped forward and removed the grey and white cloak of House Hightower from his daughter’s shoulders. Receiving the Targaryen cloak from his daughter, the king then swept it around Lady Alicent before securing it at her throat.

There was a slight pause as the bride and groom stared at each other before the final act that would bind them. “I am yours and you are mine,” the king said. “Whatever may come.”

“I am yours and you are mine,” Lady Alicent replied, her voice flat and emotionless. “Whatever may come.”

The High Septon raised a crystal high so that the rainbow light of the Seven bathed the pair. “Here in the sight of gods and men I do solemnly proclaim Viserys of House Targaryen and Alicent of House Hightower to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between them.”

So it was done. King Viserys and Queen Alicent stood before the attendees as they burst into applause. Ser Otto was beaming. Lyman thought he saw a few silent tears slipping down Princess Rhaenyra’s cheeks.

He lost track of the princess as they all left the Grand Sept. It was only when his carriage was halfway back to the Red Keep that he heard a roar. Looking up, he spotted the golden dragon flying out towards Blackwater Bay. Princess Rhaenyra did not reappear at the Red Keep until well into the following morning.

Chapter Text

It did not take long for the new queen to grow pregnant after her wedding. Within three moons Grand Maester Alester had confirmed that Queen Alicent was with child. Whereas Queen Aemma had paled and weakened with pregnancy, Queen Alicent seemed to glow. Lyman had even heard those around court saying she was the very image of the Mother. He was sure Ser Otto was at the root of much of this talk.

Princess Rhaenyra maintained her frosty demeanour towards both the king and queen. While she was the picture of decorum when forced to address them, it was clear that her words held no affection. However, finally freed from her cupbearer duties, she continued to attend every Small Council meeting to take notes on the matters discussed. Lyman and the princess began meeting in his office after every meeting, where he answered any questions she might have about the proceedings.

There was a large celebration held in the keep to mark the princess’s sixteenth nameday. Lady Jeyne Arryn travelled by sea from the Vale to be with her cousin and many other nobles made the journey as well. Notably, Princess Rhaenys and Lady Laena were there, despite being spurned by King Viserys and his continued refusal to involve the crown in the war on the Stepstones. Lyman did notice though that neither talked to the king. No Hightowers made the journey from Oldtown, despite Princess Rhaenyra now technically being their kin.

With the princess coming of age more changes took place in the Red Keep. As the king had promised she now had a seat on the Small Council as an advisor. The pride on her face was mirrored on Lyman’s own as she was presented with her orb of office. While Princess Rhaenyra was still a bit hesitant to speak at meetings, she grew in confidence with every comment taken seriously and debate entered.

As she reached her majority the princess also fully took over the ruling of Dragonstone. After Prince Daemon’s departure the island had been overseen by the steward, Ser Oswell Massey. While he still managed the day-to-day running of Dragonstone, Princess Rhaenyra had decided to fly out there once every moon to deal with any important issues and make sure everything was in order.

Her new responsibilities to Dragonstone and its populace saw the princess’s studies focus for a time on the laws of the realm. After all, she was now expected to uphold those laws on her own lands. As well as her instruction from her maester, she had approached Lyman himself about his own experiences as a lord and had even gone to Lord Lyonel with more obscure questions regarding the law.

It pleased Lyman to see Princess Rhaenyra was taking her duty to the people of Dragonstone seriously. Many lords forgot that they were meant to serve their people rather than the other way around. It spoke well of the kind of queen she would one day be.

As the queen’s pregnancy progressed, talk at a Small Council meeting turned to how to celebrate the babe’s birth. Ser Otto was all in favour of the crown hosting a large tourney. Lyman thought this a most insensitive idea given the way the last tourney had ended. Looking over at the princess – who was clenching her jaw and appeared to have snapped the quill in her hand – he suspected she agreed with him. The king too had been emphatically against this suggestion. Indeed, despite Ser Otto’s protests, it was decided that no celebrations were to be arranged until the babe was safely delivered.

While Lyman agreed that this was the best option for the crown’s coffers, he could not help but notice King Viserys’s demeanour. Whereas he had exuded joy during all of Queen Aemma’s pregnancies, he did not seem so enthused now.

Lyman was on his way to the keep’s sept to pray. Between his own work and assisting the princess he had not been able to pay his respects to the Seven as often as he would like. However, he had finally found himself with some free time that afternoon. Approaching the sept he noticed Ser Steffon standing guard outside the door, the white armour of the Kingsguard glittering in the light of a nearby window. Given the presence of her sworn shield, the queen must also have decided to pray that day.

After looking him over Ser Steffon stepped aside to allow Lyman entry. Upon opening the door he noticed the queen right away, kneeling before the statue of the Mother at the front of the room. Closing the door softly behind him, he began to walk to the left towards the statue of the Smith, as was his norm.

While walking he heard a groan coming from Queen Alicent’s direction. Turning, he saw the heavily pregnant woman had finished her prayers and was now struggling to rise to her feet. Lyman hastened over to assist.

“Your Grace, if I may,” he said, offering his arm.

“Thank you, Lord Beesbury.” Taking his outstretched arm the queen was able to leverage herself to her feet.

“It is no trouble.” Once she was steady he moved out of Queen Alicent’s immediate proximity. “How have you been faring as of late?”

“Yes, I am well.” The words had a monotone quality as she cradled her rounded stomach, as though the queen had said them many times before. “Grand Maester Alester says I have less than a moon until the babe arrives.”

“You must be looking forward to the pregnancy being over,” Lyman replied. He remembered well how uncomfortable Rosamund had been during the final months of her own pregnancies. The queen had a slighter build than his wife and must surely be feeling the strain.

“I must say it will be a relief when my back no longer aches,” she said, grimacing while adjusting her stance.

“Try sleeping with a pillow between your knees,” he suggested. “My own wife swore by it.”

“I will give that a go, Lord Beesbury,” the queen replied, looking grateful for the suggestion. “Thank you.”

Lyman would have excused himself then to turn to his own prayers but something about the queen’s manner stopped him. She did not look finished with their conversation and was still staring at him intently.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Grace?” he asked.

Queen Alicent hesitated for long seconds, wringing her hands. Taking a deep breath, she finally said, “I have noticed you and Rhae– Princess Rhaenyra have grown close.”

“Yes,” he replied carefully, wondering where this enquiry was leading. “I have been helping her to get a handle on her new duties.”

The corners of the queen’s lips quirked up in a slight smile. “The princess has been working hard.”

Lyman just nodded in response. He did not think Queen Alicent was fishing for information on Princess Rhaenyra with ill-intent However, it was prudent to watch his words just in case. For all he knew anything he said would reach the ears of Ser Otto.

“I have not seen much of her recently. We do not talk as we used to.” The queen looked wistful, absent-mindedly rubbing her belly. “It is funny, Rhaenyra was always so excited for a sibling when we were children.” Her brown eyes looked wet.

He doubted the princess had ever expected to have a sibling birthed by her closest friend. However, his heart did go out to the queen. Before her betrothal to the king, she and the princess had practically been joined at the hip. From what Lyman had seen, since her marriage Queen Alicent had not formed any close friendships with the other ladies staying in the keep. She must be lonely.

“I do not speak for her but the princess may yet come around.”

She let out a laugh at this but there was no joy in it. “I think you underestimate Rhaenyra’s stubbornness.”

He thought back to his own experiences with the princess and mentally conceded that Queen Alicent may have a point. Offering her the only comfort that he could, he said, “I shall keep you both in my prayers, Your Grace.”

“Pray I have a girl,” the queen replied, gazing off into the distance. “Things would be better then. Rhaenyra might be more willing to talk to me.”

The queen hoped for a girl? Lyman had assumed her ambitions aligned with those of her father: that she would want a son who would inherit the throne. If she valued her relationship with Princess Rhaenyra more there might be an opportunity there.

Queen Alicent shook her head then and seemed to come out of her stupor. “Forgive me, Lord Beesbury. I find I am emotional as of late.” There was none of the previous vulnerability in her voice now. “If you will excuse me.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, bowing in farewell.

Lyman had never given much consideration to Alicent Hightower before. Lady Alicent had long been the princess’s shadow, trailing in her wake and trying to keep her out of mischief. Queen Alicent was a tool wielded by her father as he reached for more power and influence. But Alicent Hightower, he had never given thought to who she might be. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

Two weeks later the queen entered childbed. The Small Council had just finished a session when a page was allowed entry to the room. With a bright red face and sweat beading on his forehead, he bowed to the king. “Your Grace, … my lords, … the queen’s labours have started,” the boy gasped out. He looked as though he had run the whole way from Maegor’s Holdfast to the Small Council chamber.

King Viserys froze at this news, looking rather ill as his face paled.

After a few moments of silence it was Ser Otto who spoke. “Alester, you must gather what you need and make your way to the queen’s chambers at once.”

The Grand Maester looked to the king for leave but he was still in a state of shock. Quickly gathering his papers, Alester left the room.

“Your Grace?” Ser Otto questioned when there was still no reaction from King Viserys.

That seemed to snap the king out of it. “I believe I shall retire to my chambers,” he said weakly. “I am in need of rest. Have them inform me when the babe has been born.” It was not even time for luncheon yet but the king started walking towards the door, Ser Harrold falling in behind him.

Ser Otto stood and took a few steps after them. “But, Your Grace—”

“Not now, Otto!” the king exclaimed. With that he was gone.

The lord Hand looked as though he was barely restraining his anger, face reddening. He had probably expected a far different reaction to the imminent birth of his grandchild, the new prince or princess.

“Pardon me, my lords,” the page said having got his breath back. “But the queen is asking for Princess Rhaenyra.”

Looking around for the princess, Lyman saw that she was no longer present. He had not noticed her slip out of the chamber. In that moment he could not help but think back on his conversation with the queen in the sept and the way she had spoken of the princess.

Lyman was loath to interfere in Princess Rhaenyra’s personal matters. Her relationship with her former companion was none of his concern. However, the part of him that had spent twenty years at court recognised the danger of the princess and the queen being so estranged. Especially with a new prince potentially being born that very day. Queen Alicent would be more likely to advocate for a son’s claim if she continued to be estranged from the princess. For the sake of the crown’s stability it was better that the two women reconciled.

“Do not worry, lad,” he replied to the page. “I will let the princess know.” Excusing himself from the rest of the Small Council, Lyman set off to find Princess Rhaenyra.

He was now familiar enough with the princess that he knew her usual haunts. It was still morning so she should not be in the library with Maester Petyr. With no sign of her in the keep’s godswood, Lyman took a carriage and headed to the Dragonpit. He had not seen Princess Rhaenyra’s dragon in the air so hopefully she had not gone flying.

As he ascended the Hill of Rhaenys the large domed structure of the Dragonpit soon dominated his view. Never having visited before, he was admiring the architecture when dragonkeepers standing guard at the entrance stopped the carriage. It was then that Lyman realised a flaw with his plan: he did not speak a word of High Valyrian. Briefly, he wished for the company of his second-born son. Garlon had held a fascination with the Valyrian Freehold as a young man and insisted on learning the language. But Garlon was many leagues away serving as a maester at Ashemark in the Westerlands. Thankfully for Lyman the guards with him in Targaryen livery were enough to allow him access to the Dragonpit.

After repeating ‘Princess Rhaenyra’ in a questioning tone, he was led by one of the dragonkeepers into the tunnels beneath the pit. The heat soon grew overwhelming as they walked deeper and Lyman shrugged off his coat. It was when he caught sight of Ser Criston standing ahead of them in the flickering torchlight that he knew they were close. The dragonkeeper abandoned him then, seemingly considering his work done.

Nodding to him in acknowledgement, Ser Criston turned to yell into the tunnel behind him. “Lord Beesbury is here to see you, princess!”

“Tell him to go away!” was the echoing reply.

“Princess Rhaenyra is currently indisposed,” Ser Criston said with a perfectly neutral face.

“It is about the queen!” Lyman yelled.

There was silence for a few moments. Then, “Very well!”

Ser Criston stepped to one side. Walking past him Lyman soon emerged from the tunnel into a large cavern. The pungent odour that clung to the princess after she had been dragonriding was overpowering here. Light from the torches mounted on the walls revealed a massive golden-bronze form. Somehow it had not occurred to him until that moment that he was entering the lair of a dragon.

The dragon uncoiled, a large head turning to regard him before cocking to one side in a gesture he had seen before by the princess. As green eyes met his own Lyman took an involuntary step back. The only time he had been close to the beasts that were the might of House Targaryen was at various funeral pyres. It was an entirely different experience having one focus its attention directly on him.

“You do not need to be afraid, Lord Beesbury,” he heard the princess say. “Syrax will not hurt you.” It was then, as one of the wings shifted, that he finally caught sight of Princess Rhaenyra. She was curled up at her dragon’s side, resting her body against its torso with her arms wrapped around her knees.

He would just have to take her word for that. Besides, there was little he could do if the dragon did turn on him. “You disappeared rather abruptly, princess.”

“The meeting was over,” she replied. “There was no point in dithering.” It was a rather weak excuse all things considered. “Anyway, you said you came here about the queen. I am sorry you travelled all this way but I did hear that her labours had started.” Lyman knew the princess well enough to detect the undercurrent of worry in her tone.

“The queen is requesting your presence,” he said.

“My presence?” she scoffed. “Maybe she should have thought of that before she seduced my father. I am sure he is all the presence that she needs.” This statement was accompanied by an angry rumbling sound from deep inside the dragon’s throat.

“The king is not with her. He has secluded himself in his chambers.”

Princess Rhaenyra straightened. “He is not with her?” she asked, confusion clear. “He was there for all my mother’s births.”

The king had always been by Queen Aemma’s side each time she lay in childbed. Even when the babe was far too early for it to possibly turn out well. Lyman knew that his own wife had greatly appreciated company during her labours. However, with no female relatives in the keep, it was likely that Queen Alicent only had midwives attending to her.

“I am sure it would be of great comfort to the queen to have you by her side,” he tried.

“Again, she should have thought of that before she visited my father in secret for moons on end.” Despite the righteous conviction of the princess’s words, her voice wavered ever so slightly.

Lyman could understand her anger over the actions of her long-time companion. However, he felt her ire was aimed towards the wrong person. He had known the lord Hand for decades and he had always been an ambitious man. There was no doubt in Lyman’s mind that Ser Otto would have been quick to take advantage of the grieving king and his own maiden daughter when the opportunity arose to get his blood on the Iron Throne.

“Do you truly believe those visits were a plot of the queen’s?” he asked.

“Why visit him before my mother’s ashes were cold if she did not covet queenship?” The anger went out of Princess Rhaenyra then as she leant her head against her dragon. “It makes me wonder whether our friendship was true or just Alicent reaching for power.”

Lyman had seen the then Lady Alicent chasing the princess around for ten years, tying to keep her out of trouble. It had been something of a joke at court when they first befriended each other that Lady Alicent must be a dragontamer for her ability to corral the unruly princess. They had been as close as any two ladies he had ever known. He had also seen the tight rein Ser Otto kept on his daughter.

“Surely you can see Ser Otto’s hand in this,” he implored. “Have you considered that she went to the king on her father’s instructions?”

“Then she should have said no! If not for common decency then for my sake.”

Princess Rhaenyra had essentially been left to run wild as a young child. There had never been any strict disciplining from the king and there was little any of her septas could do against one of royal blood. Lyman wondered if she realised how much freedom she had been granted. How much freedom the queen had lacked in comparison.

“Not every parent gives their child the same leeway that you were allowed. Especially their daughters. Ser Otto may have left her no choice.”

“She could have come to me,” the princess argued. “If marrying the king was not what Alicent wished she could have told me. I would have protected her.”

The princess was still so young. So sheltered from the realities of their world.

“How could you have protected her from the machinations of her father?” Lyman asked.

“We could have gone to Essos. Seen the wonders across the Narrow Sea. Syrax would have kept us safe.”

He vaguely recalled the princess speaking similarly the night before her investiture as heir. It was a child’s dream.

“And turned your back on your duties? Never saw your families again?”

She did not have a rebuttal to this, merely sat in silence awhile. “It is funny, we once promised we would be there for each other in childbed,” she finally said. “I never imagined it would be like this. That it would be my father’s child she birthed.” The dragon let out a soft croon. In response the princess idly reached out an arm and stroked along its scales.

Lyman was unsure what more he could say. He truly thought that the princess’s claim and the succession would be more secure if she reconciled with the queen. Ser Otto would have far less ability to push a prince as heir if his mother supported Princess Rhaenyra. However, it seemed disingenuous to suggest she reach out to Queen Alicent as a political manoeuvre. Both young women deserved better than that.

“Did you ever ask the queen for her side of what led to her betrothal to the king?” he asked.

The princess’s silence was answer enough.

“After a decade of friendship do you not owe her that at least? Do you not owe it to yourself?”

It was quiet for a few minutes, Princess Rhaenyra lost in her thoughts. Then the mountain of scale and flesh behind the princess started to move. Startled, she leapt to her feet to make room for the dragon to rise. Turning to face the beast, the princess found herself level with its massive head. Lyman would almost have said it looked reproachful. The snout moved forward and began gently – well, as gently as a dragon could – nudging the princess in his direction.

“Really, Syrax,” she said with exasperation. “You too?”

The dragon just huffed in response.

Princess Rhaenyra let out a groan and buried her face in her hands. “Fuck!” She looked back up at him. “Alicent is asking for me?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

She swore again before knocking her head against her dragon’s. “Sorry girl, I will take you out another day.”

The dragon let out a chirp before blowing air directly into the princess’s face.

With that, Princess Rhaenyra turned and left the cavern, Lyman following quickly after.

The two of them split up when they were back at the Red Keep. The princess headed straight to the queen’s chambers while Lyman went to his office. There would likely not be news for several hours yet.

It was shortly after dinner that he heard the queen had given birth to a healthy boy. A prince. Even as he gave thanks to the Mother for watching over them in childbed, Lyman could not help but think that a princess would have been far simpler.

He made his way to Maegor’s Holdfast to pay his respects to the king. Heading first towards the queen’s chambers, Lyman was informed by a passing guard that the king had still not emerged from his seclusion. Redirecting himself, he went to the king’s chambers instead. As he approached he saw Ser Otto emerging from inside. Catching sight of him, the lord Hand walked down the corridor to meet him.

“The queen has delivered a healthy son, Lyman,” Ser Otto said, skipping pleasantries entirely. He could not have sounded prouder if he had been the one that had laboured for most of the day.

“Congratulations, Ser Otto. I remember well the first time I held my own grandson.” Alan had been a small babe but he had certainly had a strong grip as he grabbed hold of Lyman’s hair.

“You should look over the crown’s finances. I am sure the king will want to host a large celebration for the birth of the prince.”

Lyman thought this was rather presumptuous. Especially given the way King Viserys had refused to speak of such celebrations whenever the topic was brought up over the past moons. “If the king instructs me I would be happy to do so. Now, if you will excuse me, I should pass His Grace my well wishes.”

Moving past Ser Otto, Lyman reached the king’s chambers and was admitted by Ser Harrold once he had received confirmation from within.

As he entered it was the sight of King Viserys gazing into the fire and drinking a goblet of wine that greeted him. His expression could only be described as melancholic.

“I have a son, Lyman,” the king said. There was no happiness in his tone. “A healthy baby boy.” He looked a far cry from the man who had spent near two decades hoping for a son.

Lyman remained standing as he had not been given leave to sit. “Congratulations, Your Grace,” he said, though the words felt out of place given the atmosphere of the room.

The king nodded in acknowledgement. “Otto thinks we should name the babe Aegon after my little brother who died in the cradle.”

Gods be good. Aegon? The king could not possibly be serious. Name the child Aegon and all anyone would connect it with was the Conqueror. A fact the lord Hand well knew when he appealed to the king’s emotions by mentioning his dead brother. It sometimes amazed Lyman how blind the king was to Ser Otto’s designs. If King Viserys truly intended for Princess Rhaenyra to succeed him, the less legitimacy the newborn prince had the better.

Thinking quickly, Lyman replied, “It seems it would be an ill omen, Your Grace, naming the child such. If I remember my histories the last two Prince Aegons died before their first name days.” As well as King Viserys’s youngest brother, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had lost their firstborn son named Aegon. “If I might be so bold as to make a suggestion?”

The king waved him on.

“What about Aemon, Your Grace? After your uncle, the brother your father loved so much.” Prince Baelon was known to have greatly admired his older brother and his wrath upon Prince Aemon’s death had been terrible. Tales of the brothers were still being told at court when Lyman arrived several years after Prince Aemon’s death.

“Aemon?” The king pondered. “It is a fine name.”

“Yes, Your Grace. By all accounts your uncle was a fine man.”

“Aemon,” the king repeated, sounding as though he was warming to the idea. “Rhaenys might like the boy being named after her father as well. She still has not responded to any ravens I send to Driftmark.”

Personally, Lyman did not think naming the child Aemon would be enough to repair relations between King Viserys and Princess Rhaenys. After all, her husband and son were currently fighting a war the king refused to help in. And that was after the king’s rejection of Lady Laena. However, he was not going to say so to the king when he seemed receptive to the idea of naming the babe Aemon.

“Certainly, Your Grace,” Lyman said. “Might I ask, Ser Otto mentioned about a possible celebration—”

The king waved him off. “We can bother with all that later.”

There was a knock at the door then. “Lord Lyonel Strong to see you, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold’s voice called from outside.

“I shall leave you to it, Your Grace,” Lyman said. “I am sure you will have many well wishers.”

With that he exited and went back to his own chambers for the night.

Prince Aemon Targaryen was presented to the court one week later. The princess stood at the queen’s side – the two seemingly reconciled according to keep gossip – as the king showed off the new babe during a luncheon in the gardens.

Approaching King Viserys, Lyman got his first look at the prince. He was a large babe with his open eyes revealing they were Targaryen-violet. But it was not Prince Aemon’s eyes that captured Lyman’s attention; it was his hair. His hair that was a deep auburn in colour. A colour that was unlike his older sister’s, unlike every Targaryen that had sat the Iron Throne.

Well, Lyman thought, that might make matters easier.

Chapter Text

Lyman always appreciated the opportunity to get out of King’s Landing. Even though the Red Keep sat perched above the city, it was always filled with hustle and bustle and there was rarely a calm moment. And that was not even mentioning the foul odour often carried on the breeze. By contrast, being out in the kingswood was a delight. Insects buzzed through the air, birds sat twittering in trees and the air smelt of fresh foliage mixed with cooking food.

It was not a small hunt that had been organised for Prince Aemon’s second name day. The king had never requested anything small, he had always been fond of grandiose events. As Lyman waited with his wife for the royal family to arrive, he counted that there were at least three-dozen small tents in the clearing as well as the main one.

All the Red Keep’s courtiers had come out for the occasion and many nobles from across the realm besides. Most houses from the Crownlands were represented in some form or another, Lyman already having seen knights wearing the Massey, Byrch and Darklyn sigils that morn. Ever eager to take advantage of the crown’s hospitality, Lord Jason Lannister had led a large retinue down from the Westerlands and could be heard boasting of the comfort of his well-appointed pavilion. It was Lord Thaddeus Redwyne that had travelled the furthest though. He had crossed the entirety of the Reach to be at the event as the conflict in the Stepstones made the sea route perilous. Lyman suspected it was that very sea route the Lord of the Arbor wished to discuss with the king to have made such an effort.

A crowd gathered to greet the royal family as their carriage came into view, applause breaking out. Lyman and Rosamund ended up standing next to Lord Lyonel and his two sons, exchanging pleasantries before the Master of Laws asked after Princess Rhaenyra. While Lord Lyonel had initially been hesitant to accept a female heir to the Iron Throne, he had warmed to the princess over the last couple of years. Her strong work ethic and diligence in performing her duties had won him over. It had also not hurt that Princess Rhaenyra took Lord Lyonel’s two daughters into her household as ladies-in-waiting.

The carriage drew to a halt, the door opened and the king emerged, waving jovially to the well wishers. He was followed by the heavily pregnant queen and then Princess Rhaenyra carrying Prince Aemon.

“Hail, hail Aemon, First of His Name!” cried out Lord Hobert Hightower. “Here's to His Grace on his second name day!”

Aemon, First of His Name? Perhaps Lord Hightower believed if he spoke it aloud he could will it into being. King Viserys had so far proven resistant to every suggestion he might alter the succession. However, the Hightowers had renewed their efforts now that Prince Aemon had survived infancy and grown into a boisterous toddler.

Lyman suspected that Ser Otto and Lord Hightower sought to use the name day hunt as a way of gathering support for the prince’s claim. While the two brothers had little opportunity to spend time together – with Lord Hightower normally in Oldtown and Ser Otto at court – their interests in the matter were aligned.

Princess Rhaenyra caught Lyman’s eye in the crowd and gave him a nod in greeting, which he returned, but most of her attention was occupied by her little brother. It sounded as though she was trying to teach him to say her name, with little success.

“Ray-nee-ruh,” the princess said slowly and clearly as they followed the king and queen to the main tent. “Come on Aem, you can do it.”

“Way-nee-wih,” Prince Aemon tried, his little face scrunched-up in concentration.

“Ray-nee-ruh,” she said again.

However, the little prince had lost interest now. “Down, down!”

Acquiescing to her brother’s demands, the princess placed him on his feet. Prince Aemon began running in circles, waving about the toy dragon clenched in his chubby fist. The toy had been a gift from the princess herself, Lyman knew. She had placed a dragon egg in his cradle shortly after he had been born but it had yet to hatch. The toy was meant to keep him company until he could claim the real thing.

A figure then stepped into Lyman’s periphery, catching his attention: Lord Hightower. “Beesbury,” he said. “I was wondering if I might have a word.” It was not a request.

Lyman turned to his wife. “I will see you inside,” he said, nodding in the direction of the tent.

With a flick of her eyes towards Lord Hightower, Rosamund smiled tightly, nodded and then began to follow the royal family.

Lord Hightower started walking away from the main crowd, Lyman following in his wake. After about fifty yards Lord Hightower halted, apparently regarding their surroundings as sufficiently private.

“You know that House Hightower greatly values House Beesbury among its bannermen,” Lord Hightower began. “Oldtown has always been able to depend on the support of Honeyholt.”

“You flatter me, my lord.” He had a feeling that he knew where this conversation was going.

“I would like to reaffirm that bond that has long existed between our houses,” Lord Hightower continued. “Your grandson, Addam is it not, must be nearing manhood by now.”

“Alan,” Lyman corrected. “And yes, he is one-and-ten.” How the years had flown by.

“Well, I happen to have a granddaughter, Leyla, who is nearing her fourth name day. I can think of no finer match for her than the future Lord of Honeyholt.”

Lord Hightower’s tone suggested he expected Lyman to fall to his knees and weep at the generosity of such an offer. However, he had no wish to tie his family further to House Hightower.

“I do not think a betrothal agreement would suit Alan at present,” he replied. “He is far too occupied with his duties as a page.” Alan had been acting as page and cupbearer for his father, Mathis, as he ruled Honeyholt in Lyman’s stead.

“A page?” Lord Hightower guffawed. “The boy is one-and-ten. If my granddaughter is not enough to satisfy you, I am sure that a knight of my household would be able to take Alan on as a squire as well.”

While it was past time that Alan began squiring, Lyman did not want to turn him over into the control of the Hightowers. “I am afraid I must refuse, my lord,” he said. “I have exchanged ravens with Horn Hill and have nearly come to an agreement for him to squire under the Tarlys.” No such discussion had taken place as of yet but Rosamund was the sister of Lady Jeyne Tarly, Lord Donald Tarly’s wife. The two were close and Lyman was sure his good-sister and good-brother would be happy to help them.

A flash of anger crossed Lord Hightower’s face at this second rejection. “My brother tells me you have grown close to Princess Rhaenyra,” he sneered, dropping pretences entirely. “Just remember where House Beesbury’s loyalties lie.”

Lyman’s association with the princess was hardly a secret around the keep. She often visited his office and they conversed in the corridors besides. It was unsurprising that Ser Otto had noticed.

“I do remember, my lord,” he replied. “My house’s loyalties lie with the king and his chosen heir, Princess Rhaenyra. As we both swore several years ago.” Lord Hightower had been among the many lords and ladies that came to King’s Landing and bent the knee to the princess three-and-a-half years ago.

“The situation has changed.” The words rung with conviction. “It is Aemon who is the king’s firstborn son.”

He had seen the princess cringe each time that sentiment was uttered within her hearing. Though they had never discussed it, he suspected it hurt for her dead siblings to be so disregarded.

“Only living son,” Lyman corrected.

Lord Hightower looked at him in confusion.

“Princes Aenar and Baelon were both born to the king before Prince Aemon.” Prince Aenar had been born when Princess Rhaenyra was a young child but the sickly babe had perished in the cradle. Prince Baelon had not even lived a day.

Shaking his head dismissively, Lord Hightower replied, “You know what I mean. Aemon is the king’s rightful heir. A son always comes before a daughter. It is Aemon who should one day sit the throne.”

“By the king’s decree Princess Rhaenyra is the crown princess and heir,” Lyman said. “No law or precedent is above the word of the king.”

Lord Hightower’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Come Lyman, surely you do not wish to ruin centuries of good relations between our houses over that girl.” The last word was almost spat from his mouth.

“I would watch your tongue, my lord, lest your words be taken as treason,” he replied calmly before turning and walking away.

He was sure there would be consequences for his defiance to his liege lord but, in that moment, he could not bring himself to care.

After his disagreement with Lord Hightower, Lyman moved back to the main tent. Picking up a goblet of wine, he looked around for his wife to tell her of what had just taken place. However, Rosamund was already deep in conversation among the circle of ladies surrounding the queen. Mentally making a note to bring it up later, he instead allowed himself to be drawn into a discussion with Lord Lyonel and Ser Tyland about the Stepstones.

After they had been talking for some time, Lyman saw Princess Rhaenyra return from outside and approach the king. Although their conversation was hushed it was clear that the two were having an argument. While she and the queen had reconciled in the aftermath of Prince Aemon’s birth, the princess still had a fraught relationship with her father. She had never confided such to Lyman but it was clear from every strained interaction between the king and his heir.

He tried to ignore their conversation but that soon became impossible as its volume increased.

“­—often to discuss it with you but you have refused me at every turn,” the king said.

They were starting to attract notice now from others nearby, heads turning.

“That is because I do not wish to get married,” the princess snapped back.

Ah. Princess Rhaenyra was now eight-and-ten, past the age when most highborn women were wedded. As of yet there was not even a betrothal agreement in place for her.

“Even I do not exist above tradition and duty, Rhaenyra!” King Viserys yelled, catching the attention of the rest of the tent.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” Ser Otto interrupted.

The king seemed to realise then that the gathered nobles had gone silent, everyone focused on the two arguing royals. “You must marry,” he said to the princess with a tone of finality. Then he turned his attention to Ser Otto. “Yes?”

“The royal huntsmen have sent a report, Your Grace,” he replied. “There has been a sighting of a white hart. The stag­—”

While the king was distracted, Princess Rhaenyra took the opportunity to stride away. Worried about her emotional state Lyman hastened to follow. Passing the queen, he noticed her struggling to rise from her seat, looking after the princess with concern. He caught her eye and shook his head before continuing after Princess Rhaenyra himself.

Peering around when he exited the tent, Lyman saw that she was over where the horses were tied.

“Princess, wait!” He began hurrying over to her as fast as he could. “I am not as young as I once was!”

The princess paused in pulling a quiver of arrows over her shoulder as she heard his approach. As Lyman got closer, he saw she was still clenching her jaw and there was a stormy look in her eyes.

“I wondered if you might join me on a turn around the grounds,” he requested.

Away from the main tent there were several stalls selling food and other wares to the amassed nobles. Lyman had been meaning to look at them later anyway but it was as fine an excuse as any for getting to the root of what ailed the princess.

“I fear I would be poor company at present, Lord Beesbury.”

“Indulge an old man. You would not leave me to wander unaccompanied would you?”

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You are not that old.”

With that she walked to his side, handing off her quiver to Ser Criston – who had rushed over during their conversation. They then crossed the clearing together towards the assembled stalls.

Lyman had learned it was better to let the princess speak when she was ready so did not bring up her argument with the king. Instead, the two of them had a pleasant time indulging in the various sweets on offer before turning to the more expensive items. He purchased a woven gold bracelet he thought Rosamund would like while the princess bought a pair of ruby earrings for the queen and a small rag doll for Prince Aemon.

Eventually, when the two of them were stuffed with food and several golden dragons lighter, the princess was ready to talk. “He wants to marry me off to Jason Lannister,” she said as they walked along the far edge of the clearing, out of earshot of the rest of the gathering.

Lyman had guessed that the argument was about potential suitors but he had not known it was Lord Lannister who had been presented to the princess. The man was known for his arrogance but he was the Warden of the West. It was not the worst match Princess Rhaenyra could make.

“You do not approve of him?” he asked.

“He wants to build a dragonpit for me at Casterly Rock,” she said bitterly. “Mentioned he would do anything for his lady wife.”

The heir’s place was at court, especially in a situation as unprecedented as Princess Rhaenyra’s. She needed a consort who would support her and her claim to the throne, not one who planned to spirit her away out west.

“It is no great loss, princess,” Lyman replied. “Lord Lannister was telling me the other day that the realm’s money woes could all be solved by minting more coin out of Lannister gold.” Of all the ridiculous statements to make!

She looked confused at this. “Would that not just push up the price of goods in response?”

The princess had clearly being paying attention in her lessons on finance. “Yes, it would,” Lyman said proudly. “I had better watch my step. You will be challenging me for the position of Master of Coin if I am not careful.”

Princess Rhaenyra chucked. “I think not. You have likely forgotten more on matters of coin than I will ever know.”

Letting the smile fade from his face, Lyman returned their conversation to the matter at hand. “While Lord Lannister may not be the most suitable option, the king is right. You will need to get married at some point.” This was just a fact of the station Princess Rhaenyra had been born into. She could not avoid it forever.

“I do not want to get married,” the princess replied, halting her steps to face him directly. “The king is a hypocrite. He talks about marriage as a duty, as if he did not pick his own bride out of selfish want.”

He would never say so aloud but Lyman agreed with this assessment of the king’s second marriage. King Viserys had put his own desires over what would have been better for the realm in choosing the then Lady Alicent. He could well understand why the princess would resent her father citing duty to convince her to take a husband.

Lyman knew the king regarded her refusal to get married as childish petulance – barbed words exchanged at Small Council meetings were testament enough to that. However, this did not match how diligently Princess Rhaenyra had taken to the rest of her duties as heir. He felt there must be more to it.

“Why do you not wish to get married?” he asked, wondering if the king had ever bothered to.

She did not answer for a few moments, facing away from him as she began walking again. “If I get married then there will be the expectation of children.”

The words were spoken so quietly that it took him a second to parse them. When he had the statement only added to Lyman’s confusion. Children were blessings to any married couple but Princess Rhaenyra in particular needed heirs to strengthen her claim to the throne. She had to establish her own line.

“You do not want to be a mother?” He had met some women over the years that took no particular joy in motherhood but much of the burden could be passed to servants, maesters and septas. This was no impediment to a highborn woman bearing children.

Although this did not fit with what he had seen of the princess and Prince Aemon. Princess Rhaenyra doted on her little brother. When she was not busy at work she could usually be found in the queen’s chambers, the nursery or playing with her brother in the gardens. Even at formal events Prince Aemon was more likely to be with the princess than the queen. It was clear she took great joy in spending time with him and did not have a general apathy to children.

“It is not being a mother which frightens me. Aemon is more like a son than a brother to me in truth. It is …” the princess trailed off.

If it was not motherhood itself that was the issue then … oh. “The birthing bed?” Lyman asked.

She nodded in response.

Thinking on her childhood, it was unsurprising that the princess feared giving birth. Queen Aemma had lost a babe in the cradle and experienced two stillbirths and several miscarriages before her death along with Prince Baelon. Each successive pregnancy left her weaker and more withdrawn, with Princess Rhaenyra growing up under this terrible spectre.

Lyman was not wholly comfortable with this topic but pressed on for her sake. “Not every woman suffers as your mother did in childbed. Rosamund gave birth to three healthy children and only experienced one early miscarriage besides.”

“It is not just my mother though,” the princess argued, gaze downcast. “My mother’s mother died giving birth to her. My father’s mother never recovered from the birth of her third son and did not live out the year. Why should my fate be any different to theirs?”

Princesses Daella and Alyssa had met ends as tragic as Queen Aemma’s, both of them dead well over a decade before their shared granddaughter was even born. Lyman was unsure what more he could say here. Any assurances he gave the princess would ring hollow and he could offer her no guarantees. These were women’s matters. It would be better if she had this conversation with another woman, someone more equipped to deal with her fears.

“Have you considered bringing this up to the queen?” The two women were close and, from what Lyman had heard, Prince Aemon’s birth had been without complication. Perhaps she could reassure the princess.

Princess Rhaenyra turned to look at him incredulously. “You want me to discuss my fears over giving birth with Alicent? Who is currently over eight moons pregnant? Who is married to my father? That queen?”

When she put it in those terms he could understand her reluctance to discuss this topic with Queen Alicent. However, there were not many other options. Her uncle’s marriage was infamously unconsummated so Lady Royce would be unable to help. While the princess was in regular contact with her cousin in the Vale, Lady Arryn was unmarried. Princess Rhaenys had left the keep following King Viserys’s betrothal and had only been back once since.

With Queen Aemma dying when the princess was still unbetrothed it was likely the only guidance she had received on the matter had been from her septas. How much did she even know of the marriage bed?

Lyman desperately cast his mind about for an alternative. “My wife could perhaps talk to you. Answer any questions you have on childbirth and on the … marriage bed,” he finished awkwardly. Princess Rhaenyra had dined with himself and Rosamund several times over the years so the two were at least familiar with each other. He also knew his wife was rather fond of the princess.

An expression of disgust crossed her face. “Absolutely not,” she replied vehemently. “I am not talking to your wife about the marriage bed. I would rather fling myself from the keep’s ramparts.”

Certainly, yes, Lyman could see how that may be a bit awkward for the princess all things considered.

“What about my good-daughter, Selyse?” he asked. “My son, Mathis, and his family are travelling to King’s Landing in a few moons for Rosamund’s sixtieth name day. You could perhaps talk to Selyse then.” His good-daughter was a kind woman with a propensity for bluntness. She did not mince her words which was something he thought Princess Rhaenyra would appreciate.

The princess mulled it over. “I would need to meet her before agreeing to discuss something so intimate,” she finally said.

That was understandable. She had never even met his good-daughter before. “I will leave it entirely in your hands,” he said.

“Thank you. I do not know how much it will help but we shall see.”

They continued to walk together for a while but the princess still looked rather morose. Lyman decided to try and take her mind off the topic of marriage and children.

“Aside from Lord Lannister and the king, how are you enjoying the festivities?” he asked.

“They are going well. You would be proud of my comportment, Lord Beesbury. I even refrained from insulting Lady Redwyne when she goaded me over the Stepstones.”

Overall, the day’s hunt was not very successful. In the late afternoon there were reports that the huntsmen were on the trail of the fabled white hart. However, when the king and several nobles, Lyman included, rode out in response, they found out the huntsmen had been unable to catch up to the animal.

Ser Otto had been most interested in reports of the white hart throughout the day. Since mention of the legendary stag had first been made, the lord Hand had spread that it was a symbol of royalty before Aegon’s Conquest. Lyman knew Ser Otto hoped that the white hart would be found and slain on Prince Aemon’s second name day as a sign he was meant for kingship. For his part, Lyman hoped the animal stayed well clear of the hunters that pursued it.

They all gathered back at the main tent to take dinner together. While it was being served Lord Lannister approached the king with a gaudy spear. The two engaged in conversation but King Viserys did look happy by the end. Hopefully this meant that the king would not continue to press Lord Lannister as a suitor for the princess.

The following morning dawned crisp and clear. An announcement was made while Lyman was breaking his fast that everyone was to return to the Red Keep for luncheon. Princess Rhaenyra quietly told him later that the king had overindulged on wine the night before and injured his knee. It was not serious but the rest of the hunt had been called off.

As the tents were being taken down a few of the gathered nobles decided to ride out for one last turn around the kingswood before returning to King’s Landing. It ended up being a rather eclectic group consisting of Lyman himself, Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Criston, Ser Harwin Strong, Lord Cerion Reyne, Lord Edmure Darry, Ser Leyton Fossoway and a few other retainers and squires.

Lyman allowed the other riders to pull ahead so that he and the princess could converse privately. “Are you prepared for your progress?” he asked.

Princess Rhaenyra was soon to embark on the first royal progress to have taken place in over a decade. She had wanted to be there for Queen Alicent giving birth so the tour was set to start in about a moon. The progress would allow for lords to get to know their crown princess and for them to raise any pressing issues directly with her.

She would not be travelling too far from King’s Landing. The itinerary had her going up through the Riverlands to Riverrun, stopping at various house seats on the way such as Acorn Hall. Then the princess would travel east to the Vale where she would be hosted by her cousin at the Eyrie. Finally, she would fly from the Vale to Storm’s End before travelling north back to King’s Landing.

“Yes,” she replied. “I finally got confirmation from Bronzegate which was the only seat we had not heard back from yet.”

“Good,” he said. “Have you decided what to do about guards? I know—” Lyman stopped talking as he heard movement and rustling through the branches to his right. Suddenly, a boar burst through the foliage charging straight for his horse.

The horse reared with a loud whinny of fear. Caught off guard, Lyman had no chance of keeping his seat and was thrown. Landing hard on his back, he felt the air leave his lungs. There were shouts cutting through the ringing in his ears and when he turned his head, Lyman saw the boar charging straight for him. Raising his arms, he desperately tried to hold the animal at bay. The boar’s pungent musk filled his nostrils as the tusks pushed further towards his chest.

All of a sudden an arrow thudded into the side of the boar’s body. Lyman could feel the creature starting to weaken but before he could dislodge it, a silver-haired blur flew into his periphery.

With a strength he had not known her capable of Princess Rhaenyra was upon the boar, repeatedly stabbing her dagger into its thick neck. The animal soon went limp under her onslaught. Heaving it to one side, Lyman was able to take a second to gather his wits.

The princess knelt on the ground next to him, panting from the exertion. She looked, quite frankly, a mess with blood splattered across her wide-eyed face, neck and hair. Coming out of her stupor, she turned to him. “Are you hurt?” Her eyes scanned his body for any injury.

“Only my back, princess,” Lyman replied, almost light-headed with relief. “You stopped the boar from doing any damage.”

Princess Rhaenyra let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, my horse tried to bolt and by the time I had it under control the boar was on you,” she babbled. “I got it with an arrow but it—”

He reached over and grasped the princess’s forearm. “I am fine,” he assured her.

Her hand clenched his forearm tightly in response.

Their moment was broken up then as the rest of the party began to converge on them. Ser Criston reached out an arm to assist Princess Rhaenyra in rising. “Are you all right, princess?” he asked concernedly. “I had not noticed you two had fallen so far behind.”

Ignoring Ser Criston’s outstretched arm, she rose to her feet before turning to help Lyman up. Finding his balance he attempted to stretch out the kink in his back. That would hurt come morning.

There was a whistle from Lyman’s left. Turning, he saw Ser Harwin eyeing the fallen boar appreciatively. “That is no small pig,” he said. “We will make a proper huntress out of you yet.” He did not seem at all put off by Princess Rhaenyra’s blood-covered state, grinning happily at her.

The princess just scoffed.

It took the group a while to get themselves sorted out. Ser Harwin and a squire were able to tie the boar up behind one of the horses. Lord Darry offered the princess his waterskin so she was able to wash the worst of the blood from her face. Deciding there had been enough excitement for one day, everyone decided it would be best to head straight back to camp. Lyman and the princess ended up in front with the others falling in behind them.

About halfway back to camp they rode into a small clearing. A clearing that was already occupied. The white hart stood opposite, almost like it had been waiting. The two of them brought their horses to a stop in wonder.

The stag was half-again bigger than the one felled by the king the day before, with antlers rising proudly from the top of its head. Lyman finally understood all of Ser Otto’s talk about the white hart being the King of the Kingswood: there was something undeniably majestic about the animal as it stood in front of them now, eyes fixed unerringly on Princess Rhaenyra.

“By the gods,” Lyman heard from behind him as the others caught up.

Looking as though she were in some kind of trance, the princess dismounted her horse and walked slowly forward. As they stood opposite one another, with a graceful dip of its front legs, the hart bowed its head to her. Returning the gesture, Princess Rhaenyra bowed at the waist. There was silence for several moments before the white hart turned and began trotting away. After it had disappeared the princess made her way back to the group.

“That was … that was …” Lord Reyne stammered.

“Providence,” Ser Criston finished, looking awestruck as he gazed at the princess.

It occurred to Lyman then that he had never even considered signalling one of the more experienced hunters in the group to bring the animal down. Despite all the importance that had been assigned to the white hart, after seeing it for himself killing the stag was unthinkable. From their empty hands, none of the other men in the party had thought to reach for their weapons either.

Princess Rhaenyra looked awkward from the attention she was receiving and quickly remounted. “Shall we head off then?” she asked. Not waiting for a response she guided her horse into a walk.

Lyman, still feeling rather poleaxed, scrambled to follow along with the others. Catching up, he pulled his horse level with the princess’s. “This is a sign,” he said eagerly. “For the white hart to appear before you, and in such a manner too. This will surely quieten some of your naysayers.”

“I doubt it, Lord Beesbury. The other lords will probably doubt our account of what happened or say it was just a mindless animal.”

Apart from the two of them, the white hart had been seen by a kingsguard, two lords, the heir of Harrenhal, a knight and several other highborn men.

“They will have a hard time denying so many witnesses, princess,” he argued.

Everyone split off in different directions when the group arrived back at camp, eager to tell others of what they had seen. He and Princess Rhaenyra dismounted their horses and continued to the centre of the gathering. Even having washed the blood from her face, the princess made for quite a sight and many eyes followed their progress.

As they approached the long table where the rest of the royal family were breaking their fasts, Lyman saw Queen Alicent take in the princess’s state. Eyes widening at the sight of the blood, she handed off Prince Aemon, pushed herself to her feet and began making her way towards them with far more vigour than he would have expected given her heavily pregnant state.

“Oh no,” the princess groaned under her breath.

“What happened?” the queen asked worriedly as she met them, checking the princess’s head for any wounds. “Where is this blood from?”

“It’s not mine,” Princess Rhaenyra replied, lightly batting the queen’s hands away. “I killed a boar.” She gestured over to the creature that Ser Harwin was starting to field dress on a table to the side. “I shot it with my bow before finishing it off with a dagger.” Her pride was clear.

Queen Alicent looked from the princess to the large boar and then back again. Reaching over she smacked the princess on the arm. “Of all the stupid … a dagger?” she asked incredulously. “What is the point of all that archery training if you are just going to start stabbing things?” The queen made a move to hit her again but Princess Rhaenyra dodged out of the way.

“I am the crown princess,” she said, adopting an imperious, haughty tone. “To strike me is high treason.” The princess broke and started sniggering on the last word.

Queen Alicent just shook her head with an expression halfway between exasperation and fondness. He cleared his throat to remind them they were not without an audience.

“Besides, the boar would have gored Lord Beesbury here had I not intervened.” The princess gestured to Lyman himself.

“That is true, Your Grace,” he said to the queen. “Princess Rhaenyra was most heroic.”

“And we saw the white hart as well,” the princess added.

“You saw the white hart?” Queen Alicent asked.

For what was sure to be the first of many such times, Lyman began to tell the queen of what had transpired in the kingswood.

It did not take long for news of the princess’s encounter with the white hart to spread through the courtiers; the entire Red Keep probably knew by the end of the day. From there, it travelled far and wide across the realm as various lords returned to their seats after Prince Aemon’s name day celebrations finished.

All the emphasis Ser Otto had placed on the white hart as a symbol of kingship was now working against him. Talk in the keep had moved on from conjecturing on when Prince Aemon might be named heir. Instead, the princess’s virtues were being extolled and many believed her to have the favour of the gods.

Two weeks following the hunt the queen gave birth to a baby girl, Princess Rhaenyra by her side as she laboured. Princess Helaena had far more of a Targaryen look than her brother with the silver hair to match her lilac eyes.

In the days after the birth of the new princess the king finally agreed to send aid to Prince Daemon and Lord Velaryon in the Stepstones. It was long past time; from what the Small Council had heard they were dangerously close to being overrun. A messenger had been sent to the Stepstones to inform Prince Daemon that help was coming, with ten ships and two thousand men following. According to Ser Tyland the small fleet was expected to take a week to a week-and-a-half to reach the Stepstones, depending on how favourable the winds were.

It was a week later that Lyman attended the last Small Council meeting before the princess was due to leave on her royal progress. The final details of the tour were discussed again before attention turned to King’s Landing. Lacking a formal position on the Small Council the princess had become something of an advocate for the people of the city. She and the queen had been working with the Faith on various projects to try and improve living conditions. Their current undertaking was the proposed expansion of one of the orphanages in Flea Bottom.

“The inn next door has been closed for months,” Princess Rhaenyra argued. “The owners are desperate to sell. It would only take a modest investment—”

The door of the chamber opened and a man in maester’s robes rushed inside. As he got closer, Lyman recognised the maester in charge of the keep’s rookery. Barely pausing to bow and perform the proper greetings, he rushed to the king’s side.

“This just arrived, Your Grace,” the maester said, handing the king a letter. Lyman thought he saw a blue sigil on the reverse. “It says on the front it is of the utmost urgency.”

Looking perplexed, the king broke the seal, pulled out the letter and started reading. His face darkened with each line. Reaching the end, he threw the letter onto the table and looked up at his councillors.

“It is from Lady Jeyne Arryn. Her cousin, Ser Arnold, has launched an uprising to depose her and claim the Wardenship of the East and the Vale for himself. She is calling on the crown for aid.”

Gods above.

Chapter Text

There were a few seconds of silence in the Small Council chamber after King Viserys announced there was an uprising in the Vale against Lady Jeyne Arryn. Then everyone began firing questions at him at the same time, trying to find out more information. However, the king seemed to be in a state of shock, staring at the letter in his hand as though the words might miraculously change.

Would that they might, Lyman thought. For the proud Warden of the East to have reached out to the crown for assistance – the same crown that had so insulted her house with the haste of the king’s second marriage – matters must indeed be dire.

Amongst the tumult he heard the Grand Maester in the seat over send away a page to fetch maps of the Vale and the Seven Kingdoms with haste. It was not until Princess Rhaenyra desperately asked if her cousin was in immediate danger that the king gave a response.

“Lady Jeyne is well at present but expects to be under attack by nightfall,” he said weakly.

The princess did not look heartened by this declaration. In truth, Lyman half expected her to immediately run off to the Dragonpit. Since being named heir Princess Rhaenyra had kept up a steady correspondence with Lady Arryn and he knew she greatly valued their shared familial connection through her departed mother.

“How?” the Grand Maester asked incredulously. “The Eyrie is nigh on impenetrable and I cannot imagine the Gates of the Moon could fall that quickly.”

The Eyrie, the seat of House Arryn, was perched atop a shoulder of the Giant’s Lance, the tallest peak in the Vale. To even approach it an attacking force would first have to pass the Gates of the Moon, a large castle at the base of the mountain. Next the attackers would need to assault several waycastles as they wound their way up the mountain. Even then, there was still a sheer cliff hundreds of feet high to the Eyrie itself. It was thought that the castle could never be taken, until the arrival of Queen Visenya on Vhagar that was.

“Jeyne is not at the Eyrie at present,” the princess replied. “She is at Redfort visiting with her … companion, Jessamyn’s, family. They decided to make the journey before my royal progress.”

“It is as Rhaenyra says,” the king added. “Ser Arnold Arryn is marching his forces towards Redfort, where Lady Jeyne is far less protected than at the Eyrie.”

Lyman could not say he held any particular knowledge of Redfort, apart from the fact the castle was the seat of the house with that same name. Though it plainly lacked the natural defences that made Lady Arryn’s own seat almost unassailable.

More knowledgeable, the Grand Maester recounted what he could remember of the last time Redfort had been besieged: a rebellion early in the reign of King Aenys. His recollections were interrupted as the page returned, panting from exertion, and the two maps he had retrieved spread over the table.

“Who is this Ser Arnold exactly?” Ser Otto asked.

“He is Jeyne’s cousin, the son of the former Lord Arryn’s younger brother.” The princess stood and leant over the table, eyes roving the representation of her cousin’s domain. “As Jeyne is childless, Arnold is also her heir at present.” What she left out was that this meant Ser Arnold was her own cousin as well.

While making reference to the maps on the table, King Viserys relayed Lady Arryn’s account of what was happening in the Vale. It went thusly: Lady Arryn had been staying at Redfort when she was alerted to two approaching forces, one from the north and one from the south. They had been flying her own banner of House Arryn as well as Houses Waxley, Waynwood, Templeton and several minor houses besides.

A raven then reached Redfort from Ser Arnold. He had written that women were too weak to rule and that he was claiming the titles of Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East for himself. Ser Arnold ordered Lady Arryn’s immediate surrender or he would conquer Redfort and put all those inside to the sword.

The assault had been carefully timed by Ser Arnold. A large portion of Lady Arryn’s forces were in the north of the Vale serving as a deterrent against incursions by the mountain clans. Lady Arryn had reached out to the chief houses of the Vale to raise their banners but was still waiting on responses. She had therefore written to the crown requesting aid against this plot.

Lyman craned his neck in order to better examine the map in front of him. With both the Waxleys and the Waynwoods having sided with Ser Arnold, the principal houses on both sides of Redfort land were against Lady Arryn. Houses Grafton, Royce and Melcolm were the best placed to assist Redfort but, for all any of them knew, they could face their own problems or be involved.

After the king had finished speaking, his councillors just sat for a few moments. Until finally committing to the war in the Stepstones the crown had not entered into a major conflict while Lyman sat on the Small Council. Now they could be joining two within a few scant weeks.

It was the princess who eventually spoke. “We have to help,” she said. “We cannot allow my lady cousin to be overthrown and murdered by this craven usurper.”

“We do not have the ability at present,” Ser Tyland replied. “Those men and ships that could be easily mustered were sent to the Stepstones. It would take weeks to send a sizeable force to the Vale.”

The timing of this uprising really was terrible. The crown’s forces in King’s Landing had been sent to reinforce Prince Daemon so there were no quickly available men. Lyman wondered if news of the crown’s intervention in the Stepstones had made it to Ser Arnold in the Vale or if it was just an unlucky coincidence.

“Jeyne might not have weeks,” the princess argued. “We need to do something to help now.”

“Are we not getting ahead of ourselves?” asked Ser Otto, sounding far calmer than the situation warranted. “We have just gone to war in the Stepstones and now you wish to get embroiled in the Vale?” His tone was incredulous as he spoke directly to the princess. “What next? Send men to the Dornish Marches? Go after some bandits in the Westerlands?”

“So you suggest we do nothing?” the princess replied, fury clear in her voice.

“This is not some petty lord with a minor issue,” Lord Lyonel interjected. “This is the Warden of the East. Lady Arryn is one of the most prominent people in the realm. The crown cannot allow her to be overthrown.”

It would reflect poorly on them all if such a flagrant breach of the king’s peace went unanswered. And Lady Arryn had been King Viserys’s niece by marriage; if such ties were rendered meaningless then how could any lord depend on the crown?

“She could be exaggerating the situation as she does not wish to risk her own forces,” Ser Otto suggested. “The crown cannot involve itself—”

“My cousin is not a liar!” Princess Rhaenyra’s voice rose to near a yell. “She is far more honourable than you could ever dream of being.”

“Enough, Rhaenyra,” the king said. “If you cannot keep a cool head I will have to ask you to leave this chamber.”

Lyman found himself seized by a strong urge to shout at the king. The princess had risen to every challenge that had been placed in her path and diligently performed her duties. King Viserys could not have asked for a more perfect heir. However, he still had a tendency to rebuke his daughter as though she was a misbehaving child. Far worse had been spoken by men in this room and Princess Rhaenyra had a right to respond to aspersions cast on her cousin’s character.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied emotionlessly, retaking her seat.

From the look of satisfaction that flickered across Ser Otto’s face, Lyman wondered if he had been goading Princess Rhaenyra on purpose.

Several times over the years Lyman and the princess had spoken about how she needed to keep her more impetuous impulses in check. There were still lords who watched her for proof she was unsuitable to sit the throne, far more scrutiny being placed on her actions than would be a male heir. Ser Otto would take any opportunity given to declare that the princess was unfit to rule if she displayed fits of bad temper.

“If we do decide to support Lady Jeyne, what is the quickest we could send a force to the Vale?” the king asked, leaning over to inspect the map of Westeros.

If? Surely the king was not considering leaving Lady Arryn to her fate.

“Sailing from King’s Landing to Gulltown would take maybe four or five days but, as I said, we need to find men and supplies first.” As Ser Tyland spoke he appeared to be doing some calculations on a piece of parchment. “It would depend on how quickly the houses of the Crownlands could send us sufficient troops.”

“The other option is to march up the kingsroad.” The Grand Maester gestured at the map of Westeros. “That would probably take about a moon but more men could join the army on the way.”

There was a far quicker solution and Lyman knew by the glint in the princess’s eyes that she was thinking of it too.

“What about—”

Princess Rhaenyra was interrupted by the chamber door opening. It was the maester of the rookery again, a new letter in his hand. “Another message from the Vale, Your Grace.”

It surely could not be from Lady Arryn again so soon. Perhaps one of her vassals? However, as the maester passed the letter to the king, Lyman once again spied the falcon sigil of the Arryns.

Breaking the seal, the king quickly read through the letter. “It is from Ser Arnold Arryn,” he said upon reaching the bottom. “He is asking that the crown back his claim and declare that he is the rightful Lord of the Eyrie.”

“The rightful lord?” Lord Lyonel asked, brow furrowing. “On what possible grounds? Lady Arryn is the daughter of the former Lord Arryn, Ser Arnold is only his nephew.”

His confusion mirrored Lyman’s own. The law held that a lordship passed to the eldest son or, if there were no sons, to the eldest daughter. A lordship would only lawfully pass to the former lord’s brother and his line if the former lord had no children of his own to inherit. Or if the lord had decreed such was his will prior to dying, but even that could be disputed.

A weary look passed over the king’s face before he replied, “Ser Arnold is arguing that the Great Council set the precedent that the son of a second son comes before the daughter of a firstborn son in matters of inheritance.”

Oh. The relation between Lady Arryn and Ser Arnold was the exact same as that between Princess Rhaenys and King Viserys. And it was King Viserys, the son of a second son, that sat the Iron Throne over his female cousin.

Looking over at the princess to gauge her reaction to this news, Lyman saw that she was peering round out of the windows in the room. He had a strong suspicion that she was doing an assessment of flying conditions. Lyman sent up a brief prayer that Princess Rhaenyra not do anything hasty.

“It is hardly the same situation,” Lord Lyonel argued. “There has never been a formal legal succession put in place for the Iron Throne. King Jaehaerys had the right to decide his heir however he saw fit. The law is clear on how lordships are inherited. Besides, Lady Arryn inherited the Eyrie several years before the Great Council even took place.”

If Lyman recalled correctly, Jeyne Arryn had become Lady of the Eyrie at just three years old after her father and elder brothers died fighting against one of the mountain clans. With Lord Royce as her regent, at the time of the Great Council Lady Arryn had been acknowledged as the future ruler of the Vale.

“Ser Arnold states that the Great Council demonstrated the realm’s feelings on female inheritance.” The king gestured with the letter held in his hand. “That the Vale should have passed to his father rather than a little girl. Now, with his father dead, he seeks to rectify that mistake.”

Lyman would not say that the Great Council should be held up as proof that the realm thought women were unsuitable to rule. It had been reported at the time that the then Prince Viserys had won the vote overwhelmingly but Lyman wondered if in reality it was far closer.

From what he had seen of the two candidates while at court, Lyman had voted for Princess Rhaenys and knew of many other lords that had done the same. Privately, he thought that the extent of Prince Viserys’s victory may have been exaggerated to decrease the likelihood of war breaking out between the two factions.

“Ser Arnold may have a point,” Ser Otto said, tone still far too nonchalant. “Lady Jeyne Arryn was never declared heir of the Vale. For all we know the former Lord Arryn would have named his brother successor over his daughter if given the choice.”

It was unsurprising that the lord Hand was arguing Ser Arnold’s side; the removal of Lady Arryn from her position favoured Ser Otto and his ambitions for Prince Aemon. Lady Arryn was close to Princess Rhaenyra and the most powerful ruling woman in the realm besides. Her dying or being disinherited would lose the princess a valuable supporter and remove the highest-ranked woman in the realm ruling in her own right.

“Unless my Uncle Lucas left a letter stating his will on the matter before he and his sons were murdered, that is baseless conjecture,” the princess replied, her earlier anger not wholly gone from her voice.

Ser Otto did not look cowed in the face of her ire. “If there is enough bad feeling against Lady Arryn that this uprising has taken place, then perhaps it is warranted.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched. “Jeyne has mentioned that Arnold is betrothed to the daughter of Lord Waynwood. I am sure the fact that his grandchild might inherit the Vale has not factored into Lord Waynwood’s decision to rebel at all,” she finished sarcastically.

Lyman decided to interject before the princess lost her temper with Ser Otto again. “If Ser Arnold thought he had the rightful claim he should have brought it before the king,” he said. That was the legal process that should be followed in the case of a disputed succession. “Instead, he has launched an attack on Lady Arryn.”

“It is as Lord Beesbury states,” Lord Lyonel added. “Ser Arnold is trying to force our hand. Perhaps he believes that if the crown backs him, Lady Arryn might surrender without bloodshed.”

Princess Rhaenyra let out a snort at this. “My cousin would never give up her birthright. She will fight. And the crown must back her!”

“Your Grace?” Ser Otto asked, looking to the king for what they should do.

King Viserys still looked hesitant and uncertain over the whole situation. He was not a man made for war, as his reaction to the Stepstones had shown. However, the king could not just ignore an uprising in the Vale. Beyond the danger to Lady Arryn herself, allowing her to be overthrown by her male cousin would make the princess’s own position as heir completely untenable.

“There is another factor we need to consider,” the Grand Maester said. “Lady Rhea Royce. The Royces have kept faith with the Arryns since they bent the knee during the arrival of the Andals. Ser Arnold would expect Lady Royce to come to her liege’s aid.”

“You think they have attacked Runestone as well?” the king asked, glancing to where the castle was located on the map of the Vale.

“It would be the logical move to make,” the Grand Maester replied. “As tumultuous as their marriage might be, Lady Royce is the wife of a prince. Her murder would be a significant blow to the crown’s image.”

“We must not let such come to pass,” Lord Lyonel said.

Ser Otto scoffed in response. “Lady Royce might not even be in any danger.”

“We cannot just sit here dithering,” the princess said, turning to her father. Her patience had lasted far longer than Lyman would have expected. “My cousin is fighting off a usurpation as we speak.”

The king looked from his daughter to Lord Lyonel before leaning back in his chair, his hand over his face. Then he took a deep breath and his posture straightened. “We cannot leave Lady Jeyne in peril. Tyland, begin preparing what ships we have. The quickest route to the Vale is by sea. Alester, have the Crownlands send what men they can to King’s Landing and have them be ready to set sail as soon as possible.”

Ser Tyland and the Grand Maester nodded in response.

“This is not a sensible idea, Your Grace” Ser Otto said. “The crown fighting two wars at once?”

“We have no choice, Otto. Besides, Ser Arnold might back down when he realises we are supporting Lady Jeyne.”

“Your Grace, with your permission I can send a raven to Harrenhal and begin calling my banners,” Lord Lyonel said. “We could send men to fight in the Vale by land.”

Harrenhal was not that far from the Vale and would be a suitable muster point for sending a force from the Riverlands.

“Thank you, Lyonel,” the king replied. “That would be most helpful.”

“Send me,” Princess Rhaenyra spoke suddenly. There it was. Lyman had known as soon as the situation was presented that she would want to fly to the Vale. There was no possibility that the princess would leave her cousin in such serious danger. “We are looking at weeks either way for a land or sea force to be gathered and to reach the Vale. Syrax and I can reach Redfort in less than a day.”

“I will not send you off into danger, Rhaenyra,” the king replied decisively.

“Jeyne is my cousin,” she argued. “She is my mother’s niece! I cannot do nothing.”

If the princess thought to move the king with mention of her mother, she was mistaken. “You are my daughter!” He slammed his hand down on the table. “She has no right to ask me to risk you.”

“No right to ask you to risk me?” the princess queried. “Jeyne has specifically asked for my help?”

“There is part of the letter addressed to you,” the king said before reluctantly handing it over to her.

Taking it from him, Princess Rhaenyra read the letter’s contents before looking back up. “You cannot ask me to forsake my family ties to the Vale. To my blood.”

The resolute expression on King Viserys’s face did not waver. “You are not going to war.”

“I am the heir to the throne! My first duty is to the realm and its people.”

In contrast to when the princess had made a similar suggestion over the Stepstones several years prior, there was no humour around the Small Council table now. Perhaps it was her older age, perhaps it was the respect she had earned in this room. Or perhaps it was the simple reality that she was the only dragonrider not presently estranged from the crown.

“You are my only child,” the king said. At the omission of Prince Aemon and Princess Helaena there were simultaneous looks of outrage from Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Otto. “From your mother,” he hastily amended.

“I would hate for anything to happen to my … granddaughter,” Ser Otto added, with the falsest look of affection at Princess Rhaenyra that Lyman had ever seen.

“Do not worry, lord Hand,” the princess replied sardonically. “I doubt Helaena will be in any danger.”

There was an impasse then between the king and his heir as they stared each other down. While Lyman had no doubt the princess intended to fly to her cousin’s aid either way, it would be far better for her image and position if she did so with the king’s consent. After all, it was Prince Daemon’s unruly nature that had caused him to be deemed unsuitable as heir.

“If you stop me from going to help Jeyne, I may as well renounce my position as heir now,” Princess Rhaenyra finally said. “I will never be able to follow you if the crown does not do everything possible to support my lady cousin’s rightful claim.”

Ser Otto perked up at the mention of the succession possibly changing. The king just looked aghast at this near ultimatum from his daughter. Despite doing little to support her, King Viserys had never shown any inclination to name Prince Aemon heir in her stead. Lyman was unsure if the princess’s threat was a bluff or not but if anything could make the king change his mind, it would be that.

There was silence for a few moments before the king closed his eyes in resignation. “Very well,” he said. “Go to the Vale and help Lady Jeyne put down this uprising. You can leave at daybreak tomorrow.”

Lyman sat in his office a few hours after the Small Council meeting had broken up, looking over the crown’s finances. Coin would be required to support the forces that were mustering at Harrenhal and those being sent by sea. However, he found he could not fully concentrate, his thoughts turning to Princess Rhaenyra.

A knock sounded at his door.

“Enter,” he called.

The princess pushed open the door and entered his office. She looked less animated than usual, her shoulders slumped. As she got closer Lyman noticed that her eyes were red. Not bothering with greetings she sat down heavily across from him.

“Are you all right, princess?” he asked.

“I went to see Alicent after the meeting,” she replied. “I wanted to tell her myself that I was flying to the Vale. She did not take the news well.”

“I am sorry. If it helps I believe you are doing the right thing.” As much as he wished it was unnecessary.

Princess Rhaenyra nodded in response. “Could you do me a favour while I am away?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Could you keep an eye on Alicent?” the princess asked, her gaze beseeching. “She’s been a bit … off since Helaena’s birth. I am not sure how well she will cope without me.”

“Certainly. Rosamund could perhaps look in on her and the little prince and princess too.” They had not seen their own grandchildren for years and he thought his wife might enjoy some time with the babes.

“Thank you, Lord Beesbury.” The tension on her face dissipated, as though a great weight had been lifted from her mind. “That would be much appreciated.”

“Is everything in order for your departure?” Lyman asked.

“Yes. I have double-checked my route by map. I need to hug the coast until Rook’s Rest and then turn north to Redfort.”

“And your guards?” While Princes Rhaenyra was riding to war on her dragon, it would not do for her to be undefended during the time she spent on the ground. Gods, riding to war. Her sworn shield was sailing for the Vale with several of the royal guards. They should meet the princess at Redfort in not long over a week’s time.

“Ser Criston has just left,” she replied. “He is not pleased though, he wanted to fly with me on Syrax.”

“Would your dragon have allowed that?”

Princess Rhaenyra cocked her head in contemplation. “I do not think so. She can be prickly with people she is unaccustomed to. Syrax had known Alicent for a decade when she first went flying with us.”

Several moons after Prince Aemon’s birth, the queen had finally acquiesced to the princess’s long-standing wish that they take to the skies together. While she had apparently nearly deafened the princess with her screams, it was not the last time the two women had gone flying together.

“Ser Criston has been rather overprotective as of late,” she continued. “He says the encounter with the white hart is proof I have been divinely chosen to rule. His high regard is rather daunting, if I am to speak true.”

Lyman had rarely seen a knight so dedicated to his duties as Ser Criston. What scant waking hours the knight was away from Princess Rhaenyra seemed to be spent in the sept at prayer or in the training yard.

“Have you dealt with your tour?” he asked. With the princess flying to the Vale, her planned royal progress would be postponed indefinitely.

“I have written letters to Lord Tully and Lord Baratheon explaining the situation,” she replied. “Celia and Liane are writing to the heads of the other houses that were due to host me.”

Lord Lyonel’s daughters had been a great help to the princess since she took them on as ladies-in-waiting.

“It sounds like you have things well in hand,” Lyman said.

The princess nodded in response.

They sat quietly for a time then, Princess Rhaenyra twisting the rings she wore.

While Lyman agreed that they could not leave Lady Arryn to her fate while forces were mustered, the thought of the princess flying off to war had dread curdling in his belly.

In the near five years since she had first entered his office he had mentored her, provided guidance and been proud of his part in forging the extraordinary woman she was becoming. If anyone in the keep had the right to regard Princess Rhaenyra as a granddaughter, it was certainly not Ser Otto.

“Please be careful,” Lyman finally said. “I have grown rather fond of you.” He could feel moisture gathering in his eyes. “I do not know if I could bear it if—” His voice choked off.

The princess sprung to her feet, rounded his desk and flung her arms around him.

“Please do not start crying, Lord Beesbury.” Princess Rhaenyra’s voice sounded choked as well. “You will set me off again.”

He let out a weak laugh. “I think we have known each other long enough that you can call me by my first name, princess.” Raising his arms, Lyman returned the princess’s embrace, giving her a light squeeze. She felt unnaturally warm.

“In that case, Lyman, you can surely call me Rhaenyra.”

Lowering their arms they pulled apart from each other, although the princess did not move away from his side of the desk.

“I most certainly will not,” he replied, affronted by the very suggestion he would so blatantly disrespect the crown princess. “You are the heir to the Iron Throne.”

“We can work on it,” the princess joked before growing serious once more. “I will be careful, I promise. My uncle taught me some flying manoeuvres when I was younger. I do have some knowledge of how to approach combat on dragonback.”

Lyman had rarely, if ever, found himself grateful to Prince Daemon but he could only be thankful for his foresight then.

“Besides,” she continued, “Alicent has already threatened to resurrect me so she can kill me herself should I die.”

If anything could keep the princess’s more impulsive side in line, it was a threat from the queen.

“I shall pray for your success, and for your wellbeing,” he said.

“Thank you, Lyman. Now, if you will excuse me, the king wishes to have a family dinner before I leave.”

“Of course, princess,” he said, standing to see her out of his office.

Just as she reached the threshold, Princess Rhaenyra turned to look back at him. “I am leaving from the Dragonpit at first light,” she said. “If it is not too presumptuous—”

“I will be there.”

With a smile and a nod, the princess left his office.

It was a sombre group that met at the Dragonpit the next morning as the coming dawn started to lighten the sky. The king had apparently said his farewells the night before so it was just Lyman and the queen that had come to see Princess Rhaenyra off. Her great golden dragon had been saddled and brought out, shuffling impatiently every so often on its clawed feet.

Lyman stood off to one side for the moment to allow the two women to speak in semi-privacy. He had not seen much of Queen Alicent since Princess Helaena’s birth but she did not look well. From the dark shadows under her eyes he suspected she had not managed a wink of sleep the night before. Lyman averted his gaze as Princess Rhaenyra reached out to wipe away the queen’s tears.

Then turning away from the queen, the princess walked to his side.

“Are you ready, princess?” he asked.

“As ready as I can be.”

“Be cautious,” Lyman advised. “Your dragon does not make you invulnerable and you can still be attacked on the ground.”

“Without the dragons, we are just like everyone else.” It sounded almost as though the princess was quoting something. “I know what happened to Prince Aemon on Tarth, I will watch out.” For all that the first Prince Aemon had been a dragonrider and the heir to the Iron Throne, it had not stopped a crossbow bolt to the neck from ending his life.

With that, she once again pulled him into a hug. Deciding that the queen and the dragonkeepers could forgive the breach in propriety, Lyman returned it. After a few moments the princess pulled away. She took a deep breath and then seemed to steel herself, the emotions wiping from her face.

Princess Rhaenyra walked to her dragon and mounted, no hesitation in her movements. With a final nod at him and Queen Alicent, she called out a command in High Valyrian. Coming to life beneath her, her dragon unfurled its wings and propelled them upwards into the air.

Lyman and the queen lingered in the Dragonpit long after they had disappeared from view.

Chapter Text

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King

Otto was unsure how everything had gone so wrong.

All his life he had worked hard to get the recognition he deserved. He remembered the moment when, as a young boy, he discovered that it would be Hobert who inherited the Hightower. Purely by dint of being born a few years earlier, his slow, slovenly older brother would get everything in life handed to him while Otto was expected to make do with his scraps.

He raged against this injustice. Then, when he realised there was nothing he could do about it, he decided to carve out his own path.

Various possibilities went through his mind. Both the Faith and the Citadel were based in Oldtown, it would be no great hardship to join either institution and rise up through the ranks. However, one factor held him back: septons and maesters gave up their house names upon taking their vows. He wanted to be remembered as Otto Hightower, as the son that brought prestige to the Hightowers unseen since the time they ruled as kings. Let history judge whether he or Hobert was the better scion.

Having no wish to ingratiate himself with the upjumped Tyrells, Otto set his sights on a higher position of influence. Taking his young family with him, he moved to the capital to join the court of King Jaehaerys. There he found a position heading the administration of King’s Landing, his knowledge of how to govern a city of over a third of a million people serving him well.

However, Otto was still not content. What he yearned for was a position on the Small Council, to be one of the men guiding the decisions of the king. And in the deepest depths of his heart, he could admit it was being named Hand of the King that he coveted the most. The smug lords that populated the keep would not look down on him as a mere second son then.

Twice the opportunity slipped through his fingers. First Ser Ryam Redwyne of all people was named Hand following Septon Barth’s death. Then – when the knight proved utterly unsuited to the position – it was given to the king’s heir, Prince Baelon, instead. Otto was making plans to befriend the prince when the Seven smiled down on him and Prince Baelon died less than a week after being named Hand.

King Jaehaerys asked Otto to be Hand by the end of that day, Prince Baelon’s body not yet cold. He had always suspected that the swiftness of his appointment was due to the Old King wishing to limit turmoil in the face of a succession crisis. His first days as Hand were filled with debate and discussion as the king tried to decide on who should be heir: Prince Viserys or Princess Rhaenys.

Otto himself favoured the prince; he had no wish to see that glorified pirate, Corlys Velaryon, in charge of the realm, which would surely happen if his wife was selected. No, Prince Viserys had a far more agreeable personality and – under Otto’s guidance – could be moulded into a fine king. Not seeing the matter as quite so straightforward, King Jaehaerys ended up convening a Great Council of the lords of the realm to decide his successor.

The council upheld the natural order of things and it was Prince Viserys that became heir over his female cousin. The two years that followed were the best of Otto’s life. With King Jaehaerys bedridden due to his ailing health, it was Otto that ruled the realm. Every major decision passed through him, all the lords clamoured for his favour. Previously disregarded as a second son, he had risen above them all.

It still burned at times though. The second son. The second most powerful man in the realm. Sometimes when he sat the Iron Throne in King Jaehaerys’s place, he wondered what he would look like with the Conciliator’s crown perched atop his own head.

Life changed little with the Old King’s death and King Viserys’s accession. Otto might no longer sit the Iron Throne but the inexperienced king leant on him heavily for help and advice. And help Otto did. He worked to corral the ambitions of the Sea Snake, who still smarted from the Great Council’s decision. He counselled against annulling the depraved Prince Daemon’s marriage in the hope it would keep him chained to the Vale and away from court. Otto shuddered to think what would have happened to the king and the realm without his guiding hand.

A decade passed in such a fashion. The only niggling worry in the back of his mind was the state of the succession. Despite several pregnancies Queen Aemma had failed in her duty to bring forth a son. As it stood, the king only had a daughter: Princess Rhaenyra. Otto had urged Alicent to befriend the wild girl, thinking to gain influence over the future queen consort when she was married off to her brother – as the Targaryens were wont to do. But that brother never materialised. Instead, it was the despicable Prince Daemon that remained King Viserys’s unacknowledged heir.

And then Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon died. And then Otto saw an opportunity.

The king would have to marry again. He needed a son to ensure a clear succession, to ensure the stability of the realm. Why should that wife not be Otto’s daughter? Why should that son, the future king, not be Otto’s grandson? He had toiled for years in service to the crown while the king threw his lavish feasts and tourneys. Did he not deserve to be rewarded?

Let Hobert’s line have the Hightower and Oldtown. His own line would have the entire realm. Because of him the Hightowers would be kings once again.

Alicent had grown into a comely woman, just like his dear departed wife, gods rest her soul. He was sure that the king would be lonely in his grief, that he would appreciate some companionship, that Alicent would be a balm on the wounds left by this tragedy. All it would take would be a few private visits to the king in his chambers for him to be ensnared; King Viserys had never been a strong-willed man.

Otto did give a passing thought to the damage that would be done to his daughter’s reputation if word spread that she was meeting the king in his chambers. However, he judged the risk to be minimal. After all, the king liked to think of himself as a good man; Otto was sure he could be persuaded to marry Alicent for the sake of her honour if their meetings ever were made public. Starting that rumour himself could even be a fallback plan should King Viserys prove reticent to marry Alicent later.

There was only one thing standing in his way: Prince Daemon. The Rogue Prince would never accept losing his position as heir in favour of Otto’s grandson. He would likely strike down Otto himself, Alicent and the king before ever allowing such to come to pass. No, Prince Daemon could not remain as heir. Which left Princess Rhaenyra as the only viable alternative.

Otto tried to convince his fellows on the Small Council that Prince Daemon was too tempestuous to remain heir but only Grand Maester Mellos and Lyman Beesbury agreed with him. The others were hesitant to name a girl to the position, the king undecided. However, Prince Daemon proved to be the architect of his own destruction. One of Otto’s well-placed spies reported back on the prince’s ‘heir for a day’ comment. As he witnessed the king’s furious reaction, he knew Prince Daemon’s fate was sealed. Two moons later the lords of the realm swore obeisance to their new heir.

All Otto had to do was wait. Alicent was continuing to visit King Viserys; it would not be long until he was ready to take a new wife.

When Beesbury persuaded the king to arrange a maester to educate Princess Rhaenyra, Otto did not give it much thought. He half-heartedly tried to argue against the idea, not wanting the princess to get too comfortable in her position as heir. However, it would not matter once she had a younger brother and Otto had bigger battles to fight.

Perhaps if he had heeded the warning signs then, he would not be in this mess. Although how could he have predicted that Lyman Beesbury of all people would step in to support the princess?

Corlys Velaryon was positioning his daughter to become the next queen. Outwardly, the Velaryon girl would be the better match – with her house’s Valyrian lineage, gold and dragons. However, Otto had a distinct advantage: Laena Velaryon was still a child while Alicent was a woman grown. A woman King Viserys had become very fond of.

When the king announced his betrothal to Alicent, Otto thought he had won. He had won. It would be him, the second son, who got Hightower blood onto the throne, who ensured their continuing influence over the crown. Corlys leaving court due to the humiliation of his house being passed over yet again was just the icing on the cake.

It was a few weeks later that the king said Princess Rhaenyra would be relieved of her duties as cupbearer. Instead, she would continue to attend Small Council meetings informally until being inducted as an advisor after her sixteenth name day. Otto had not been consulted over this decision. He would have advised against it as it would not do for the princess to start getting ideas into her head about actually becoming queen.

Should he have seen it then?

The king and Alicent’s wedding was not as well-attended as he would have hoped, several of the great houses staying away. Beesbury’s hold on the crown’s purse strings had not helped the grandeur of the event either. However, the scale of the celebrations did not truly make much difference. Alicent and King Viserys had been joined by the High Septon and their bedding that night meant none could dispute their union.

It did not take Alicent long to fall pregnant. She was far more blessed than the late Queen Aemma in that regard.

The princess reached her sixteenth name day, taking up both her seat on the Small Council and her duties as the Princess of Dragonstone. It grated on Otto to have to entertain her ideas but he had borne Prince Daemon for years, he could bear the princess until Alicent had a son.

Then Alicent gave birth to a healthy boy, a prince. Otto had never known happiness like it. Finally, all his years of hard work and planning had paid off. His line would be the line of kings. The boy’s hair colour was unfortunate but his violet eyes ensured nobody would question whether he was a bastard. Unfortunately, the king rejected the name Aegon but Aemon was still a strong Targaryen name and he was the king’s firstborn son.

As Aemon proved to be a robust babe Otto waited for the king to officially alter his succession but it never happened. After a year had passed he became impatient and finally brought the matter up to the king when the two of them were having dinner together one evening. At his question of when the king planned to declare Aemon as Prince of Dragonstone, King Viserys had looked at him somewhat bemused.

”Rhaenyra is my heir, she will remain Princess of Dragonstone as those first in line to the throne have been before her.”

Otto thought the king was joking. He had even let out a laugh at the ridiculousness of the statement. The king had not laughed with him. When Otto pressed him for a true answer, he replied that he was serious about keeping Princess Rhaenyra as heir. Otto had barely kept a handle on the black fury that was beginning to rise up inside him.

”You have a son now. By all the laws of gods and men, Aemon should follow you as king.”

“You forget yourself, Otto. You may be family but I am the king. I have not misled you, I never told you I planned to change the succession if Alicent birthed a boy.”

Because he did not have to! It would have been like saying the sky is blue: self-evident. The law of the realm stated that a woman could not inherit if she had a trueborn brother. They were not in Dorne with its unnatural customs. Princess Rhaenys had even had the better legal claim to the throne but King Jaehaerys turned the matter over to his lords, recognising the risk of rebellion. Those lords had backed the male claimant. That was the way of things: Aemon came before Princess Rhaenyra.

The sister shall bow to her brother, and they both shall bow to their father and before the Seven Who Are One.

And a man’s property should go to his son, who carries on his name and blood, over his daughter, who carries on only his blood.

The princess being named heir was only a temporary measure to thwart the ambitions of Prince Daemon. If she became queen over Aemon it would throw the realm into turmoil and war. Otto tried to convince the king of this but he had grown annoyed and suggested they retire for the night. Despite bringing it up again in the subsequent days, each time he received the same response: King Viserys had no desire to change the succession.

Otto was not quite sure what to do. This … upset had not factored into his perfectly made plans. He resolved to find allies among those at court. Surely if the king could see that it was an unpopular decision to keep Princess Rhaenyra as heir he would change his mind. King Viserys had always been weak to the suggestions of those around him.

However, Otto did not find it as easy as he expected to enlist detractors to the princess’s claim. He started with the Small Council. Lord Strong had been vocal about not wishing to name a girl as heir when the idea was first proposed. Though when Otto spoke to him obliquely about how Aemon should be heir, Lord Strong had said that the king’s word was law before ending their conversation.

He later found out that Lord Strong’s two daughters were now serving as ladies-in-waiting to Princess Rhaenyra. His clubfooted son had also found himself installed as Warden of the King’s Mint. It was not the most important of positions but certainly a step up from being a confessor, the role the man had previously occupied.

The Grand Maester had heard good things about the princess’s intelligence and her work ethic from her maester and regarded her as a promising heir. Otto found himself missing Grand Maester Mellos, who had followed his lead on matters of the realm. Alester was far more intractable.

Even Beesbury – who Otto assumed he could depend on as a lord sworn to House Hightower – had proved unmoved in the face of his arguments. In the end it was only Ser Tyland who was sympathetic but he would hardly be enough to persuade the king.

It was then that Otto started paying more attention to the princess and her affairs. While he was basking in his victory after Aemon had been born, Princess Rhaenyra had been strengthening her position. The first thing he saw was that she had formed a close relationship with Beesbury. The two often left Small Council meetings deep in conversation and Otto’s spies around the keep reported the princess frequently visited the Master of Coin’s office. He would love to know what the princess had promised Beesbury in return for his help and support. More land? Positions at court for his family? Titles?

Otto went to Alicent next. The two young women had reconciled and he hoped his daughter could leverage their newly repaired friendship to turn the princess to their cause. This too proved futile. Alicent had rather placidly informed him that it was the king’s will Rhaenyra remain heir and who was she to go against her husband’s wishes? Despite Otto’s protests, his daughter continued to rebuff him.

Alicent had always had an unnatural fondness for the girl. Otto knew something had happened between the two several years ago that had caused his now-departed wife to ban their daughter from seeing the princess. Melara had remained tight-lipped on the subject but had spent every day for a week with Alicent in the sept so that she might repent. Otto eventually had to put his foot down with his wife to allow their daughter to spend time with Princess Rhaenyra again. It would not do for Alicent to lose her position of influence.

Although it seemed that it was the princess influencing Alicent now. Whatever deviant behaviour was going on between them had clearly robbed his daughter of her wits.

If Alicent was going to act in such a manner she could at least have persuaded the princess to support Aemon’s claim.

Alicent had though gotten the princess to go out into the city to support charity work with the Faith. Otto hoped that being involved in more appropriate womanly activities might decrease the princess’s interest in court.

All of these failures had started to grate on him. Hobert was sending letters from Oldtown pestering him about when they could expect Aemon to be named heir. Otto was too humiliated to inform him of the reality of the situation. Surely the king would come to his senses eventually. He had to realise that the realm would never accept a ruling queen.

Otto began reaching out to lords at court that he thought might be sympathetic to his cause: those with elder sisters or with their eldest child a daughter; those that felt threatened by the precedent the king was setting and worried over how it would affect their own power. Many disdained the thought of having to kneel before a queen but were not prepared to go against the will of the king over the matter. Not with Otto lacking the ability to offer them some kind of incentive anyway.

Aemon’s second name day seemed like a fine day to reverse his fortunes. The lords of the realm had turned out en masse to celebrate the occasion. The king would have to see the adulation his son provoked, the happiness that there was finally a rightful succession in place. When Otto heard about the white hart he thought it was a sign from the gods. Let anyone speak against his grandson’s claim when there was such a strong portent of his future kingship.

But it was not the royal huntsmen that found the white hart, it was that Seven-damned girl. She and Beesbury had stumbled into it after being attacked by a boar. And worse, they had several highborn witnesses. Otto had no opportunity to accuse them of lying and instead had to grit his teeth as all talk turned away from Aemon. Hobert’s look of contempt was almost more than he could bear. Not that his brother had much room to talk considering he had failed to tempt Beesbury to their side.

It was then that Otto launched a somewhat desperate plan. At the hunt he had overheard several nobles from the Vale discussing Ser Arnold Arryn. Apparently, there were rumblings that Lady Arryn’s cousin and heir coveted her seat as Lady of the Eyrie. Otto had anonymously written to the knight advising him to bring his case before the king, citing the result of the Great Council as precedent.

He was sure he could persuade King Viserys to hear Ser Arnold’s case in the hope of maintaining peace in the Vale. Let Lady Arryn be summoned down from the Eyrie and forced to defend her claim in front of the realm. Let the king see what the lords of the court thought of a ruling woman when there was a viable male claimant. At worst it would be a humiliating experience for Lady Arryn. At best Otto may convince the king that he could not reject Ser Arnold’s claim without undermining his own claim to kingship. With Lady Arryn out of the way, Princess Rhaenyra’s claim would be even more tenuous.

What Otto had not accounted for was that Ser Arnold would prove to be an utter fool. He was unsure what had triggered Ser Arnold’s attack on Lady Arryn. Had he heard that the crown’s forces were sailing to the Stepstones? Was the fact that Lady Arryn had left the Eyrie too good an opportunity to miss? Either way, the knight had gathered his forces and struck at Redfort.

For the love of the gods, Ser Arnold was Lady Arryn’s acknowledged heir! All he had to do was kill Lady Arryn in an ambush, blame it on the mountain clans and the Vale would have been his. That is the path Otto would have counselled had he known the knight was so open to kinslaying. Instead, Ser Arnold was acting out some puerile fantasy of overpowering his cousin in battle.

It had taken everything Otto had not to throw a goblet in frustration. Instead, he had carefully masked his anger and focused on dissuading the king from intervening. It was a fine line; if he was too insistent on not aiding Lady Arryn then the other Small Council members would grow suspicious of his intentions. Despite his attempts, Beesbury, Lord Strong and the princess persuaded the king that the crown needed to send support.

All was not lost though. It would take weeks for their forces to reach Redfort, plenty of time for Ser Arnold to kill Lady Arryn. The crown could never endorse him as the ruler of the Vale after killing his cousin but at least Lady Arryn would be out of the way. And then Princess Rhaenyra had suggested flying to the Vale on her dragon.

Otto had never thought that the king would agree. The princess was a girl, she should not be flying off to war. She was also, ostensibly, the heir to the throne. Otto was sure that the rash young woman would fly to the Vale either way and he hoped that her disobeying the king would reveal her true nature to the lords. That they would see she was as out of control as her uncle.

However, King Viserys had yielded in the face of his daughter. Although not before inadvertently admitting that he did not regard Aemon and Helaena as his children. Otto began to see then that there would be no reasoning with the king. He was too weak to the whims of his daughter, to his only child.

With Princess Rhaenyra flying to war the next day, Otto found himself in the keep’s sept in the dead of night. He lit a candle and fell to his knees in supplication.

Let there be a stray arrow. Let her dragon’s saddle snap. Let an assassin’s blade find her back. And should she return, give him the fortitude to do what must be done.

The face of the Stranger stared blankly down at him.

The Kingsguard

Criston had always wanted to be a knight. Growing up as the son of a steward, he did not have that many options but the idea of knighthood had taken hold of him at a young age. Knights were the ideal of everything he wanted to be: powerful, respected, dedicated to their duties and honour.

Knights were not pushed down in the dirt because of the colour of their skin. Knights were not mocked and told their mother was nothing but a Dornish whore.

He knew it would not be easy. Between his Dornish ancestry and being common-born, Criston had much going against him. Nothing in life would be handed to him, he had to seize every opportunity that came his way.

When he was not running errands to earn his family a bit of extra coin, Criston spent his childhood in the training yard at Blackhaven. Being too lowborn to be given formal instruction he watched the squires and little lordlings and tried to copy the drills they were taught. Any opportunity to engage in a practice bout he took, eager to test his skills against an opponent that was not made of straw. Criston went to bed each night bruised and exhausted, his hands covered in blisters.

Despite his skill with both a morningstar and longsword no man was prepared to take him on as a squire. It was infuriating. Repeatedly he was passed over for little boys with less than a quarter of his skill but had the proper family name, the proper connections. Criston went to the sept daily and rededicated himself to the Seven Who Are One. Lighting candles before the Warrior, he prayed for his hard work to bear fruit and for somebody to recognise his potential.

Eventually, his opportunity to prove himself came when Lord Dondarrion committed his men to fighting off a series of Dornish incursions into the Marches. Cobbling together what mismatched armour he could afford, Criston went to battle as a foot soldier.

It was tough at first. The other men were wary of him, refusing to share food and drink in case he was a Dornish spy sent to poison them. Even once Criston had fought and killed alongside them there were still little japes to contend with.

“Make sure you keep that helm on in battle or we might mistake you for one of them and run you through!”

One man once called him a ‘half-Dornish mutt’ but Criston’s fists made it clear he would not allow such an insult to stand. That man avoided him for the rest of their time serving together and no one else dared utter such a comment again.

When Ser Arlan Dondarrion asked for volunteers to assault two watchtowers on the Boneway – the mountain pass connecting Dorne to the Stormlands – Criston was the first to put his name forward. He could feel the anticipation in his blood. This was it, this was how he earned acclaim. He fought valiantly, each Dornishman dead at his hands another step closer to the knighthood he had yearned for all his life. And when it was done, when the watchtowers were destroyed, Ser Arlan announced his intention to dub him a knight.

Remaining in his bloody amour, Criston stood his night-long vigil in the sept before the statue of the Warrior. At dawn the next morning, he knelt before Ser Arlan –

“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 young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be diligent in your duties. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to keep this oath until your death.”

– and rose Ser Criston.

Lord Dondarrion offered him a place among his household knights and he was happy to accept. To show that he took his position seriously Criston was careful at all times to exemplify what a knight should be. While he had partaken in his share of youthful indiscretions he now remained chaste, recognising that such behaviour was beneath his new station. He did not drink or gamble coin on dice either. When his fellow knights went out for a night in the nearest town, Criston would polish his armour or pray in the sept.

He had to be perfect. Everything he had worked for could so easily be taken away.

Eventually, he left the Dondarrions’ service. He wanted something more. Criston travelled the realm for a time, pledging his sword to whatever cause caught his notice. It was chance that he ended up in King’s Landing for the heir’s tourney. He decided to enter the lists, the opportunity to test his mettle against the best of the realm too tempting to miss.

Criston had not expected to do so well. He was no tourney knight, had not wasted hours aiming a lance at a ring, charging his horse back and forth. That day at the heir’s tourney was the best he had ever jousted in his life. It was as if the Warrior himself had guided his arm. Opponent after opponent fell to him until he was able to best Prince Daemon himself with his morningstar.

It was then that he decided to ask Princess Rhaenyra for her favour. Criston was confident that he could win the day and it seemed it would be further good fortune to have the favour of the princess. It was her future brother they were there to celebrate after all. But Criston did not win the day. The rest of the tournament was cancelled after the deaths of the queen and the baby prince.

However, his showing was good enough that he was invited to the selection process for the new knight of the Kingsguard. The Kingsguard. The best knights in the realm, sworn to defend the king and his family. It was a far higher, more honourable position than any he could ever hope to reach. Criston attended knowing he would never be selected but that even having been considered would increase his reputation.

Though it was beneath him, he could not help the feeling of disdain as he surveyed his competition for the role. All the other knights wore armour that was shiny and new, clearly having never experienced the blow of a weapon. Their squires stood behind them with their coats of arms on display. Criston knew these type of men. They had never worked for anything in their lives and relied on their highborn names to open every door.

His feelings were justified as the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard read out the so-called accomplishments of the other men. Tourney knights and slayers of poachers. It would still be one of them that the princess picked though. Criston was well used to the way the world worked by now and he was too lowborn to be granted such an honour. But the princess did not pick one of them, she picked him. She recognised that his skill as a warrior mattered more than his name, than his lineage. There and then, Criston resolved that he would serve her until the end of his days.

He was sworn into the Kingsguard that very night. The only witnesses were the king himself, Princess Rhaenyra and the Lord Commander, Ser Harrold Westerling. As he knelt before the Iron Throne, Criston swore the most sacred of oaths.

“I swear to ward the king with all my strength, and give my blood for his. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard his secrets, obey his commands, ride at his side, and defend his name and honour.”

Although his oath was to the king, Criston could not stop his eyes flickering towards the princess, the one who had chosen him for this honour. As she draped the pure white cloak over his shoulders he had never felt prouder in his life.

Criston shadowed the princess day after day. And as she had seen him the day she picked him as her sworn shield, Criston saw her. He saw that she never missed a meeting of the Small Council. He saw that she diligently attended her lessons with her maester. He saw her graciously meet with those at court that wanted her ear. He saw her put all her effort into their archery lessons. He saw her fly to Dragonstone monthly to attend to her duties there. He saw her go out into the city and try and improve the lives of the smallfolk, never once disdaining them as beneath her. Criston saw in Princess Rhaenyra everything he would hope to see in a ruler.

Not deaf to the whispers around court, he knew that many expected the king to name his young son heir and replace Princess Rhaenyra. Criston recognised though that the princess was shoring up her position, that she was working hard to disprove anyone that would doubt her on the basis of her sex.

He saw in Princess Rhaenyra the same fire that burned in him: the desire to prove themselves in a world that had looked down on them since birth.

When he saw the princess with the white hart it was confirmation of everything he already believed. Even with his limited education Criston knew what the stag represented. It had to be a sign for those that still doubted the king’s decision, a sign from the gods that Princess Rhaenyra had their blessing.

This all had to be the will of the gods. For him to perform so well in the heir’s tourney, for the princess to pick him as her guard. It was the gods’ will that he protect her.

It was the gods’ will that he help her become the first ruling queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Viserys

Nobody ever asked Viserys if he wished to be king. By the time he emerged from his stupor following his father’s death, talk had turned to the succession and who would follow his grandsire now: him or Rhaenys. Then word came that Corlys had the Velaryon fleet making preparations on Driftmark and Daemon had torn off to gather an army to match him.

He sometimes wondered if without that army – if his brother had just stopped to consult him before acting – would he have remained free of the terrible burden of kingship? But then, when had Daemon ever listened to him anyway?

Viserys had never really thought about being king. He had known that his father would sit the throne next and that he himself would then follow but it all seemed so distant. Despite the toll that losses had taken, his father was still an active man nowhere near the twilight years of his life. Viserys should have had time. Time to learn from his father, to grow into his position as heir under his tutelage.

As his name was read out as the new heir to the Iron Throne, as he looked at his grandsire fading before his eyes, he realised that his time had run out.

He remembered well their first night back at the Red Keep after he had been declared Prince of Dragonstone at Harrenhal. Viserys was still reeling from the lords’ decision when his grandsire summoned him into the depths of the Red Keep. For all that the king paid lip service to the Faith of the Seven he still had Balerion’s head stripped of flesh and the skull mounted on an altar of worship.

There, beneath the unseeing eyes of the Black Dread, his grandsire told him of what had driven Aegon to ride that very dragon to conquest. Of the terrible winter that would come gusting out of the north to destroy the world of the living. Of the Targaryen king that must be seated on the Iron Throne to unite the realm against the cold and dark. Of Aegon’s song of ice and fire.

Viserys was stunned. He was still unsure if he wanted the crown and now the king had dropped an even heavier burden onto his shoulders: that the fate of the entire world now depended on his line. Iron bands of panic started to close around his chest and he could feel sweat beading at his temples.

He was not a leader, he was not someone people naturally followed. Daemon was the one that could command men. Rhaenys was the charismatic one. Viserys had always been the affable one of their trio, the peacemaker. He did not think he had the strength to keep the realm together in the face of such a threat.

His grandsire had only patted Viserys’s shoulder in response to his silence and retired for the night, leaving him before Balerion in turmoil.

The next day he went back to the king for more information. Had Aegon written an account of what exactly he saw? When was this terrible winter meant to happen? Had he seen the Targaryen that sat the Iron Throne, had he described him? His grandsire could only give him vague answers and show him the inscription Aegon had made in the family’s Valyrian steel dagger.

This could not be all the information Aegon had left for them, surely.

Viserys began searching the library of the Red Keep for anything it held pertaining to the Conqueror. When that proved fruitless he sent for books from Dragonstone. Anything that Aegon had written while he was there, anything to do with Daenys the Dreamer as well. There had to be something, some hint of the path forward. But he could find nothing useful.

His grandsire grew weaker by the day but his new Hand, Otto Hightower, had the realm well in hand. Viserys was happy to remain free to focus on his studies.

Aemma gave birth to a stillborn child, a girl. He had been hoping so much for a healthy boy, both to secure his own succession and to eventually pass on Aegon’s dream. They would just have to keep trying.

The Old King passed away. With Viserys no longer having a dragon it fell to Daemon and Caraxes to light the funeral pyre. For once his brother managed to behave with the dignity of their station and the service passed without upset.

In the weeks leading up to his coronation it was all Viserys could do to keep his head above water. With seemingly every lord in the realm descending on King’s Landing there were endless petitions to hear and disputes to settle. And they were all brought before him, the new king. He noticed too eyes constantly glancing to Aemma’s stomach, seeing if she would again grow round with child. Otto was a gift from the gods over that period, taking on every burden that Viserys passed to him.

Once his coronation had passed he was happy to confirm Otto’s position as Hand of the King. He would need his guidance to meet the challenges ahead.

The years went by. Viserys started to get more comfortable as king, not needing to lean on Otto and the rest of his Small Council for everything. Sometimes he even thought he might be doing a good job.

The crown was so heavy some days though. He wondered if it would have been so heavy on Rhaenys’s head.

He still did not have his heir. Little Aenar lingered for several months before passing on, leaving Viserys nearly inconsolable in his grief over losing his son. He resolved to keep trying. It would happen for them eventually. It had to. He needed to pass on Aegon’s dream.

Aemma encouraged him to speak to Rhaenyra more often. Apparently, his daughter missed him. He could ill afford to take time away from his responsibilities to visit with her so made Rhaenyra his cupbearer instead. It seemed a fair solution.

Aerion was born already dead. Why were the gods forsaking him? Viserys watched as Rhaenys’s son, Laenor, grew into a fine young man of good temperament. A dragonrider. A competent fighter. Someone that took his lessons seriously. Everything the realm wanted in a scion of House Targaryen.

Everything he wanted in a son.

And then Viserys had his dream. Of his beautiful son, born with the Conqueror’s crown perched atop his silver hair. Of thundering hooves, splintering shields and ringing swords. Of placing him on the throne as the bells of the Grand Sept tolled and the dragons roared.

The dream was more vivid than any he had ever experienced. It had to be prophetic, a vision like those that had graced Daenys and Aegon. He would have his son and all the whispers around court about the succession would cease. The realm would continue to be strong and united, ready to face the horrors to come. Viserys might not be the kind of king that was sung about in song but he would be immortalised in the annals of House Targaryen as a dreamer.

Aemma grew pregnant soon after. Finally, after all these years, he would have his Prince of Dragonstone. The court regarded Daemon as his heir but he had never been suited to the position. At Rhaenyra’s suggestion he had tried his brother in various posts on the Small Council but he did not take the work seriously. Daemon’s only talent was for chaos.

As the months passed Viserys grew more excited for the birth of his son. He commanded his council to host a tourney to make sure the occasion was appropriately celebrated. Others cautioned against it. Aemma worried over what would happen if she had a daughter. They had not seen what he had seen though. They did not know their future king was waiting to emerge from his mother’s belly.

But he did not emerge from Aemma’s belly. He got stuck. He was positioned the wrong way and could not be turned. The Grand Maester presented Viserys with a choice: lose them both or save his son. And he needed his son, the realm needed his son. Surely, if his wife were in her right mind, she would understand. They had hoped and prayed for a son for years. He held Aemma’s hand and tried to block out her screams.

It did not matter in the end. Baelon did not even live a day. He had lost Aemma for nothing.

He had killed Aemma for nothing. His wife of twenty years lay wrapped on a funeral pyre because of his choices. What was he supposed to do now? He could barely remember a time before their marriage. When he thought of a future without her, all that was in front of him was a yawning abyss.

He was no dreamer. It had all been his own ego, hoping the gods had bestowed on him such a blessing. The babe with the Conqueror’s crown had just been a dream.

The Small Council summoned him shortly after the funeral to discuss the succession. Could he not have time to rest? Could he not have time to grieve? No. His brother’s dark reputation had set most of them against the idea of Daemon wearing the crown. Against it to the point where they suggested he break all tradition and precedent to name Rhaenyra heir.

Viserys did not wish to play these silly little political games when his wife and son’s ashes were not even cold. Why must everyone always demand something from him? He stormed from the room. Maybe if he declared an official heir they would all be quiet and allow him his peace.

Once he calmed down he went to Daemon. His brother had been his unofficial heir for so long; perhaps, in the wake of these losses, Daemon might rise to the occasion. Those men on the Small Council were wrong, they did not know his brother like Viserys did.

He tested the waters with Daemon to see if he would regard Aegon’s dream with the seriousness it deserved. However, his brother had no interest in dreams or that there might be a higher purpose guiding House Targaryen. He would sooner have them abandon the crown to write their own story in fire and blood than follow the path the gods had laid out. When it later emerged that Daemon had been toasting Baelon as the ‘heir for a day’, it only made Viserys more certain in his decision. His brother had not been made to wear the crown.

Which left Rhaenyra. Summoning her to Balerion’s skull, he told his daughter it would be her that inherited his crown. He also told a harmless lie that he believed – and that Aemma had believed – she could be a great ruling queen. In truth, such a thought had never crossed his mind before all this and he had certainly never discussed it with his wife. But the realm needed Rhaenyra to agree. He needed Rhaenyra to agree.

He had sacrificed Aemma for an heir, for their child that would someday sit the Iron Throne. Perhaps if he gave her that heir in Rhaenyra, Aemma would forgive him in whatever life came after this one. Perhaps then he could find peace.

He told Rhaenyra of Aegon’s dream. It was such a relief to finally pass the burden on; he had carried the weight alone for so long.

Nobles from across the realm were summoned to pay obeisance to their new heir. Viserys had expected some grumblings about a girl being named to the position but the lords knelt to Rhaenyra all the same. If any were still unsure about having a ruling queen, they would hopefully have plenty of time to adjust to the idea.

Rhaenyra was at least taking the role seriously. He had harboured doubts given the reports from her septas over the years. However, when the crown engaged a maester for her from the Citadel, Rhaenyra was dutiful in attending her lessons.

That wilfulness did still emerge at times though. Flying off into danger to confront Daemon and get back Baelon’s egg was incredibly ill-judged but at least Rhaenyra had not been hurt. And she had given him her leave to take a new wife. The Small Council had been pressing him to do so for moons but none of them understood how hard it was. He knew he needed to further secure his succession with some spares but his wife had been dead barely a half year.

The world was so much dimmer without Aemma by his side and some days Viserys felt like darkness had swallowed him. It was Alicent who brought colour back into his life. Who spoke to him as a man rather than a king. Who listened as he talked about Old Valyria and Rhaenyra.

She could never replace Aemma, of course, but Alicent was a balm on the loneliness in his soul. And did he not deserve that? After everything he had sacrificed for the realm was he not allowed to be selfish just once? To pick his wife out of want rather than what would make the best alliance? To forget about gods-damned politics for a single moment?

He picked Alicent over Laena Velaryon. Corlys reacted as well as he could have expected; the Lord of the Tides had always had far too much pride to truly serve the realm. He seemed to forget sometimes that Viserys was his king.

Rhaenyra was unhappy with the betrothal too. Perhaps it was ill-done to spring it on her in the Small Council chamber that he was marrying her lady-in-waiting and closest friend. Truthfully, he had been scared of her reaction should he have told her privately. However, Viserys was sure Rhaenyra would move past it. She might even come to appreciate having her companion as a stepmother.

When Rhaenyra asked that she be relieved of her cupbearer duties and allowed to shadow Small Council meetings until joining after her sixteenth name day, he was quick to agree. He thought this might help mend bridges between them. However, Rhaenyra maintained her stony silence whenever they were alone together. During his and Alicent’s wedding she even disappeared right after the main ceremony!

Alicent soon fell pregnant. Viserys knew he did not love her as he had Aemma but he still would have expected to feel happiness at the news. But no, he could only feel ambivalence as her stomach grew rounder. At least he would have his spare.

The boy was born with much of his mother’s look, only sharing Viserys’s eye colour. As he looked upon the son he had wanted for so long, he wondered if that was why he felt naught beyond mild relief that the birth had been easy. There was no instant sparking of love like there was with Rhaenyra, Aenar and Baelon.

He settled on the name Aemon. As Lyman said, his uncle had been a great man and this would be a fine way to honour him. Viserys also hoped it would endear him to Rhaenys, naming the babe after her father. His cousin was still displeased that he had rejected Laena, not even speaking to him at Rhaenyra’s sixteenth name day feast beyond perfunctory greetings. Viserys missed her company. Rhaenys had always been honest and upfront with him, not standing on ceremony.

It was isolating to be king.

Rhaenyra would still not talk to him but had made amends with Alicent. He tried not to be resentful of that fact. At least Alicent was proving to be a good influence on Rhaenyra, getting her involved in charity work in King’s Landing. It was good to see the continuation of his grandmother’s legacy within the city. Hopefully, some of Rhaenyra’s harsher edges might be softened in the process.

With Aemon proving to be a healthy baby there were rumblings that perhaps Viserys might plan to name him heir. He simply responded that Rhaenyra remained his heir whenever the topic was raised. They would get the message eventually. He was the king after all, they were sworn to obey him and Rhaenyra after.

A hunt was held to celebrate Aemon’s second name day. It had been some time since the last so the courtiers were pleased to get out into the kingswood. Otto began talking about a white hart seen nearby and what a fine omen it would be. Having had enough of believing he would be blessed with signs and portents, Viserys tried to ignore such talk. Several of the lords were excited when Rhaenyra stumbled across the white hart but it was only an animal at the end of the day. He was occupied instead with trying to arrange a marriage for his daughter. Jason Lannister was rather arrogant but at least he and Rhaenyra would have that in common.

Could she not just agree to the one duty he actually asked her to fulfil?

Rhaenyra was happy enough to go gallivanting off to Dragonstone to deal with minor affairs and talk him into sponsoring a royal progress for her. However, whenever he talked about the necessity of marrying she avoided the topic like the pox. At last they came to an agreement that she might select her own husband, a weight lifted from his mind.

There was no time to fully savour that victory before word reached the crown of an uprising in the Vale. Right after he had sent most of the available ships to the Stepstones to sort out Daemon’s mess. Seven hells, it was one problem after another! Could there be no respite? The Small Council was making plans to send aid when Rhaenyra announced she wanted to go herself. His heir. All he had left of Aemma.

He had hoped the years had tempered her more reckless side but no. She was still the same little girl that had mounted her dragon and flown at age seven without leave. The blood of the dragon flowed thick in Rhaenyra and Daemon both, to his eternal vexation.

Viserys had refused her. Of course he had. But then Rhaenyra suggested she might renounce her position as heir if he did not give her leave to go to the Vale. Panic seized his chest. The crown had to pass to Rhaenyra. That was his penance for what he had done to Aemma. That was the means by which he might earn her forgiveness.

He still missed his wife every day. He still saw that bloody birthing bed in his dreams every night.

Rhaenyra was his salvation.

And as she flew to war, he prayed before Balerion’s skull that he had not damned himself further.

Chapter Text

Princess Rhaenyra reached Redfort mid-afternoon. Perched atop a hill, the castle dominated the surrounding landscape. Ser Arnold’s forces had been there for a day and were already well entrenched. Archers exchanged fire with the guardsmen on the walls as the attacking army desperately tried to lower Redfort’s drawbridge. It was then that a dragon dived from the cloud cover above.

Ignoring the men that were in the shadow of the castle walls and crossing the dry moat, fire rained down on the ranks of bowmen first. With all their focus on Redfort the archers had no time to react before the dragon was spiralling upward again and out of range. It only took a few more passes of the dragon before the bowmen broke, turning and fleeing towards the lines of common soldiers behind.

Those in the moat attempted to get closer to the relative safety of the castle but the guards above were now able to fire arrows without retaliation. The men left found themselves facing death from above either way and as the dragon turned its fiery attentions to the moat, they too scrambled to retreat.

Ser Arnold and his commanders could only watch in horror as their attacking force collapsed and fled back towards the encampments, the golden dragon routing them in scant minutes. With Prince Daemon and Ser Laenor fighting in the Stepstones, Ser Arnold and his allies had convinced themselves that they would not be at risk of dragonfire. After all, no female dragonrider had taken to a field of battle since the Conquest. However, the men knew enough about the royal family to recognise the dragon of Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, before it disappeared behind Redfort’s walls.

An envoy was sent by Lady Jeyne Arryn barely an hour later. Her demands were simple: the army was to cease its battle plans and Ser Arnold and the lords sworn to him were to surrender and bend the knee by noon the next day. Otherwise, Princess Rhaenyra would see them all scorched from the earth.

Ser Arnold had merely chortled and assured his commanders that it was a bluff. The princess was just eight-and-ten, this was her first battle and she was a woman besides. She would not have the stomach to follow through with such a threat. The other knights – looking at the destruction wrought before Redfort’s walls – were not so convinced.

As the sun dipped below the horizon Ser Arnold and his allies were divided. Ser Arnold himself wished to assault the castle under cover of darkness; Lord Waynwood and Ser Gerold Templeton thought a retreat the best option and Lord Waxley said they should surrender. Harsh words were spoken, steel was drawn and soon Lord Waxley and his two sons were dead. With morale already low, as this news spread through the camp the Waxley men decided they had no wish to face a dragon. Gathering their supplies they simply left and began heading southward to home.

With desertion spreading through the army, Ser Arnold had no choice but to capitulate to Lord Waynwood and Ser Gerold’s wishes. In the black of night those men that remained were ordered to disperse and make for Ironoaks, the seat of House Waynwood.

It was quiet in the Red Keep during the week that followed Princess Rhaenyra flying to war. Lyman had grown accustomed to her dropping into his office and found the silence rather off-putting. As the princess requested, he spoke to Queen Alicent when he could and knew Rosamund was spending time with her besides. He also frequently came across the queen in the keep’s sept, both of them praying before the Warrior for the princess to return victorious.

A raven had arrived at the Red Keep notifying the Small Council that the fleet sent to the Stepstones had been turned away. Apparently, Prince Daemon had ended the war with the Crabfeeder on his own and did not require the crown’s assistance. The fleet was being redirected to the Vale but the Small Council was unsure when that message would reach it.

That particular day Lyman was meeting the queen for luncheon. The pretext was that he needed to speak with her about funding for the latest orphanage she and the princess were patronising. It was only the two of them dining at the table as Prince Aemon and Princess Helaena were being attended to in an adjacent room.

After they had settled on an amount of coin to be donated to Flea Bottom orphanages, the conversation moved onto other topics. Once both had finished eating they adjourned to some chairs by the fire with a carafe of Arbor gold. By unspoken agreement the rebellion in the Vale was not brought up.

“How are the little prince and princess getting on?” Lyman asked. So far Princess Helaena had proved to be as hale as her brother, thank the Mother, with the Grand Maester reporting no concerns.

The queen let out a weary sigh, placing her goblet down on the table. He could not help but notice her torn, slightly bloody cuticles. “Helaena cries constantly and Aemon misses Rhaenyra. He is unsure why his favourite playmate is not here anymore.” A melancholy look passed over her face before she gave her head a shake. “Lady Beesbury has been most kind though. The children are fond of her.”

Rosamund was happy to help the young queen and spend time with her children. By his wife’s reports, their company was far preferable to attending an embroidery session with the other ladies of the court.

Queen Alicent’s gaze sharpened then as she focused fully on him. “Have I heard true about what my father wore to yesterday morning’s Small Council session?”

Rather than his typical austere blacks, Ser Otto had arrived to the meeting in a dark green tunic. The meaning was likely lost on the king and Ser Tyland but Lyman had exchanged perturbed glances with Grand Maester Alester and Lord Lyonel. Those familiar with Oldtown knew the colour that signified the Hightower calling its banners to war.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lyman replied. “I fear Ser Otto may try and take advantage of Princess Rhaenyra’s absence to rally more support to his cause.”

The queen leant back in her chair at this. “I hoped the white hart might finally put his ambitions for Aemon to rest but he is becoming even more persistent. I will have to speak to him, make him see that he is only sowing discord by speaking against Rhaenyra.”

Lyman could not help but be curious about Queen Alicent’s feelings on the princess remaining heir. While he had encouraged the two women to reconcile in the hope it would prevent future conflict, he wondered if the queen harboured any second thoughts. Any other woman in her position would be eager to advance her son’s claim. However, from what he had seen, the queen continued to be a stalwart supporter of Princess Rhaenyra.

“You seem to be firmly against your father’s ambitions. Does no part of you rue that your son will not be king, Your Grace?” he asked.

She mulled the question over for a moment. “I do believe Rhaenyra will be a good queen. Much in thanks to your own influence, Lord Beesbury. A better queen than, well, several of the kings that have come before her.”

It was a thinly disguised jab at King Viserys, not that Lyman necessarily disagreed. In truth, he did not think he had done much to assist Princess Rhaenyra. Many of the desired qualities of a ruler were already there, she only required guidance.

“Besides, what other path might I take?” Queen Alicent continued. “The king has never so much as hinted he might change the succession. Should I raise my son to overthrow his sister against their father’s wishes? Spend my time plotting against my dearest friend?” There was anger colouring her voice now.

That was what several other women might do in her place and likely what Ser Otto hoped for from his daughter.

“Yet Prince Aemon is the king’s only son,” he prodded. “Many would say he has the better claim, that he should inherit the throne.”

The queen scoffed at this. “I want my children to be safe more than I could ever want my son on that damned chair. My father says the realm will go to war if Rhaenyra accedes to the throne. I do not believe that, not if we give the lords no reason to doubt her.”

“So you support her completely?” He needed to be sure given Ser Otto’s recent call to arms.

Queen Alicent gave him a shrewd look then. “Is that not what you hoped for when you convinced Rhaenyra to reconcile with me? That I would not press my son’s claim over her own.”

Lyman felt his eyes widen in surprise. He had never shared with the princess why he thought it so important she let go of her anger towards the queen several years ago: that continued animosity between the two women could threaten the stability of both the crown and the realm. It was disconcerting to have his motivations laid bare by Queen Alicent in such a way.

“Do not look so shocked,” she said. “Rhaenyra told me you pressed her to hear my side of what led to my marriage to the king. I doubt you are truly that invested in her personal affairs.” The queen did not seem angry at the subterfuge.

In the face of her insight he decided that honesty was the best policy. “It is true that I foresaw danger in the two of you continuing to be at odds. However, the princess’s desire to reconcile was true. I did not tell her of the political benefits.” Lyman did not want the queen to believe Princess Rhaenyra had manipulated her in any way.

She shook her head. “I thank you for the reassurance, Lord Beesbury, but it is not necessary. Rhaenyra has never been that good a liar, especially to me. Besides, you were not wrong about the danger that could have developed and I am far happier with her by my side again.” The queen paused to take a sip of her wine. “So yes, Rhaenyra has my complete support. Our fates are irrevocably tied now; it is safer for me and my children that Rhaenyra’s claim be as secure as possible.”

There was logic in what Queen Alicent was saying. If a dispute over the succession ever went so far as to involve armies or, gods forbid, dragons then the entire royal family would be at risk. And the realm would burn with them. He felt his throat go dry at the very thought and took a large gulp of wine. Far better for them all that Princess Rhaenyra never be challenged.

“Have you and the princess discussed this then, Your Grace?” At the very least the queen had given much thought to the issue.

“Yes, not long after Aemon was born,” she replied. “Rhaenyra knew that many would expect His Grace to replace her as heir but that he had no intention of doing so. It had to be clear that I supported her claim, that we showed a united front. Then it was simply a case of making that claim as strong as possible.”

The queen paused to pick up the carafe of wine and top up both of their goblets. “Thanks to your tutelage, Rhaenyra knows how to present herself to the lords so that they respect her. I, on the other hand, have been working on her image with the Faith.”

“With the Faith?” he asked. The upper echelons of the Faith were based at the Starry Sept in Oldtown. They had not been involved in the politics of court in the near two decades since Septon Barth – who served as King Jaehaerys’s Hand for four decades – passed away.

“It was the Faith of the Seven that nearly brought the Targaryen dynasty to its knees after the marriage between Prince Aegon the Uncrowned and Princess Rhaena,” the queen replied. “Even without the Faith Militant, it makes for a far better ally than enemy.”

The High Septon had decried the incestuous marriage between King Aenys’s son and daughter, leading to an uprising. Pious lords, smallfolk and the Faith Militant rose up against the crown leading to years of conflict. It was not until the reign of King Jaehaerys that relations with the Faith were mended. Lyman’s father used to tell him tales of the terror and violence during that time. Of the natural-born uncle he had lost fighting for the Warrior’s Sons against Maegor the Cruel.

“I have ensured that Rhaenyra works with the Faith in King’s Landing in our mission to improve the lives of the smallfolk,” the queen continued. “She also joins Aemon and I at the sept on occasion. There will be no denouncements from Oldtown that she would not make an appropriately pious queen.”

Courting the approval of the Faith was a wise decision. While it no longer had any military might given the disbandment of the Warrior’s Sons and Poor Fellows, the Faith still had a great deal of influence. There was an impressive amount of forethought that had gone into Queen Alicent’s thinking. Lyman wondered if Ser Otto was aware of what a keen political mind his daughter possessed. If he was aware that mind was now working against him.

Regarding the woman before him now – a shrewdness in her eyes at odds with the fact she was but eight-and-ten – it was clear Princess Rhaenyra was benefiting from the arrangement the two had come to. “That is sensible, Your Grace,” he said. “Though I must ask, what do you get from the princess in return?”

“Rhaenyra looks out for the interests of my children and I. The king hardly gives them a second thought. I wonder if he remembers Aemon and Helaena exist half the time.”

Given the fact that the king had so recently referred to Princess Rhaenyra as his only child, this was not an unfounded concern.

“And,” the queen continued, a grave look passing over her face, “Rhaenyra has sworn that if matters ever get truly dire over the succession, if Aemon becomes a figurehead for rebellion, she will give up the crown before allowing him to come to harm.”

By the gods. Surely the situation would never escalate that far. Although, it was not so long ago that Maegor had slaughtered his nephew during the last dispute over the crown. Given the way she doted on her little brother, Lyman knew Princess Rhaenyra was not capable of anything so heinous as kinslaying. But not everyone that sided with her may have the same compunctions.

“My belief in Rhaenyra has paid off,” Queen Alicent said, pulling Lyman from his dark thoughts. “What could the white hart appearing before her be but a sign she has the favour of the gods?”

“It certainly felt portentous at the time,” he replied, recalling the awe that had flooded him at the sight of the majestic creature.

“Yes, that is why I made sure the High Septon was aware of what happened that day.” The queen tipped her goblet towards him. “I must thank you, Lord Beesbury, for your account of events. I enclosed it with those of the other men that were there.”

Lyman had not given much thought to why the queen had requested a written record of the princess’s experience with the white hart. He had guessed she merely wanted it to be kept for prosperity, not that she would send it to the head of the Faith.

“I was not aware you were in correspondence with the High Septon.”

“Since my wedding,” Queen Alicent affirmed. “I have consulted with him on matters of faith several times. He was eager to have the ear of the queen since the Faith’s influence on the crown has waned in recent years. Rhaenyra’s charitable activities in King’s Landing have been of great interest as well.”

Lyman was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that he was playing cyvasse with someone who was thinking ten moves ahead. At least the queen was not his opponent.

“It would be a major boon if Princess Rhaenyra had the High Septon’s support,” he said. That could sway the more pious lords that were having doubts over King Viserys’s succession.

Queen Alicent nodded in reply. “Rhaenyra will be queen.” Something dark crossed her face. “And none will dare go against her.”

With the army camped beneath Redfort’s walls having fled, Lady Jeyne Arryn had time to regroup. Redfort’s banners had been called and it was not long before men amassed from the surrounding countryside. With her cousin safe for the moment and no word received from Lady Rhea Royce at Runestone, the princess flew east.

As the Grand Maester suspected, the uprising had targeted Lady Arryn’s most loyal bannerwoman as well. Long jealous of Runestone’s superior port and proximity to Gulltown, House Melcolm had joined Ser Arnold’s cause and attacked the seat by sea. Unfortunately for Lord Melcolm, Lady Royce received enough warning to prepare for the arrival of his fleet.

The two sides had reached something of a stalemate with the Melcolm forces unable to breach Runestone’s defences but Lady Royce unable to drive them off. The arrival of Princess Rhaenyra on her dragon changed that. As at Redfort, it did not take more than a few passes of the golden beast before the attackers retreated. After all, swords could be parried, arrows avoided but there was nothing to do in the face of a dragon but die.

Lord Melcolm was among those killed in the inferno and his brother ordered a retreat back across the bay to their seat of Old Anchor. Knowing that with the princess and her dragon they had already won, Lady Royce did not order her ships to pursue. The new Lord Melcolm – an eleven-year-old boy who had been kept out of the fighting – was offered the same terms as those that attacked Redfort. Seeing that the crown was against them and having no desire for Old Anchor to become a second Harrenhal, the young lord’s uncle accepted.

Thus it was that less than a week after Redfort was attacked, only House Waynwood, House Templeton and those sworn to them were still in open rebellion with Ser Arnold against Lady Arryn. As ravens flew back and forth across the Vale, more houses pledged their support to their liege lady.

Ser Arnold had expected that the other lords of the Vale would come out in support of him. Surely they too chafed under the yoke of a woman ruling over them. Surely they too wished for a restoration of the natural order. However, none would answer his call.

Lyman was sorting through his latest correspondence when he came across another letter from his son, Mathis – who was overseeing Honeyholt in his stead. After opening it, he could not help but let out a groan at the letter’s contents.

Lord Hightower could do nothing overt against House Beesbury without attracting the attention of the crown. However, he had made his displeasure at Lyman’s declared allegiance to Princess Rhaenyra known. Their taxes had increased, more men-at-arms had been pressed into service and more grain was being demanded, ostensibly to store for winter. This latest letter from Mathis stated that yet another shipment of honey had been turned away from Oldtown. The city had always been House Beesbury’s best market but sellers they had worked with for generations were now rejecting their honey.

These demands were certainly impacting House Beesbury’s income but it was not the end of the world. One did not become the realm’s Master of Coin without having enough knowledge and foresight to have plenty of golden dragons stored away for a rainy day. There were also many places outside of Oldtown that were still accepting House Beesbury’s shipments. It was all just so petty of Lord Hightower. At least Lord Tarly had agreed that Alan might squire under a knight in his household. Mathis would be sending his son to Horn Hill in less than a moon.

Continuing to flick through his letters, Lyman was surprised to find a second one with the yellow Beesbury seal. Breaking it open, he found it was from his second son, Garlon. Eyes widening with each line, Lyman read that Garlon’s chain had been stripped from him for … breaking his vow of chastity.

His son swore that the accusations were untrue, that he would never disgrace himself in such a fashion. However, his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Despite presenting no proof, the Seneschal of the Citadel had summoned Garlon to Oldtown and then removed his title of maester.

Lyman did not understand how this could have happened. He believed Garlon when he wrote that he was innocent; his younger son had always had a most temperate manner and never been prone to any vices. But then where could such false accusations have originated?

His eyes fell on Mathis’s letter, on his words of how House Hightower continued to penalise House Beesbury for his defiance. There had always been close ties between House Hightower and the Citadel. A suspicion taking root in his mind, Lyman sought out the man at court with the most knowledge of Citadel affairs: the Grand Maester.

Ser Arnold and his remaining allies were trapped in the House Waynwood seat of Ironoaks. They had retreated to the castle to regroup following their disastrous defeat at Redfort. Expecting that other houses would join their cause, they had not anticipated being besieged.

Corbray, Hunter, Royce, Redfort; the principal houses of the Vale heeded Lady Arryn’s call and marched to end this uprising once and for all. Ironoaks found itself surrounded and cut off, the princess and her dragon circling on high. Once again Lady Arryn sent terms, though far less lenient than before. Ser Arnold and his chief allies would answer for their crimes but the others inside the castle would be spared if they surrendered.

Having no wish for the mass slaughter of innocents, Lady Arryn was content to continue the siege rather than unleash her cousin and her dragon.

Lord Waynwood and Ser Gerold knew when they were beaten and urged Ser Arnold to surrender. However, despite everything going against him, Ser Arnold was not content to watch a lifetime of ambition go up in smoke. Recognising the most serious threat he spoke to Ironoaks’ maester about how they might bring down the princess’s dragon.

During the Conquest it had taken a scorpion bolt to bring down Meraxes over Dorne and the Valemen had no such weapon. Yet. Ser Arnold urged the maester to begin drawing up schematics for a scorpion that could soon be brought to bear. Concerned over the potential ramifications, the maester went to his lord instead.

When Lord Waynwood heard of Ser Arnold’s plan he was incensed. Killing Princess Rhaenyra, the heir to the Iron Throne, would bring the crown’s wrath and the might of House Targaryen down on Ironoaks. None of them would be spared. His entire family would be wiped from the surface of the earth. Realising that Ser Arnold’s ambition had pushed him into the depths of madness, Lord Waynwood knew there would be no reasoning with him.

Instead, Lord Waynwood ran Ser Arnold through with a sword.

Lyman left his conversation with Alester feeling rather annoyed. After some pressing, the Grand Maester had awkwardly explained that it was known at the Citadel that the Hightowers were to be granted a certain degree of deference. They were, after all, behind much of the Citadel’s funding.

Alester had heard reports that scions of House Hightower often had an easier time gaining links for their chains and that only the most gifted of maesters served in the Hightower directly. Having Garlon stripped of his chain would be the most overt use of their influence that Alester had heard of but he thought it was very much possible.

When he discussed the situation with Rosamund over dinner she did not seem surprised. Angry at Lord Hightower, certainly, but not surprised.

“You surely did not think we could get through this unscathed?” Rosamund asked, leaning back in her chair and dabbing around her mouth with a napkin. “You must have realised as soon as the king and Queen Alicent’s betrothal was announced that there might be conflict with our liege lord. By throwing your lot in with Princess Rhaenyra you are going against the Hightowers’ interests.”

Lyman had known this but assumed, rather naively with hindsight, that Ser Otto would not go against the will of the king if he continued to support his daughter’s claim.

“I knew that Ser Otto’s ambition was to see his grandson on the Iron Throne but I thought, with Princess Rhaenyra’s position as heir secure, that there was little he could do,” Lyman replied. “We all swore oaths to her, Lord Hightower and Ser Otto included.”

“Not everyone is as honourable as you.” Rosamund’s expression was somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “Many men care little for oaths in the face of power.”

Lyman was starting to realise that as cousin attacked cousin for control of the Vale. As Ser Otto attended Small Council meetings in his house’s war colours. As the Hightowers penalised House Beesbury for their defiance.

“I did not ever expect to get embroiled in anything like this,” Lyman said, gesturing with his arm. “I took a position on the Small Council to serve the realm, to prove that the Beesburys were loyal servants of the crown after what Braxton did.”

The affair carried out by Lyman’s nephew with Princess Saera had brought shame to their entire family. Upon becoming Lord Beesbury, Lyman was eager to wash away this taint. It was one of the reasons he so readily accepted the Master of Coin role when King Jaehaerys offered it to him.

“You knew what court was like,” Rosamund said, compassion in her tone. “That there were risks in accepting the position of Master of Coin.”

Lyman thought of Rego Draz, the Master of Coin selected by King Jaehaerys after he had reached his majority. The man had been beaten to death by a group of starving smallfolk in Flea Bottom that blamed him for the high cost of food.

So yes, Lyman was not unaware that being Master of Coin came with certain risks but he had not expected to find himself at the heart of issues over the crown’s succession!

“I am not sure if I am suited to all this back room dealing and backstabbing,” Lyman replied, running a hand over his face in frustration. He regarded himself as a straightforward man and tended to avoid the politicking that went on at court. At least he had until he started mentoring Princess Rhaenyra.

“I do not think you have a choice now.” His wife had always been the more pragmatic one between the two of them. “Unless you plan to abandon the princess.”

“Absolutely not,” Lyman replied vehemently. “I will not allow myself to be scared off by the likes of Hobert and Otto Hightower!” His relationship with the princess had started off out of necessity. After all, somebody had to help her learn how to be heir and it was not going to be the king. However, Lyman cared deeply for Princess Rhaenyra now and would not give up on her.

“In that case, we can only meet fire with fire.” There was steel in Rosamund’s voice. “The Hightowers should not get away with slandering Garlon and trying to ruin our house.”

Lyman could not help the smile that graced his face at this. He was glad he had his wife as an ally. Her support over the years had been unwavering, especially in the wake of him becoming a lord and then deciding to take up a position at court.

“Well then, what can we do?” he asked. “The Citadel answers to no higher authority, apart from the Hightowers apparently.” There was nobody they could appeal to in order to get Garlon reinstated as a maester.

“The Citadel might answer to no higher authority but the Hightowers do. I am sure that House Tyrell would be interested to hear that the Hightowers are stocking up on men, food and coin. With everything going on in the Vale, thoughts of potential uprisings will not be far from their minds.”

Of the great houses the Tyrells were generally regarded as among the weakest. Having served as stewards to the ruling kings of the Reach, House Gardener, many of the Tyrells’ vassals resented the power they now held. A fact the Tyrells knew well. They would be sensitive to any indication that House Hightower could be conspiring against them.

“We cannot accuse the Hightowers of anything directly,” Lyman warned.

“Do not worry,” Rosamund replied with a smirk. “A few discreet whispers and the Tyrells will wrangle the Hightowers back into line.”

It was times like this that Lyman was very glad he had married his wife.

After killing Ser Arnold, Lord Waynwood and his allies opened the gates and surrendered. As Lady Arryn promised those innocents in the castle were spared but the leaders of the rebellion were judged before Ironaoks. Even before the sentence was pronounced the outcome was clear; to rise up against one’s liege lady was to forfeit one’s life.

The traitors were offered the choice of being hung or joining the Night’s Watch. Several opted to take the black but there were still enough bodies on Ironoaks’ gallows to send a clear message.

Thus Ser Arnold’s uprising ended after only a few short weeks. The forces sent by the crown ended up being unnecessary but they stayed in the Vale for another moon in case of any further unrest. Princess Rhaenyra too stayed for a time to make her support of Lady Arryn clear. And to remind the Vale of the might of her dragon.

All the lords and ladies of the Vale were summoned by Lady Arryn to renew their oaths of fealty to her. None refused to bend the knee. Hostages were gathered from what remained of those houses that had rebelled to serve as assurance against future uprisings. With Ser Arnold dead and no further threats to Lady Arryn’s ladyship, it was hoped that the whole ugly business could be left in the past.

Once it was clear that peace had been fully restored to the Vale and that her cousin’s position was secure, Princess Rhaenyra turned her dragon south and headed for home.

Chapter Text

The king held a feast to celebrate the princess’s triumphant return from the Vale. Luckily for the state of the crown’s coffers, Princess Rhaenyra had not sent word ahead that she was coming back to King’s Landing so there was no time to organise anything too lavish. Although – given the dark shadows that were under her eyes when Lyman saw her – she probably would have appreciated a quiet night with her family far more.

The courtiers all stood with the king to toast Princess Rhaenyra for restoring peace in the Vale. One by one the lords approached the high table to congratulate her. She nodded in all the right places and replied to their comments with a smile but it did not reach her eyes.

Life in the Red Keep settled down again then, the tension of past weeks dissipated. In recognition of the lengths her house had gone to in its liege lady's defence the princess had agreed to take Rowena Redfort on as a lady-in-waiting. She would join Celia and Liane Strong in the princess's retinue.

However, when Lyman saw Princess Rhaenyra she was quiet and tense, engaging him in conversation far less than usual. He thought she might be avoiding him. The princess took a few weeks to recover from her exploits before leaving on her rescheduled royal progress. With everything that had happened the Vale portion of the tour was removed so it would only consist of the Stormlands and Riverlands. He argued Princess Rhaenyra should take longer to rest but she said she did not wish to leave it too long and risk snubbing those lords that were hosting her.

There was too an advantage to the princess visiting various houses on her dragon so soon after her victory in the Vale. Let them be reminded that Princess Rhaenyra was the blood of the Conqueror. Let them be reminded that to stand against her was to stand against a dragon, a dragon that had proved itself in battle.

She was absent from the Red Keep for several weeks as she visited multiple castles and keeps throughout the two regions. Once again Lyman found himself spending time with the queen and the young prince and princess. Prince Aemon was a spirited boy with seemingly limitless energy. A whole bevy of nursemaids and caretakers were required to keep him occupied and out of trouble. However, when the little prince did eventually tire himself out, he was quite content to curl up in the arms of anyone that would hold him. Due to proximity that frequently ended up being Lyman himself, who Prince Aemon had dubbed ‘Beebs’ after failing to master his name.

On the other hand, Princess Helaena was the fussiest baby he had met in his life. She would cry and bawl for hours on end with nothing her wet nurses, nursemaids or mother did making any difference. On one occasion the queen had looked ready to burst into tears herself before Rosamund took over trying to soothe the distressed child. (His wife later confided that the only reason she could stand the little princess’s cries better than everyone else was that she had been plugging her ears with beeswax.)

Whatever whispers Rosamund had started regarding the activities of House Hightower had reached the ears of House Tyrell. A letter arrived from Lord Uthor Tyrell requesting information on the levies House Hightower was exacting from House Beesbury and if there had been an explanation for recent increases. Lyman was mostly honest in his reply but had included an oblique reference to the fact that the Hightowers seemed to be preparing for something. Hopefully, that would be enough to worry House Tyrell about the designs of their most powerful bannermen and bring them to heel. There was still the issue of what to do about Garlon – stripped of his maester’s chain and without purpose – but he was coming to King’s Landing for Rosamund’s name day next moon so they would have the opportunity to speak then.

It was not long after his correspondence with Lord Tyrell that the princess arrived back from her progress. Eager to hear how she had been received by the lords, Lyman met with her in his office to discover how it had gone. The usual restless vigour of Princess Rhaenyra was absent as she entered. Instead, she slumped into the chair opposite him, shoulders curled inwards. The veil of melancholy that had shrouded the princess since her return from the Vale had yet to lift.

“How did you fare meeting the lords of the Riverlands?” he asked, hoping to take her mind off whatever was bothering her.

“Lord Grover Tully is a sour man,” she replied with a pinched expression. From what Lyman could recall of meeting the Lord Paramount of the Trident, this was not an inaccurate assessment. “His words against me and my claim to the throne were as overt as they could be without verging on treason. He made a particular point of emphasising that he supported my father at the Great Council over his female cousin.” Princess Rhaenyra ran a hand over her face in frustration. “I fear I will get no support from him.”

While this was disheartening, it was not the end of the world. They had long known that there would be lords who, on principle, would never be pleased about a ruling queen. Besides, given his already advanced age it was unlikely Lord Tully would live long enough to see the princess accede to the throne.

“What about his grandson, Ser Elmo?” Lord Tully’s firstborn son, Ernest, had died in a boating accident about a decade ago leaving his own son, Elmo, as the heir to Riverrun and the Riverlands.

“To speak honestly, I did not think much of him either. Ser Elmo seemed a rather timid man, unwilling to push back against his grandfather.” A smile curled the corners of Princess Rhaenyra’s lips. “I thought he might shit himself when Syrax landed in Riverrun’s courtyard.”

Time away at war had not helped her propensity for coarser language than was considered ladylike.

“But Ser Elmo did not seem himself to be opposed to your status as heir?” Lyman pressed. Barring unforeseen death, the knight would likely rule the Riverlands by the time King Viserys passed away.

The princess thought it over for a few moments. “I do not believe so,” she replied, a frown marring her face. “He reminded me rather of a reed. I believe he would bend to follow whichever way the current flowed.”

Meaning Ser Elmo would support her if it was the more favourable option. They would need to keep an eye on Riverrun in that case. Make sure the Tullys understood what would befall them should they fail to keep their oaths to the king and his heir.

“Ser Elmo does though have a younger brother, Counton,” Princess Rhaenyra continued. “I believe he is one-and-ten. The lad is restless, eager to prove himself, and Ser Criston was impressed with how well he could handle a blade given his age. We have spoken to Ser Lorent and he is happy to take Counton on as a squire.”

If Lyman’s memory served, the kingsguard was currently without a squire as his previous one had been knighted during a recent tourney.

“Perfect,” he said. “That should increase Ser Elmo’s amiableness towards you. What of the other river lords?” While the Tullys were the Lords Paramount of the Trident, several other Riverland houses had more prestigious histories and could field larger armies.

“Most were quick to affirm their support for my position. Lord Piper was particularly emphatic on stating he would always honour his word.” Anger flashed across the princess’s face then. “Of course they could be offering flowery words to my face while plotting behind my back. Although at least none of them are prancing around court wearing the colour their house uses to call its banners to war!”

Lyman started at the abrupt shift in the conversation and the venom with which she had spoken. He had planned to bring up the recent change in Ser Otto’s wardrobe later, after their talk on the royal progress had concluded.

“Yes, Ser Otto started wearing green tunics at the first Small Council meeting after you went to the Vale,” he replied. “I was unaware you would know what it symbolised.”

Princess Rhaenyra waved him off with a careless gesture of her hand. “Alicent was particularly wroth with me when we were nine or ten and wore nothing but green for a week.” A look of fond exasperation crossed her face. “I had no clue what it meant so eventually she gave me a book on House Hightower’s history bookmarked at the pertinent page.” Then her expression darkened once again. “Ser Otto is becoming more brazen in his attempts to undermine me.”

Was it brazenness or desperation? Nothing that Ser Otto was doing to try and press Prince Aemon’s claim was working. With her haste in dealing with the uprising in the Vale, the princess had more support than ever. Lyman had even heard some of the older members of the court comparing her favourably to her grandsire, Prince Baelon. The lord Hand would need to exploit any chink in Princess Rhaenyra’s armour that he could if he hoped to sway opinion in his favour.

“That is why it is more important than ever that you give the lords of the realm no reason to doubt you,” Lyman said. “That your position remains unimpeachable.”

“Is that not what I have been doing?” the princess replied, surging to her feet in frustration. “I learn every lesson that is required of a future ruler. I flatter every lord and lady that comes to court, listen to their concerns.” She was pacing the room now like a caged animal. “I have taken up a seat on the Small Council as Princes Aemon and Baelon did when they were each the heir. I govern Dragonstone to the best of my ability. I work to improve the lives of the people of King’s Landing. I fly off to war to defend my cousin and the stability of the realm. What more do they want from me? When will it finally be enough!” This last was practically screamed. She was left shaking after her outburst, chest heaving, eyes wet in the glow of the candlelight.

Lyman was stunned into silence. He had never seen Princess Rhaenyra lose her temper like this before. In all their previous conversations on the topic she had seemed to accept that she would always need to put in more effort than a male heir would have.

What could he say in response because, truthfully, it would never be enough. Nothing the princess did would ever totally silence her detractors, would ever prove to the whole realm that it should be her and not Prince Aemon that took the throne. There would always be those that doubted her based only on her sex.

In the face of his silence the princess rubbed a rough arm over her eyes. “I need to go. I need … I need to fly.” With that she tore out of the room.

Lyman did not see her again for the rest of the day. He spent a good portion of his evening thinking back over Princess Rhaenyra’s words. Even with the benefit of time he was unsure how he could have responded better. It would be an uphill struggle for her all the way to the Iron Throne.

The next day Lyman entered his office to find the princess already seated in front of his desk. He sat down across from her warily, wondering what kind of mood she would be in. Those dark shadows were still prominent under her eyes. Was she getting any sleep?

The princess did not look at him for a few moments, gaze fixed on his desk as she fiddled with one of her rings. Finally, her eyes rose to meet his, a contrite expression on her face. “I apologise for my outburst yesterday, Lyman. It was not worthy of me. I have found myself frustrated as of late but I should not have taken my temper out on you. You have been nothing but supportive of me.”

“There is nothing to apologise for,” he replied, far more concerned with the words Princess Rhaenyra had spoken rather than the manner with which she had delivered them. “But about what you said—”

“Do not worry. My emotions got the better of me yesterday but I do realise there are those that would never support a ruling queen, no matter what I do.” Her lips quirked in a wry smirk. “After all, my father did not beat Princess Rhaenys at the Great Council based on his ability to rule.”

Yes, well, the less said about that, the better.

Lyman’s hand reached across the table to clasp the princess’s. “For what it is worth you have done an admirable job in rising to meet every challenge placed in front of you.”

“It is worth a great deal more than you could guess,” she replied with a smile and a squeeze to his hand. A smile that then shifted to display her teeth. “Besides, I am going to prove them all wrong.”

There was the Princess Rhaenyra that he knew! Retracting his hand, he settled back into his chair. “Might we continue our conversation about your tour, princess?”

“Yes. Where exactly had we reached?”

“The river lords,” Lyman replied.

She nodded. “They seemed accepting of my position as heir for the most part. Though Willem Blackwood nearly got in a duel with Jerrel Bracken over some perceived slight to my honour.”

Of course. The neighbouring houses of Blackwood and Bracken had a feud stretching back thousands of years to the time they both ruled as kings. In any conflict they would likely take opposing sides just to spite the other.

“Anything else of note to do with the Riverlands?” he enquired.

“Nothing that comes to mind.”

Very well, in that case they could move on to the other region that the princess visited.

“How did you find the Stormlands?” Lyman was hopeful that she would find support as heir to the Iron Throne from the Baratheons. Over the last century they had pressed the claims of both Princess Aerea and Princess Rhaenys to the crown.

“It certainly lived up to its name,” she quipped. “I do not think it stopped raining the entire time I was there. Beyond that, Lord Baratheon was most affable during my visit. He even suggested by the end that I might call him uncle.”

Oh yes, Lord Boremund Baratheon was the half-brother of the late King Jaehaerys. And the late Queen Alysanne. Making him the princess’s … great-great-uncle, Lyman supposed. Working out relations between those of House Targaryen could get muddy.

“I got the feeling that had his son, Borros, not already been married, he would have been presented as a suitor,” Princess Rhaenyra continued, not looking enthused at the prospect.

All considered, that was probably for the best. While Ser Borros Baratheon looked like a strong match on paper, Lyman had heard over the years that the knight lacked his father's fortitude. With a situation as unprecedented as the princess's, her consort would need to be unwavering. He wondered if the king had made any progress on selecting a husband for her after the disaster of suggesting Lord Jason Lannister.

“So Lord Baratheon seemed pleased with you?” he asked.

“If you mean did he seem to respect my position as heir, then yes,” she replied, cutting to the heart of the issue. “From what he said about the uprising in the Vale I think he cares more about the strength of a ruler than what’s between their legs.”

Crudely put but Lyman took the princess’s point. With its proximity to Dorne, Lord Baratheon ruled over one of the most unstable regions in the realm. A Dornish fleet had attempted to invade the Stormlands several decades ago but been burned by King Jaehaerys and his sons. It was also in the Stormlands that Prince Aemon had died trying to repel Myrish pirates on Tarth. Lord Baratheon had more reason than most lords to want reassurance that a dragonrider would ensure the security of his lands if needed.

“Well, none can doubt your strength after your actions in the Vale,” Lyman said encouragingly, hoping to improve her mood. Putting down Ser Arnold's rebellion so expediently would quiet those that doubted she could perform the more militaristic aspects of ruling.

However, Princess Rhaenyra did not look cheered at this. “Lord Baratheon wanted quite a detailed account of what happened.” Bitterness laced her words and her jaw was clenched. “He seemed rather taken by the idea of scorching enemies from dragonback. As if it would be an exciting afternoon.” Her eyes were resting somewhere over his shoulder, gaze out of focus.

These mood swings were starting to concern him. The princess had been most volatile during their recent conversations.

“Princess, we have been close for several years now,” Lyman said. “If there is anything on your mind I would be happy to lend an ear, share the burden with you.”

She hesitated for a few moments before replying, her violet eyes meeting his before darting away again. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Gods above. Lyman was unsure what he had expected the princess to say but it had not been that. “Not personally, no.” He had just managed to scrape through the required trials to earn a knighthood but had never faced real combat. “When I was ruling as Lord of Honeyholt before coming to court I did sentence several men to death though.” There were a few outlaws and a murderer brought before him for judgement. In accordance with the king’s law they had been hung.

The princess leant towards him in her chair at this. “How did you feel about it?” There was something in her tone that was almost desperate.

How did he feel about it? Lyman had given little thought to those men over the past couple of decades. He could still remember their names though, their faces. “It was not an easy sentence to pass but they were guilty and the law is clear,” he replied.

She looked disappointed, as if she was hoping for something more from him. “Syrax and I killed scores of men in the Vale,” Princess Rhaenyra said, staring into the distance with the knuckles on her right hand white where she clung to the chair's arm. “Most of them were probably just farmers, mustered by their lords. I wonder how many knew why they were attacking Redfort or Runestone.”

Ah, so that was what was affecting her so. Young lordlings were raised to know that they might be called on to defend their lands or march to war for their liege lord if needed. It was a grim duty but one they were trained for. While the princess had her dragon and was practised in archery, he doubted anyone had spoken to her about this more violent aspect of her duties.

Perhaps Lyman should have discussed it with her earlier himself but he had hoped there would never be a need to. That the peace the realm had enjoyed under King Viserys would continue.

“You were not raised for this, princess,” he said gently, reaching over to pat her on the arm. “It is only natural to feel conflicted or guilty over what happened.” It was not an easy thing to take a life, nor should it be. However, the stability of the realm would one day rest on the princess’s shoulders. She needed to be prepared to defend that stability, even if the cost was high.

Princess Rhaenyra looked even more torn at this, beginning to spin one of the rings that adorned her hands. “It is not guilt exactly. I know I needed to act to protect Jeyne and her rightful position as Lady of the Eyrie.” She seemed to be struggling to find the words, opening and closing her mouth several times. “You have heard my father mention the blood of the dragon over the years, yes?”

Lyman nodded in response. The king often cited the blood of the dragon as being at fault for the actions of his brother and daughter that particularly vexed him. That their Targaryen ancestry made them temperamental and unruly.

“There is a certain impulse to chaos, to destruction that shows in some members of my family,” she continued. “Visenya, Maegor, Rhaena, Aerea, Baelon, Alyssa, Saera.” The princess was counting them off on her fingers as she went. “My uncle. Me,” she finished with a note of resignation.

“I would not say you are particularly chaotic,” he replied. “Or destructive.” Princess Rhaenyra had shown great maturity over the years. Especially in relation to some of the other members of House Targaryen on that list. Gods above, Maegor had plunged the realm into war by usurping the throne from his nephew and then killing him!

“Yes, because I cannot allow myself to be! I was a wild child, Lyman. I drove several septas and my poor mother to distraction often enough. Alicent was always the one best able to deal with my fits of anger. But then I grew up and such behaviour was deemed unladylike. It got worse when I became heir. Suddenly any instance of strong emotion on my part would have them all say I did not have the temperament to rule. I have to keep it all bottled up inside instead.”

“Keep all what bottled up, princess?” Lyman asked, trying to understand.

“All my rage,” she replied. Her violet eyes squarely met his own, an intensity burning in their depths. “You can never imagine what it felt like, entering my mother’s chambers that day and seeing her body. That gaping hole in her belly where they had torn Baelon out of her, all the blood drenching the sheets. The look of terror on her face.”

He was not unfamiliar with how the former queen had died but tried not to think on the particulars. The fate of Queen Aemma – who had been nothing but gracious and kind to him – made Lyman feel ill to consider.

“And then at her funeral,” the princess continued, “the king standing there as if he had any right to mourn when it was him that killed my mother. As if it hadn’t been him and his incessant need for a fucking son that led to all this.” Her hands clenched into fists. “The courtiers with their false sadness and meaningless platitudes, as if they hadn’t gossiped behind her back for years. It would have been so easy. Syrax knows my very soul; all it would have taken was one kernel of my fury going through our bond and it wouldn’t have been my mother’s funeral pyre that burned.” There was a darkness in her eyes that Lyman had never seen before. Faintly, in the distance, he thought he could hear a dragon roar.

He was ignorant of how the bond between dragon and rider worked but if the princess’s dragon had been moved to set half the court aflame, there was little anyone could have done to prevent it.

“What stopped you?” Lyman asked. It was hard to imagine how he would have felt in the princess’s place, looking across his mother’s funeral pyre at his father, knowing it was he who killed her.

Her eyes cleared a bit at this. “It is not what my mother would have wanted,” Princess Rhaenyra replied simply, a profound sadness in her voice. “She wasn’t given a choice during Baelon’s birth. They just held her down like an animal being slaughtered. I was the only one who ever cared about her wishes. It would have been a betrayal, to give into my anger at the king. She wouldn’t have wanted me to become a kinslayer for her.”

No man was so accursed as the kinslayer. And he who murders his own blood shall burn in the deepest of the seven hells for all time. In killing her father the princess would have damned herself, both in the eyes of the gods and the realm.

“Besides, she was his wife and cousin both and he ordered her death,” she continued. “The gods will mete out their justice.” The princess paused for a second. “I sometimes wonder if it was my father killing my mother that led to Baelon’s death. If that was the gods’ punishment for his kinslaying.”

Lyman had never considered that the king had effectively kinslayed his wife in his quest for a son. The exact manner of the queen’s death was kept secret but, among those few of them that knew, it had never been spoken of in those terms. Gods, both Ser Otto and Lord Velaryon were eager enough to give their daughters to the king afterwards.

He had noticed the resentment Princess Rhaenyra held for her father over the last several years. It was rather hard to miss. However, Lyman had not realised she held such fury too towards King Viserys. Although, he reflected, how could she not given what happened to her mother?

“I still get so angry some days though. At my father for doing nothing to help me secure my position, for marrying Alicent. At Otto for all his plotting and scheming. At those of the court who would be happy for Aemon to take my place. But I cannot do anything about it! Were I a man I could challenge Otto to a duel or release my aggression in the training yard. Instead, I have to keep it locked away. Gods forbid the lords ever see me do something so unladylike as lose my temper.”

The princess had to walk a fine line. Be assertive enough that none would doubt her strength as a ruler but not so much that the lords doubted her to be of suitable temperament.

“Our house words are Fire and Blood for a reason and I can always feel them calling out, deep inside me. In that moment over Redfort, when I commanded Syrax to set the attackers afire, it was the most cathartic experience I’ve had in my life. I could feel all that tension and anger being expelled with every gout of flame. Everything else faded away.” There was an expression on her face that Lyman could not quite place but if he had to liken it to anything, it would be rapture. “But then I was on the ground.” That expression dimmed. “And there were just charred bodies and the smell of burning meat and screaming.” She went quiet then.

It was silent for a time, Lyman struggling to digest everything that the princess had disclosed to him. He was aware that she put up something of a front for the court, but then they all did. Never could he have imagined she was keeping all that locked away inside. Where did he even begin here? There was nothing in his own history that he could compare to what Princess Rhaenyra spoke of.

Everyone knew that the Targaryens were not like other men. After all, their blood gave them the ability to control dragons. But it seemed that blood came with caveats as well if it drew those that carried it towards violence.

Eventually, while being careful to moderate his tone, he asked, “Is this why you have been having trouble sleeping?”

She nodded. “I go back there in my dreams every night. That feeling of utter relief and freedom as I unleash Syrax … and then seeing all the death and destruction I had wrought.”

Lyman knew his son, Mathis, still occasionally had nightmares about his time in Oldtown’s City Watch. There was a particularly gruesome murder – with a child as the victim – that had stayed with him. However, that did not quite match up with the princess’s experience where it seemed it was her own actions that haunted her.

“Have you considered talking to your kingsguard about this?” Lyman suggested. “Ser Criston fought in the Dornish Marches, he might have some insight.” With the realm having been largely at peace since the death of Maegor, there were few men at court that had experience in combat. In dealing out death.

“I tried to talk to Ser Criston but for him all of the killing was just part of his duty. He did not have any feelings either way on the matter. Besides, I did not wish to go into too much detail with him lest he look at me differently.” Her eyes dropped to her lap. “Like a monster.” Abruptly, Princess Rhaenyra started sobbing. Great having sobs that shook her whole body as her face dropped into her hands.

Lyman rounded his desk and pulled the weeping woman into his arms, letting her get it all out. She had been carrying this burden for far too long. While comforting the princess, he reflected on what she had confessed. Lyman had known Princess Rhaenyra all her life and had grown close to her over recent years. He felt certain that, despite whatever feelings she had experienced in the heat of battle, he knew what was in the princess’s heart and it was good.

“These feelings do not make you a monster, princess,” Lyman tried to reassure. “From what news reached us of what was happening in the Vale, you fought a relatively clean campaign. You did not pursue those that retreated, no innocents were harmed.”

She pulled back out of his arms, tears still running down her face. “Yes but I wanted to,” the princess replied, looking at Lyman desperately as though willing him to understand. “Everyone that doubted whether my cousin could rule. Everyone that doubted me. In that moment, I wanted to burn them all to the ground.”

“But you did not act on those impulses,” he said, patting her back. “I believe that a person’s actions speak more to their character than their thoughts.” Gods know, he had entertained his own share of violent fantasies recently. A recurring one was of pushing Ser Otto down a staircase.

Princess Rhaenyra did not look assuaged by his words. “That call for fire and blood, it is still there, screaming in my soul.” She thumped her hand against her chest for emphasis. “I do not know how to make it stop.” There was something approaching desolation in her voice.

Lyman searched his mind for more ideas to help her. “You mentioned the other members of your family that have experienced this. How did they cope with it?” he asked.

She paused, running a hand over her red eyes and seeming to calm slightly. “Well, quite a few of them notoriously did not cope with it. Visenya, Maegor, Saera even to an extent, gave into it. But the rest …” She thought it over for a few moments “They found other outlets, I suppose. Dragonriding, fighting, lovers.”

At this last Lyman could not help but frown, recalling the scandal caused by Princess Saera bedding three of her male favourites. His nephew among them. “Princess, I know it does not need to be said—”

“Relax, Lyman,” she said, waving his concern off. “I am not stupid enough to throw away everything I have worked for by deciding to bed half the court or the like.”

“Of course. Apologies.” He tried to think of what other options the princess might have for quenching the blood of the dragon. “Could you perhaps speak to other members of your family about this?”

Based on her words earlier, Lyman doubted she would confide in the king but there were other family members she might turn to.

“I am unsure how much help they could be,” Princess Rhaenyra said. “I do not think Princess Rhaenys and Laenor are affected. My father certainly isn’t. Laena might feel it to an extent but she is too young to burden with this. And that just leaves—”

“Prince Daemon,” Lyman finished.

She nodded in response. “Is there any word yet on when he might return to court?”

“None that I have heard,” he replied. It had been a good few months now since the conflict in the Stepstones ended but, as far as they were aware, Prince Daemon still resided on the islands.

“I will need to speak to him when he returns,” the princess said. “For all his chaos, he can control himself to a degree. After all, he has not run Ser Otto through with Dark Sister yet.”

To Lyman this seemed a rather low threshold for gauging the prince’s control but she had no better option for discussing this darker aspect of her bloodline than her wayward uncle. What was it he had once heard Lord Velaryon say: any port in a storm.

Chapter Text

Following their talk on the so-called blood of the dragon, Princess Rhaenyra worked to try and get her temper under control. Not being able to speak to Prince Daemon for the moment she looked into her family’s histories for any useful information.

The most helpful technique that she discovered was contained in a treatise on dragonriding in Dragonstone’s library, the princess on one of her monthly trips to her seat when she made the find. The treatise was designed to help dragonriders with fiercer mounts that they claimed later in life, rather than those born to them in the cradle. It suggested that a method for the rider to control their negative emotions – and to stop them impacting their dragon through the bond – was to focus on their breathing. The treatise advised inhaling deeply through the nose, holding for several second and then exhaling out through the mouth.

Lyman had never given much thought to breathing himself but it seemed to be working for the princess. During particularly vexing Small Council meetings he was sure he could see Princess Rhaenyra employing the technique, usually in response to something Ser Otto had said.

Another useful suggestion came from the Strongs. The princess was complaining to her ladies-in-waiting about feeling angry so often when Celia and Liane said that their oldest brother had experienced similar issues in his youth. Ser Harwin had thrown his frustrations into training to be a knight, expelling his anger through drills and practice bouts.

Thus, alongside her archery with Ser Criston, the princess now spent time in the training yard under the tutelage of Ser Harwin. Lyman was unsure as to the effectiveness of this new regime – which involved much running about and hitting straw men – but Princess Rhaenyra must have thought it beneficial.

When news of this reached the king and he queried her new activities, the princess replied that being active aided her dragonriding. That the physicality of some of the manoeuvres she had performed over Redfort and Runestone had strained her and she wished for her body to be better conditioned. This explanation had appeased King Viserys enough that he was happy for his daughter to continue her training.

Princess Rhaenyra remained hopeful though that her uncle would have some knowledge of House Targaryen’s bloodline that might aid her more permanently. He was, after all, she said, dedicated to their Valyrian heritage.

Rosamund’s name day celebration got off to an awkward start. With hindsight, Lyman could have cursed himself for not seeing it coming. His eldest son, Mathis, good-daughter, Selyse, and their two younger children had journeyed from Honeyholt for the occasion. Sadly, their eldest child, Alan, would not be joining them as he had now started squiring under the Tarlys. Lyman’s second son, Garlon, was though able to attend since he was at loose ends after being stripped of his maester’s chain.

At the meal to formally mark Rosamund’s name day they were joined by several lords and ladies that his wife was friends with as well as the queen and Princess Rhaenyra. This was where Lyman had erred. Mathis and Garlon had seemingly discussed the false accusation that the latter had broken his oath of chastity and the increased levies demanded by House Hightower. They had concluded that House Hightower was conspiring against House Beesbury – which was not incorrect. However, they then proceeded to enact a series of slights against Queen Alicent in retaliation.

Lyman had not noticed at first. Given the occasion he had enjoyed more goblets of wine than he normally would have and found himself in rather a merry mood. It became clear though that Mathis and Garlon were disgruntled, first of all giving curt answers to the queen’s enquiries and then never offering to refill her wine goblet, as courtesy demanded. Rosamund and Selyse were trading furtive glances and he saw his good-daughter elbow her husband in the side a few times. Princess Rhaenyra too had picked up on the tension, glowering at his sons across the table as she pointedly poured the queen wine.

Eventually, Lyman took his sons to one side to ask what in the name of the gods they were doing. That their behaviour was an embarrassment to both himself and Rosamund and that they were lucky neither the princess nor the queen had confronted them over it – likely out of not wanting to disrupt the dinner. Mathis and Garlon, instead of being mollified by his chastisement, had started defending their behaviour in light of what their liege lord was doing. Voices became raised as his sons tried to justify themselves and the reasoning behind their actions was overheard by both Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent.

This led Lyman to his current predicament: sitting with the princess the next morning as she demanded to know what had been going on between House Beesbury and House Hightower.

“Why did you not tell me about what the Hightowers were doing?” she asked.

“This was not a matter for the crown to concern itself with. Whatever House Tyrell has said to the Hightowers has worked. Our levies are back to what they used to be.” It would take some time for Honeyholt’s coffers to recover but Oldtown had started accepting House Beesbury’s honey again.

“It is not the crown I expected you to inform, it is me,” the princess said, gesturing to herself for emphasis. “I thought we were friends. You should be able to come to me with your problems as I come to you with mine.”

She sounded rather offended that he had not confided in her.

“I did not want to burden you further,” Lyman replied. “Most of it happened while you were in the Vale and you returned with a great weight on your shoulders; I did not wish to add to it.”

“That is not how relationships work though,” she argued. “There should be give and take from both parties. Alicent comes dragonriding; I go to the sept. The Strong sisters serve me faithfully; I get their brother installed as Warden of the King’s Mint because they worry being a confessor is starting to affect him.”

He had wondered why Princess Rhaenyra pushed that particular appointment for Larys Strong. Although, the man was performing his duties admirably.

“It was business between House Beesbury and House Hightower,” he said. “There was nothing you could have done to resolve the situation.” She could not simply wade into matters between houses and their liege lords without it looking like the crown was overreaching its power.

“I could have lent an ear. I thought we were in this together.” The princess was looking at him with great earnestness. “I have few enough true friends, I do not wish to treat them negligently.”

Perhaps Lyman had been doing her a disservice. He still sometimes saw Princess Rhaenyra as that girl of three-and-ten that first came to his office for advice. But she was a woman grown now.

“I apologise, princess,” he replied. “If anything like this happens again I will inform you.”

Her face brightened at this. “Thank you, that is all I ask for.” Then the princess’s expression grew more serious. “Now, you said your levies to the Hightowers have returned to normal but what do you plan to do about Garlon?”

What indeed. “His options are somewhat limited. The Citadel will not readmit him and, even if they were willing, Garlon is disillusioned with the whole institution.” Not that Lyman blamed him after the Citadel so readily bent to the whims of House Hightower. “He never passed the trials for knighthood and lacks the ability to do so now. He has no real desire to return to Honeyholt and find a place in the family business. Frankly, I am at a bit of a loss.”

Princess Rhaenyra thought it over for a few moments. “Did you not once say that he is gifted in healing?”

“Yes,” he replied. “He had four silver links on his maester’s chain before it was taken.” Lyman once hoped that Garlon might become an archmaester in healing due to his expertise in the subject, but that dream was gone now.

“The motherhouse on the Gods’ Way, next to the Great Square, has opened its doors to treat the sick. However, the Faith has been struggling to find people knowledgeable in healing to train the septas and oversee their work. If Garlon is willing, I could put his name forward to Archsepton Warrick.”

The archsepton was the highest-ranked member of the Faith in King’s Landing and responsible for everything it did throughout the city. Lyman knew he had collaborated in recent years with the princess and the queen on their charity work.

“I will need to check with Garlon but that may be a good fit,” he replied. “Although might Archsepton Warrick not have some reservations considering the purported reason Garlon was expelled from the maesters?”

A man believed to have broken his vow of chastity was hardly the sort one wanted to be involved with septas.

After pondering it for a few moments, Princess Rhaenyra said, “I doubt knowledge of what allegedly happened will have spread that far. The Citadel will not want to invite scrutiny on its relationship with House Hightower, which might happen if the news got out. They will want Garlon’s expulsion kept quiet as well.”

That was true enough. With maesters acting as trusted servants throughout every castle and keep in the realm, they would not want lords and ladies to start questioning their neutrality.

“In that case I will speak to Garlon later,” Lyman said. “Thank you.”

She nodded in response. “He and Mathis should apologise to Alicent though. They were rather rude.”

“Do not worry. I have had words with them about their deplorable behaviour towards the queen.” He had raised his sons to have better manners than those they had displayed the previous evening.

The princess looked satisfied at this before there was a brief lull in conversation as they both drank from their cups of tea.

“Your good-daughter did apologise for her husband’s actions as Alicent and I were leaving,” she said. “She has invited us to luncheon later as recompense. I hardly hold her responsible for what Mathis did but Selyse was most insistent. She seems kind.”

Lyman was reminded that he had suggested that the princess might speak to his good-daughter about the marriage bed, lacking many alternative options. With everything that had happened in the Vale it felt like years had passed since that conversation but it had only been several months. However, he had left the decision in Princess Rhaenyra’s hands and was not going to bring it up again. It was awkward enough the first time.

“I hope that luncheon is successful in that case,” he eventually said.

It was not long after Rosamund’s name day that an unexpected visitor arrived at court: Lady Rhea Royce. Lyman was at first worried that this heralded further trouble in the Vale but she requested to speak to the Small Council on a non-urgent matter. The princess, on the other hand, did not seem surprised at Lady Royce’s presence in King’s Landing.

Thus it was that the next time the Small Council met, at the end of the session Lady Royce was admitted into the room to say her piece. While she performed all the necessary greetings to the king, her manner looked stiff to Lyman’s eyes, chin never dipping in deference.

However, it did not seem that King Viserys noticed as he jovially said, “Be welcome, Lady Royce. What has brought you before us today?”

Her spine straightened so that it almost looked like she was standing on guard in the bronze armour of her house. “I seek the crown’s permission to have my marriage to Prince Daemon annulled.”

Oh dear. Lady Royce was certainly not one to mince her words. Not that she could be blamed in this instance. It was known across the realm that her marriage was an absolute farce and Lyman was surprised she had not tried to get out of it sooner. Prince Daemon certainly had.

He could still remember the wedding itself, one of the first major events he was present for at court. At the time, marrying Prince Daemon to Lady Rhea Royce had seemed like the perfect solution to several different problems. Even at the age of six-and-ten Prince Daemon was considered something of an issue for the royal family. Having already claimed a dragon, been knighted and granted the Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister, the young prince was restless and known to frequent brothels and other places of ill-repute around King’s Landing. Further, as the second son of the heir to the throne, Prince Daemon stood to inherit nothing for himself.

On the other hand, Lady Rhea – as the only child of Lord Yorbert Royce – was due to inherit the second-most-powerful seat in the Vale. By marrying her Prince Daemon would gain access to his own castle and lands, which would then pass to his child. Queen Alysanne had championed the match, hoping it would settle the prince’s tumultuous nature.

There was also another factor involved in the marriage. Earlier that year, Lord Lucas Arryn and his sons had been murdered by one of the Vale’s mountain clans. This left three-year-old Jeyne Arryn as Lady of the Eyrie. With the crown’s support it was Lord Yorbert Royce who was Lady Arryn’s regent and the Lord Protector of the Vale until she came of age. However, even then there were worries that a male Arryn might try and claim the Vale for himself, plunging the region into civil war.

In one of the rare instances that she had pushed her opinion at court, the then Princess Aemma argued that by marrying Prince Daemon into House Royce, it showed that the Royces and young Lady Arryn had the crown’s backing. This further secured her niece’s position and made an uprising in the region less likely.

Ultimately, the marriage went ahead with both Houses Royce and Targaryen hoping it would prove fruitful. Such hopes were soon dashed as Prince Daemon took every opportunity to spurn his wife. The marriage had turned into an embarrassment to both the crown and to Lady Royce herself.

Lyman turned to the king to see how he was reacting to Lady Royce’s request for an annulment. He looked befuddled and rather concerned.

“On what grounds?” Ser Otto asked. “Your husband is a prince of the realm, a fine match for any woman.”

Was the lord Hand japing? He despised Prince Daemon – who had hardly been a ‘fine’ husband to his wife.

Lady Royce obviously agreed with Lyman as she turned towards Ser Otto with a look of outrage. “Our marriage has never even been consummated,” she announced. “The prince disparages me at court and flaunts his attendance at whore houses. He attempted to take a second wife, stole a dragon egg and declared himself Prince of Dragonstone in what can only be described as an act of treason.”

Lyman winced. He had hoped news of that incident would not have reached Lady Royce’s ears.

“He has spent the last three years fighting an unsanctioned war in the Stepstones,” she continued. “I have not even seen Prince Daemon for over six years.”

There was silence in the room as Lady Royce finished speaking. When it was all laid out like that, Prince Daemon was not displayed in the best light to say the least.

“I was unaware you heard about Daemon trying to marry his whore,” King Viserys said awkwardly. “We tried to keep that whole event quiet.”

Lady Royce scoffed. “He sent a raven informing me of his plans,” she said. “My husband made it clear I was not invited to the wedding but he wanted to be sure I knew of it.”

Gods above, of course he had. The prince had often shown a callous disregard for his wife in public, it made sense he would do so in private as well.

“Why seek this annulment now?” Ser Otto asked. “You have been married to the prince for two decades.”

Lady Royce’s eyes flicked towards Princess Rhaenyra.

“I invited Lady Rhea to court to present her case to us,” the princess said. “I believe she has been trapped in her miserable marriage for long enough.”

Ser Otto’s eyes narrowed. “So this was your idea?”

“I have long been unhappy in my marriage,” Lady Royce interjected. “Princess Rhaenyra thought, given recent events and the restrengthening of the bond between the crown and the Vale, now would be a good time to raise the matter.”

Ser Otto did not look appeased. He would likely oppose the annulment on principle since he knew the princess supported it.

“I need heirs to carry on my line.” Lady Royce was directly addressing the king. “I cannot do that with a husband who refuses to be in the same room as me.”

At the mention of heirs a sad look passed over the king’s face. “Yes, it is our children that will carry the realm forward into the future,” he said, looking at Princess Rhaenyra. She did not look back.

“Forgive me, Lady Royce, but would breaking this marriage alliance not be seen by some as an insult to the Vale?” Lord Lyonel asked.

Lady Royce let out an unladylike snort. “I guarantee it is far more insulted by the marriage continuing. The only women in the Vale that the prince has not mocked are the sheep.”

So all of Prince Daemon’s jibes about Valemen … coupling with sheep because they were prettier than the region’s women were known as well. Had the prince no ability to hold his tongue?

“In fact, I have a letter from Lady Arryn to assuage any concerns that she might take offence at my marriage being annulled.” Lady Royce passed a sealed scroll over to the king.

He broke the seal, unfurled the scroll and read over its contents, his eyes widening as he went. “Lady Arryn fully supports the marriage being annulled … and for Prince Daemon to never step foot in the Vale again. She writes that relations between the Vale and the crown are stronger than ever with the investiture of an Arryn descendant as heir to the Iron Throne and our swift aid in putting down the recent rebellion.”

Lyman could not help but wonder if Lady Arryn knew how much the king had dithered over sending that aid and that it was the princess’s own decision that she and her dragon flew to assist.

King Viserys put down the scroll. “Daemon has never been happy in his marriage,” he said contemplatively. “He asked me for an annulment shortly after I became king. I refused, thinking he would settle down eventually.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Lady Royce replied, “I do not think your brother is capable of settling down. At least not with me.”

He cracked a wry smile at this. “True enough.”

Perhaps sensing that the king was wavering, Ser Otto interjected. “While I agree none of this is very seemly, I am unsure if the High Septon will see it as grounds for an annulment. We cannot simply have every unhappy marriage in the realm annulled.”

As the marriage had been made under the light of the Seven, it was only the High Septon that had the power to end it. However, Lyman doubted he would refuse without very good reason if it was the king himself making the request.

“I believe I have justification that will mollify the High Septon,” Lady Royce replied, a slight sneer curling her lip as she regarded Ser Otto. “The wedding took place under gods that neither myself nor Prince Daemon follow.”

Glancing around the table, there were looks of confusion on most faces. Apart from Princess Rhaenyra’s.

“Prince Daemon does not follow the Seven and neither do I,” Lady Royce continued. “While it is not widely known, House Royce allows its scions to choose to follow either the Old Gods or the Seven. For me the Old Gods called more strongly. I do not consider my marital oaths, sworn in a sept under the Seven, to be indissoluble.”

Lyman tried to recall if this had been discussed when the marriage was arranged but if it had, he had no memory of it. Thinking back on the Royces’ history, he supposed it made sense that they still had a connection to the Old Gods. House Royce carried the blood of the First Men and had been in the Vale long before the Andals brought the Faith of the Seven to those shores.

“In that case, the High Septon should have little objection,” the Grand Maester said.

The king nodded in response.

“Your Grace, there is a somewhat sensitive issue regarding this that we need to address,” Ser Otto said while eyeing Lady Royce.

There was silence for several moments.

“Well, out with it then, Otto,” the king prompted.

“I would prefer to discuss it without the lady present, Your Grace,” he replied.

The two men stared at each other for a few moments before the king turned his attention to Lady Royce. “If you will excuse us for a time.”

She looked like she dearly wished that she could tell the king no. That she be in the room while her fate was discussed. “Your Grace,” she said, offering a perfunctory bow to the king. “Princess.” That bow was deeper and looked more heartfelt. With that, Lady Royce turned and left the room.

When the doors had closed again, the king asked, “What is it, Otto?” If he had noticed Lady Royce’s insult, he made no mention of it.

“Is it truly a wise idea to grant Prince Daemon this freedom?” Ser Otto asked. “If he is no longer tethered to Lady Royce and the Vale he could do anything, marry anyone.”

“So you wish Lady Rhea to be a leash around my uncle’s neck like that on a hound?” Princess Rhaenyra asked him incredulously.

“I am simply saying that there is a reason you refused Prince Daemon an annulment when he first requested one, Your Grace,” Ser Otto said to the king. “The marriage was meant to keep him occupied, away from court and any damage he may cause.”

“Yes, because being married to Lady Rhea has tempered his actions so much.” The sarcasm was clear in the princess’s tone. “Gods above, he has just been gallivanting all over the realm doing as he wishes anyway. What difference would the annulment make?”

Princess Rhaenyra had a point: the marriage to Lady Royce had done nothing to control Prince Daemon’s actions in the past.

“The difference is that being married has prevented him making a legitimate marriage elsewhere,” Ser Otto snapped back. “He could form an alliance with any house of his choosing if his marriage to Lady Royce was annulled.”

“If that is your—”

“Enough, the pair of you!” the king interrupted, clearly having grown tired of their bickering. “What do the rest of you think?”

Lord Lyonel spoke first. “I do not see the harm in granting the request. Our relations with the Vale are secured through Princess Rhaenyra and there is no benefit to keeping Prince Daemon and Lady Royce married given the circumstances.”

“Lady Royce spoke true about needing heirs to carry on her line,” the Grand Maester added. “She is well into her fourth decade and will soon approach the point she can no longer safely birth a child.”

“Prince Daemon has been unhappy about the marriage since he was first informed of it,” Lyman said, thinking back. “His opinion has not changed in two decades, I doubt he will settle down in the Vale now.”

Ser Tyland looked unsure about the situation, glancing towards Ser Otto before eventually saying, “His time at war in the Stepstones could have changed the prince. He may have decided that he wants children, a legacy.”

“If that is the case,” the princess replied, “he will never want those things with Lady Rhea. There is too much resentment there for my uncle, having been trapped in that marriage for so long.”

The king looked between them all, deep in thought. “I need to think further on this before reaching a decision. If there is nothing else, I suggest we finish for the day.”

There were nods around the table as the councillors began to gather up their papers.

“Rhaenyra,” the king suddenly said, “have you given any further thought to the matter we discussed?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied. “I have shortened the list but am still considering my options.”

What were they talking about?

“Do not dally for too long. My patience is not infinite.”

The princess nodded in response before moving around the table to Lyman’s side. “I will tell you later,” she muttered to him as they left the room together, Ser Criston following behind.

Chapter Text

It was a few weeks before Lyman and Princess Rhaenyra next found time to sit down and converse at length. The uprising in the Vale had disrupted the taxation of the region and a backlog of coin and ledgers arrived at court. He found himself in his office well into the night on many occasions, trying to reconcile the figures. At least his increased workload had not cost Lyman rare time with his family, Mathis, Selyse and their two younger children having left for Honeyholt before the bulk of the ledgers arrived.

The king still dithered over whether to grant Lady Royce and Prince Daemon an annulment. However, the news that he was considering it had spread through the court. While it would not be proper for suitors to put themselves forward while she was still married, that had not stopped – according to Rosamund – a bevy of young men from hounding Lady Royce. After all, it was not often that there was an eligible lady who ruled in her own right. The ambitious second sons of the court had their eyes covetously set on Runestone. Even Ser Otto’s son, Ser Gwayne, had been present in the Red Keep more than usual. Likely seeking a break from all the attention, Lady Royce was said to be spending a lot of time hunting in the kingswood.

The day that Princess Rhaenyra could at last meet Lyman in his office she was noticeably nervous, a ring being spun around her finger.

“I fear there has been something of a development that I have kept from you,” the princess began. “It is with regards to my marriage.”

Had the king finally selected a husband for Princess Rhaenyra? Lyman knew the two of them had been bickering over the issue for several moons but the princess had been reluctant to subject herself to childbed and, consequently, marriage.

“Is His Grace to enter you into a betrothal?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” she replied. “My father wishes me to make my own match, to pick my husband myself.” Her tone was flat, emotionless.

For a highborn woman it was extremely rare that she would get any choice at all in her husband. Most fathers picked whichever man would bring them the most benefit. Lyman himself had given his own daughter, Meredyth, the choice of several suitors, all of good standing. In the wake of his nephews and his brother dying, House Beesbury had been weakened and needed allies to strengthen its position. Meredyth had eventually picked the heir to House Varner to be her husband. He was not the most prestigious of the men that had vied for her hand but he was the one Meredyth was most taken with out of the options Lyman presented.

“Without limitation?” he asked for clarification. “The king has not given you several names that you must choose between or the like?”

“He would probably have something to say if I picked a blacksmith from the Street of Steel,” the princess replied. “But no, as long as they are of noble blood and not from too minor a house, I think he will be satisfied.”

It was far more leeway than Lyman would ever have expected. Especially given the advantages that a marriage alliance could bring to the crown. Yet she did not look enthused.

“Princess, I know you have mixed feelings on marriage,” he said gently, “but this is an opportunity few women in your position would be afforded. A good marriage will go far in helping to secure your claim to the throne too.”

“I know,” she replied seriously, shoulders slumping. “Truly, I do. I do not wish to seem ungrateful. I know Alicent had no choice in marrying my father and with everything between Rhea and my uncle, it is clear how miserable a forced marriage can be. I will do my duty and secure a strong alliance that will benefit us all.”

While Lyman was relieved to hear that the princess was not so opposed to marriage as she had been several moons ago, he was struck by how pragmatically she was regarding the situation. Did she not hope for love as well?

“Hopefully, you will find a man you can grow to love,” Lyman said encouragingly. “Rosamund and I met but a handful of times before our betrothal but we were fast friends. It was later, after Mathis was born, that I think I fell for her.”

There was a look on Princess Rhaenyra’s face that he could not quite place. Not sadness exactly, perhaps resignation. “I have always known I would never be able to marry my true love or anything like that,” she said. “I do not foresee romantic love in my marriage but I will be quite content with a strong friendship.”

As premature as the notion seemed, marriages had been made throughout the realm based on far less. “In that case, what men are you considering?” Lyman asked.

The princess straightened in her chair. “The obvious option is Laenor Velaryon. It would bring House Velaryon back into the fold after what transpired at the Great Council and then with my father turning down Laena. Their dragons would once again be allied with the crown.”

It was the most politically advantageous match; there was a reason the king’s rejection of Lady Laena had caused such shock to the court. From what Lyman could recall of Laenor Velaryon prior to his household leaving the keep, he had been a polite and driven young man with no blemish to his name. Albeit with a penchant for mischief at times. A knight now too after fighting on the Stepstones.

“It would be a good match,” he said. “Your firstborn son would inherit the Iron Throne, giving Lord Velaryon what he has long desired. Your second son would inherit Driftmark—”

“Third,” Princess Rhaenyra interrupted.

“Pardon?”

“My thirdborn son would inherit Driftmark,” she clarified. “Or my daughter. Assuming I actually have three children and it does not pass to Laena’s line instead.”

Lyman felt his brow furrow. What other seat could her and Ser Laenor’s child lay claim to that would push Driftmark down to their thirdborn son or a daughter?

“I do not understand,” he said, his confusion evident in his tone. “What would your second son inherit?”

Princess Rhaenyra took a deep breath before raising her right hand, palm facing him. “My grandfather, Lord Rodrik Arryn, had five children: four with his first wife and one with his second.” She straightened her fingers. “His oldest son, Lucas, was killed along with his sons, leaving only Jeyne.” The princess wiggled her thumb. “Jeyne is not planning to marry and thus will die without issue.” Her thumb folded over.

“I am sorry, Lady Arryn does not plan to ever marry?” It was a fact of life for the highborn of the realm that marriages were necessary to secure alliances and gain other advantages besides. Given the recent uprising, Lyman had assumed that Lady Arryn would seek to have children as soon as possible. Both to secure her claim to the Vale and to further her line.

The princess shook her head in response. “I will not go into detail but my cousin’s maester does not believe she would be able to conceive a child. Due to that, Jeyne sees little benefit in shackling herself to a husband who would only try and wrest power from her.”

Lyman could see the logic there. Lady Arryn would struggle to find a man that would marry her in the knowledge that they would have no child to inherit her seat. She would likely have had to marry far below her station and, even then, there was a risk her husband would try and impose his will upon her.

“Rodrik Arryn’s second son, Mychel, died from a festering wound a couple of years ago,” Princess Rhaenyra continued, wiggling her index finger. “He had two sons: Arnold and Osgood. The latter was thrown from his horse and broke his neck when he was just a boy. Arnold, as you know, was killed by Lord Waynwood before even getting married, leaving no children.” She folded down her index finger.

The Arryns did not seem to have had much luck over recent decades.

“Rodrik’s eldest daughter, Elys, married the Lord of Strongsong. She died of childbed fever after the birth of her first child, who was stillborn.” Down went the middle finger. “Rodrik’s second daughter, Amanda, was the wife of Lord Patrek Frey. They had one daughter together, Bethany. She died of a burst belly when she was five-and-ten, unmarried.”

The princess paused her litany of misery to take a sip of wine. “My Aunt Amanda is actually still alive. After her husband’s death she returned to the Vale. For the moment, she is technically Jeyne’s heir. However, her health has been declining and she is not expected to live out the decade. Aunt Amanda never remarried and has no living children so will also die without issue.” The third finger folded, leaving only her pinky.

“That just leaves the line of Rodrik Arryn’s fifth child, the one he had with his second wife, Daella Targaryen,” she concluded, a sad look passing over her features as her gaze dropped to the desk. “My mother’s line.”

It slotted into place for Lyman then. “Your second son will inherit the Vale?” he asked, stunned. Even with everything that happened during the uprising, he never thought to check what the succession for the Vale looked like now.

Princess Rhaenyra nodded in response. “Jeyne and I discussed her succession after Arnold was killed. As the heir to the throne I will not be able to become Lady of the Eyrie myself and my firstborn son will hold the crown after me. So, after Aunt Amanda passes, Jeyne plans for my second son to be her heir. He will take the name Arryn when he accedes to the lordship. If Jeyne and Aunt Amanda both pass before he is of age, Rhea will be regent in the interim.”

Gods. Both the Iron Throne and the Wardenship of the East would pass to the princess’s children. It was an unprecedented consolidation of power. Despite this, she still looked melancholy, lost in thought.

“You do not seem altogether pleased,” he prodded.

“It is not that.” The princess’s gaze rose to meet his own, revealing the wetness of her eyes. “I was thinking that if my mother still lived, she would be Jeyne’s heir after Aunt Amanda. She has often been in my thoughts since I went to the Vale.”

Knowing he could say little to sooth such a wound, Lyman pulled a handkerchief out of his desk drawer and offered it to the princess. She took it and began dabbing her eyes.

“It feels right though, in a way,” she continued, voice choked. “My mother grew up in the Eyrie and often told me stories about how much she enjoyed her time there. My grandmother too loved the Vale. She found the people there far more kind and welcoming than those at court. It feels like I am honouring them both, that their descendant will inherit the region.”

“Indeed,” he replied softly. “It is a fine sentiment.”

The princess shook her head. “Apologies, we have wandered off topic,” she said, clearing her throat. “We were discussing the suitability of Laenor as a suitor.”

“Very well,” Lyman replied, recognising that she wished to speak no more of her mother. “Between the crown, the Vale and Driftmark, your children would not lack for inheritance. The marriage would also bring the Velaryon fleet back under the crown’s control.” What remained of it at least given the ships lost in the Stepstones. “The Velaryons are rich and of Valyrian blood. Overall, Ser Laenor is arguably the best match you could make. Both for your own position and for the stability of the realm.”

Despite these positives, Princess Rhaenyra had a frown on her face.

“Yet you are uncertain about him?” he asked.

“My cousin is a good man. He has proved himself in battle and I believe he would make an able consort. It is only … you know how sometimes people prefer roast duck to goose?” she asked, making a hand gesture that Lyman had no idea how to interpret.

What? Why was the princess suddenly talking about food?

“I do not have a preference either way but most people like one over the other,” she continued. “And sometimes it is not the one you would assume. Do you understand?”

No, he did not. Lyman himself did not care for roast duck or goose – preferring pheasant – but was unsure why these two foods were pivotal to her future marriage.

“I am sure they could serve both at the wedding,” he offered, still rather perplexed. There would be dozens of courses after all.

The princess leant back in her chair with a groan. “Never mind,” she said. “I would need to speak to Laenor to check whether he can … stomach goose before agreeing to anything.”

Lyman felt like he was missing something but decided to let the matter drop. If she needed to talk with Ser Laenor before reaching a decision on his suitability as a consort, that was her prerogative.

“If we perhaps leave Ser Laenor for the moment then, who else have you considered?” he asked.

The two of them then went through the major houses throughout the realm, discussing which eligible men were suitable. A match in the Vale was quickly ruled out. As the lords in that region were firmly behind the princess after her actions during the recent uprising, there was no advantage to a further alliance there. The heir to the Stormlands, Ser Borros Baratheon, was already married. However, Ser Gulian Caron was a possibility – being the heir of Nightsong and the future Lord of the Marches. His sister was also Ser Borros’s wife, ensuring stronger blood ties with the future Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

In the Westerlands, the princess had already rejected Lord Jason Lannister but Lyman suggested Ser Lester Reyne, the heir of Castamere, as a possibility. Cregan Stark, the heir to Winterfell and the North was ruled out as he was still a boy; Princess Rhaenyra would not have the luxury of waiting too long to produce heirs. Ser Medrick Manderly was a strong contender as beyond being the heir to White Harbour, he was an accomplished knight and known for his courtly manners. House Manderly was also one of the few northern houses that followed the Faith of the Seven over the Old Gods; the princess would not risk losing the Faith’s support.

Discussion then turned to the Riverlands. The men of House Tully were either married or too young. However, there were several other prominent houses, with Ser Forrest Frey and Ser Jorah Mallister being considered. There was also a house that Princess Rhaenyra already had close ties to.

“What about Ser Harwin Strong?” Lyman asked. “He is the heir to Harrenhal and a captain in the City Watch. From what I have seen of your training, the two of you get on well. You know his family.” The knight was a fine prospect.

“If you had asked me this a couple of weeks ago, I would have included Harwin on my list,” the princess replied. “I consider him to be a friend and think he would make a suitable consort.” A smile then curled the corner of her lip. “However, I have no desire to face Lamentation in a duel so will be keeping well clear of Harwin as a suitor.”

“Lamentation?” If his memory served, that was the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of the Royces. But what did that have to do with Ser Harwin? “I do not understand.”

Princess Rhaenyra leant forward in her seat. “According to Celia and Liane, Harwin has been spending most of his free time recently hunting in the kingswood.” She quirked an eyebrow at him.

Lyman just looked at her quizzically, no more enlightened.

“Where Rhea has been hiding to dodge her potential suitors,” she continued. “Harwin is apparently very taken with her hunting prowess. He has been riding out with her between night watches. His sisters have been mocking him all week over it; even Larys has become involved.”

Lady Royce and Ser Harwin. If the king ever agreed to the annulment, it would be a strong match. Strong. He stifled a chuckle at the unintended pun.

“I tried asking Rhea what she thought of Harwin but she got all gruff and said such talk was inappropriate while she was still married. I am sure that means she likes him though.”

Lyman had not spent much time around Lady Royce so would have to take the princess’s word for that. “So you will not pursue Ser Harwin yourself then?” he asked.

The princess shook her head. “No, I think the two of them could be good together. Gods know, Rhea deserves it after the misery her and my uncle’s marriage has caused for them both.”

That was true enough. Though it did bring up another query he had. One that he himself found distasteful but the princess was a Targaryen.

“If Lady Royce’s annulment is granted, Prince Daemon will be free to remarry,” Lyman said. “Have you given any thought to him at all?”

“I will not lie and say I have not considered it,” she said after a brief pause. “My uncle is a formidable warrior, a dragonrider and shares my Valyrian blood. I will admit I did have something of a fancy for him in my youth. Also, at the very least, Ser Otto’s head would implode if such a match were ever agreed which would be most satisfying.”

The princess paused to take a gulp of wine. “However, I am not stupid. Many lords supported my being named heir to keep Daemon away from the throne; they would never support our marriage. There is no real advantage to marrying him either. My uncle is hardly going to side with Ser Otto so I am already guaranteed his support. Jeyne would probably disinherit our children as well and leave the Vale to her fourth cousin or something if I married Daemon.”

“Beyond that, I am unsure how good a husband my uncle would make. He has never treated Rhea well, despite them both being trapped in the same situation. I could dismiss that as her not being a wife of his choosing but Mysaria says he was mercurial with her too.”

“Mysaria?” Lyman asked. The name sounded familiar but he could not recall where he had heard it.

“Daemon’s former paramour. The one he tried to take as a second wife.”

Oh gods, now he remembered. The Lysene brothel owner. When had the princess been discussing her uncle with her?

“May I enquire as to when exactly you have been in contact with this Mysaria?” he asked.

Princess Rhaenyra looked at him sheepishly. “The whole situation is rather awkward. When he went to fight with Lord Corlys, Daemon just left Mysaria on Dragonstone. This was back before I was of age so Ser Oswell was managing the island. He was not sure what to do about her and did not want to inform the king so Ser Oswell wrote to me. I arranged passage for Mysaria to come back to King’s Landing.”

Lyman had never given thought to what happened to Prince Daemon’s paramour in the wake of him trying to take her as a second wife. After retrieving Prince Baelon’s egg the princess reported back that the marriage had not taken place and that the woman was not actually pregnant, which had been enough to appease the Small Council.

“That was decent of you,” he said.

The princess shook her head. “She was my family’s responsibility. Besides, Mysaria helped me when I was writing my report on the people of King’s Landing. I would not have called her my friend then but it seemed wrong to disregard her.”

“But you would call her a friend now?” Lyman asked, noting her phrasing.

She considered the question before replying, “Of sorts. On occasion Mysaria brings me news of happenings in King’s Landing. Some of the improvements Alicent and I have made throughout the city were at her recommendation.”

Interesting, so Mysaria was something of an informant for the princess.

“But anyway,” she continued, “Daemon was brought up in conversation one day and, well, let us just say that Mysaria certainly has strong feelings on how he treated her.”

Which was understandable if Prince Daemon had abandoned his paramour on Dragonstone after trying to wed her, drawing the ire of the king.

“Alicent would reject him as well,” Princess Rhaenyra concluded.

“I’m sorry,” Lyman said. “The queen would reject him?”

“In light of our circumstances, anybody I marry will be coming into Alicent, Aemon and Helaena’s lives as well. We decided that, with the succession and everything, Alicent would be able to reject any of my suitors she was not comfortable with.”

That made sense, he supposed. Nothing about this was exactly regular and the princess’s future husband may see Prince Aemon as a threat. Better it was a man that both the princess and queen trusted.

“Very well, that is Prince Daemon ruled out,” Lyman confirmed. He was rather relieved; the Rogue Prince was in no way worthy of Princess Rhaenyra’s hand. “What of the Iron Islands?”

“No,” she replied without hesitation. “Between the reaving and the fact they all worship the Drowned God, I would alienate half the west coast and the Faith if I took an ironborn man to husband.”

Lyman did not disagree with this assessment but had thought it best to check. The Iron Islands did not take much interest in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms anyway.

“That just leaves the Reach then from the realm proper,” he said.

“Ser Willas Tyrell is the current heir to Highgarden,” the princess said. “He is good with a lance, intelligent and said to be very devoted to the Seven. The other advantage to a marriage with him is it would help House Tyrell keep the Hightowers under control.” She thought it over for a moment. “Honestly, Ser Willas is probably my second-best option, after Laenor.”

He nodded along to what she was saying. “Rosamund has heard rumours since the king married Queen Alicent that the Tyrells are displeased with how much power the Hightowers now hold. I think they are worried the Hightowers might replace them as Lords Paramount of the Mander.”

“Not while I draw breath they won’t.” Anger curdled the princess’s words. “Ser Otto and Lord Hightower are nothing but traitorous vipers.” Her jaw clenched and Lyman heard her switch to the slow inhales and exhales meant to control her temper. After Princess Rhaenyra took several seconds to gather herself, her gaze focused on him again.

“In that case, I presume you have not thought about a match with a Hightower,” he said, trying to bring a note of levity back into the conversation.

“Gods no!” she exclaimed. “They are upjumped enough as it is. My uncle would probably kill me if I even considered it.”

“Then is there anyone else from the Reach you wish to consider?”

The princess thought it over. “Not at the moment,” she decided. “Ser Willas is the best option from the Reach so I would only need to consider other Reachmen if he was unwilling.”

That was all the regions that King Viserys held dominion over. Although, there was a more controversial option.

“Have you given any thought to Dorne?” Lyman asked. The Iron Throne might declare Dorne as part of the Seven Kingdoms but this was not the case in truth. Queen Rhaenys had died trying to bring the kingdom to heel and it ultimately remained unconquered.

A grimace crossed Princess Rhaenyra’s face before she said with a lowered voice, “Keep this to yourself but my father did reach out to Prince Qoren before he turned the choice of my husband over to me. My father hoped a marriage alliance would succeed in bringing Dorne properly into the realm, where his predecessors had failed.”

That would certainly be a way of bringing glory to King Viserys’s so-far-lacklustre reign. But, obviously, he had not been successful. “What happened?”

“Prince Qoren replied that he has no desire to seek my hand.”

Lyman had no inkling as to the prince’s reasoning. “Why? His child would rule the Seven Kingdoms in full and we might finally put those bloody border skirmishes to rest.”

“He did not put it this way but, reading between the lines, Prince Qoren fears war might break out upon my ascension to the throne,” Princess Rhaenyra said. “He does not wish to involve Dorne in problems that are not its own.” A thoughtful look crossed her face then. “How did he put it: Dorne has danced with dragons before.”

That was pragmatic of Prince Qoren, to be sure. Especially in the face of so tantalising a lure as the Iron Throne. It was, sadly, a rare ruler that gave more thought to their people than to personal ambition. With House Martell removed from contention, there was little point in looking at a lesser house from Dorne so the two of them decided to leave that kingdom be. Overall, it might even be for the better that Prince Qoren had turned the princess down. Her taking a Dornish husband would surely have angered many within the realm.

Finally, Princess Rhaenyra revealed that she had no plans to look to Essos for a husband as it was more important for her to consolidate her power within the Seven Kingdoms. Lyman agreed with this, leaving them with the men they had already discussed.

“So Ser Laenor is your first option, Ser Willas Tyrell second and you are also considering Ser Gulian Caron, Ser Lester Reyne, Ser Medrick Manderly, Ser Forrest Frey and Ser Jorah Mallister?” Lyman confirmed, looking down the list he had made while they were speaking.

She nodded in response. “I plan to reach out to Laenor soon. He is back on Driftmark now.”

“Good, good,” he replied. “Any of these men would make you a strong alliance.”

“I hope so.” The princess paused for a few seconds before continuing, “I wished to get your opinion on another matter as well.”

“Certainly.”

“Back when the Small Council was debating over how to respond to the Vale uprising,” she said, “Lord Lyonel pointed out that King Jaehaerys was able to name whichever heir he wanted because there was no formal succession in place for the Iron Throne.”

Lyman nodded, recalling the debate that had taken place but unsure where the princess was going with this.

“It has been preying on my mind ever since,” she continued. “Would it not strengthen my position if there was one? If my father codified that it is the firstborn child, not matter sex, that inherits the throne. Would that not quieten those that say Aemon has a better legal claim?”

He stilled, thinking it over. It was true that a formal succession would quell uncertainty over who was the rightful heir. Already in the Iron Throne’s short history there had been several succession debates. When Princess Rhaena had been born to King Aegon’s eldest son, there were questions over whether her uncle – the then Prince Maegor – would come before or after her in the line of succession. Much later, after Maegor’s death, King Jaehaerys acceded the throne amidst debate over who had the better claim between him, his elder sister and his two nieces by his older siblings.

Then there was what happened to Princess Rhaenys: first passed over for her uncle and then for her male cousin at the Great Council. With it written that the throne would pass to the eldest child, none could dispute Princess Rhaenyra inheriting on legal grounds. However, there were issues with the idea.

“While the idea is a sound one,” Lyman finally replied, “I fear it would anger many lords. They would not be pleased with a succession that equally favours men and women. The Stormlands and the Reach especially would see it as being too Dornish for their tastes.” There was too much bad feeling there after centuries of war and frontier skirmishes between the kingdoms.

“Is there not already anger among the lords though?” the princess argued. “At least this way, anyone speaking against my claim would be going against both the will of the king and the law.”

“Still, many would object to an exception being made to the typical Andal inheritance practices.”

He waited for a response but none was forthcoming. Princess Rhaenyra just sat there, staring at him, eyes unblinking. “An exception?” she finally said, voice faint. Then nothing more.

Was she unwell? “Princess?” Lyman queried.

That seemed to break her from her stupor. With a sudden burst of movement, the princess was on her feet. “I have to go, I have to speak to Alicent,” she said, her words running together. “He probably won’t agree but, if he did, that would shut most of them right up.”

He? Who was the princess talking about? Her father?

“Thank you, Lyman,” she said while rounding his desk. “You are a genius.” Princess Rhaenyra kissed his cheek before striding out of the room. He could hear Ser Criston’s armour clattering as the knight struggled to keep up with her pace.

What in the world?

The Small Council was summoned a couple of days later. Given Lady Royce’s presence, Lyman guessed that the king had finally reached a decision regarding her marriage.

“I apologise for the delay, Lady Royce, and thank you for your patience over these last weeks,” the king said. “I have decided, in light of my brother’s failings towards you as a husband, to grant your annulment.”

Lady Royce’s stoic mask broke as a genuine smile lit up her face. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Are you sure this is wise, Your Grace?” Ser Otto asked, leaning towards the king. “With Prince Daemon—”

“It is done, Otto. I have drafted a letter to the High Septon so that he may formalise the annulment.” The king raised a scroll. “It will be dispatched by raven after this meeting.”

“I can take it,” the princess said abruptly.

Looking to her in confusion, King Viserys asked, “Pardon, Rhaenyra?”

“Syrax and I can fly the letter to the Starry Sept,” she clarified. “Surely the High Septon deserves more respect than a mere raven.”

What the princess was saying made sense but Lyman had known her long enough to realise when she was hiding something. Although he was unsure what it could possibly be. Ser Otto was clearly suspicious as well.

“You wish to personally fly your dragon to Oldtown and see the High Septon?” the lord Hand asked. “You are certainly eager to make sure Prince Daemon’s marriage is annulled.” There was a definite undercurrent to Ser Otto’s words.

“I am an Arryn so Lady Rhea is technically one of my bannerwomen,” the princess replied calmly. “Besides, Alicent has always wanted to visit Oldtown and can accompany me.”

If Lyman recalled correctly, the queen had been born after her family moved to King’s Landing, meaning she had never seen her father’s home for herself.

Ser Otto looked as though he wished to query the princess further but was interrupted by the king. “Splendid,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Relations between the Faith and the crown have not been the same since Septon Barth’s death but it is good to see you working to change that.” The king reached past Ser Otto to hand Princess Rhaenyra the scroll with the request for Lady Royce’s annulment.

She nodded in response. “If I have your leave then, I shall inform the queen so that she might prepare. We can leave in perhaps a week.”

With the king’s agreement, the princess stood and left the room, nodding to Lady Royce as she went.

The princess and the queen left for Oldtown six mornings later. Due to the distance involved they would need to make the journey over two days but House Fossoway was honoured to host them at Cider Hall for the night. Lyman wondered if Princess Rhaenyra’s dragon was getting tired from flying back and forth across the realm. He himself had written to Honeyholt and ordered a contingent of his household guard to meet the two women and ensure they were adequately protected in Oldtown. While Lyman doubted the Hightowers would be so foolish as to do anything to the princess in their own city, he did not trust them nonetheless.

With the children’s mother and sister away, he and Rosamund spent a fair amount of time entertaining the young prince and princess. Thankfully, their caretakers ensured Prince Aemon and Princess Helaena kept to their normal routines as far as possible so they were not too disrupted by the dual absence. However, Lyman did not see either the king or Ser Otto with the children over that time.

It was two weeks later that Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent returned. They had been gone for longer than he expected but he supposed they were busy taking in the sights of Oldtown. When they did return it was with the news that the High Septon had granted Lady Royce’s annulment. The normally taciturn woman had apparently pulled the princess into a hug when she informed her privately. Now free, Lady Royce left court and sailed back to the Vale. Although – according to Princess Rhaenyra – she and Ser Harwin had decided to maintain a correspondence and he might soon ask his father for permission to officially court Lady Royce.

A few days later, Lyman and the princess met in his office. After they discussed the more well-known of Oldtown’s attractions, the princess set her teacup down on his desk and straightened her back.

“Hypothetical question,” the princess began, nerves evident in her tone. “As you are no doubt aware, the Faith was exempt from taxes before my great-grandsire took the throne.”

Lyman nodded slowly, wondering where this line of enquiry was leading.

“How much would it affect the crown’s coffers to bring that back for say five, ten years? The Faith’s taxes are fairly low as is, are they not?”

He was trying to formulate a response to this when the princess’s gaze shot to the window, her head cocked to one side as though she was listening to something. Lyman too paused, straining his ears. Then he heard it: a high-pitched whistling screech. Outside, a massive red, sinuous form flew past; the Blood Wyrm. Prince Daemon had returned to court at last.

Extra Note

In case anyone is confused, here’s my Arryn family tree.

Grey people would have been in the line of succession for the Vale but are dead; orange are people in the line of succession that are still alive; white are those that married into the Arryns and have no claim themselves. So Jeyne is the current ruling lady of the Vale, Amanda is her heir and Rhaenyra technically comes next.

Also, if anyone thinks this much death in one family is unbelievable, the Arryns are canonically just like that. A stiff breeze would probably take out three generations.

Chapter Text

When news reached him of his brother’s imminent return to the Red Keep, the king ordered all the nobles present to assemble in the throne room. Abandoning their conversation for the moment, Lyman and Princess Rhaenyra complied. Upon entering alongside a tide of courtiers, they were greeted by the sight of King Viserys sitting the Iron Throne, looking resplendent in his formal red and black tunic, the Conciliator’s crown on his head and Blackfyre across his lap.

Lyman wondered about the manner in which the king would receive his wayward brother. The two had not seen each other in the four years since Prince Daemon had been banished from court for his ‘heir for a day’ comment. The princess left his side and walked through the crowd to stand at the base of the throne – joining Ser Otto and the majority of the Kingsguard – as befitted her status as heir.

Soon after that Prince Daemon entered, the courtiers all craning their necks and shifting to get a view of him. He sauntered through the room dressed in black armour, an axe in one hand, his hair the shortest Lyman could remember seeing it since the prince was a young man. On his head perched a driftwood crown. Gods above, the Rogue Prince was barely back in King’s Landing and his behaviour was already borderline treasonous.

As he reached the base of the throne, Ser Harrold drew his sword and pressed the tip to Prince Daemon’s armoured chest, halting his progress.

The prince was nonplussed by this as far as Lyman could tell, merely saying, “Add it to the chair,” before dropping the axe at Ser Harrold’s feet. He still had a taste for dramatics.

There was silence for long seconds as the king regarded his brother, a frown upon his face. “You wear a crown,” he said. “Do you also call yourself king?”

“Once we smashed the Triarchy, they named me King of the Narrow Sea,” Prince Daemon replied.

Mutters went through the crowd at this and the frown on the king’s face deepened.

“But I know that there is only one true king, Your Grace,” he continued. With that, the prince went to one knee, his gaze lowered to the floor. “My crown and the Stepstones are yours,” he finished, taking off his crown and raising his head to regard his brother.

It was the most … deferential that Lyman could ever recall Prince Daemon behaving towards the king. Perhaps he had changed in his time away at war.

King Viserys gave a brief smile at this before looking to the doorway beyond his brother. “Where is Lord Corlys?” he asked, as if he expected Lord Velaryon to stroll in next.

“He sailed home to Driftmark,” his brother replied.

So after hailing Prince Daemon as King of the Narrow Sea, the Sea Snake had returned home with no thought given to paying obeisance to his rightful king. Was Driftmark attempting to separate itself even further from the crown? That did not bode well.

“Who holds the Stepstones?” the king asked.

“The tides, the crabs, and two thousand dead Triarchy corsairs, staked to the sand to warn those who might follow.”

Prince Daemon and Lord Velaryon had waged war for several years to reclaim the Stepstones only to then abandon the islands? What if the Triarchy re-invaded? What if Dorne attempted a conquest? Lyman would have expected Lord Velaryon to possess more foresight than to leave the islands undefended, especially considering how much of his trade passed through them.

King Viserys descended from the throne to meet his brother, Blackfyre tapping the ground rhythmically as he went. Taking the driftwood crown, he examined it for a few seconds. Lyman could not see Prince Daemon’s face from where he was standing but he saw his head turn, first to the left and then to the right. From Princess Rhaenyra to Ser Otto as they stood on either side of the base of the Iron Throne.

The king handed off the driftwood crown to Ser Harrold before turning back to regard his kneeling brother. There was a long silence as the gathered courtiers waited to see what he would do.

“Rise,” he said.

Prince Daemon rose to his feet before King Viserys pulled him into a heartfelt embrace, applause breaking out among the courtiers at the sight. It was times like this that Lyman understood why the nobles at court so vexed the princess. Those same people applauding would have decried the prince’s actions in the Stepstones if that was the tone the king had set.

“The realm owes you a great debt, Brother,” King Viserys continued. “Come.”

They left the room together, all past discord between them seemingly forgiven.

The king called for a luncheon in the godswood to celebrate his brother’s return. Tables were set up – heaving with the weight of succulent meats, roasted vegetables and steamed fruits – and the nobles soon gathered in small groups, goblets of wine in hand.

Lyman came across Princess Rhaenyra at a table of desserts, where she appeared to be stealing all the candied lemon slices from the tops of the cakes. He just raised an eyebrow at her.

Not looking at all cowed, the princess plucked another slice … and offered it to him.

Well, why not. Lyman popped it in his mouth, enjoying the fresh, tart citrus flavour and the slight crunch of the glaze. He could see why she was so enamoured.

Princess Rhaenyra grinned at him before filching another lemon slice and walking over to join her family.

King Viserys was loudly regaling the queen with stories of his and his brother’s shared youth while Prince Daemon good-naturedly protested. Even from several metres away, Lyman could detect a slur in the king’s speech. He had perhaps enjoyed a few too many goblets of wine in his happiness at being reunited with his brother.

The queen looked rather tense, although her posture eased when Princess Rhaenyra joined them. Of course, this would be the first time Queen Alicent met Prince Daemon as his good-sister; he had spent her entire marriage thus far in the Stepstones. Ser Otto hovered on the periphery of their little group, not partaking in the conversation but unable to be ignored.

“Ah, come, come!” King Viserys exclaimed, gesturing with his arm. Turning, Lyman saw two nursemaids approaching with the little prince and princess. “Meet your new niece and nephew.” The king lifted Prince Aemon out of his nursemaid’s arms before passing him onto his brother.

At this, Ser Otto took a half step towards them and Lyman was sure he saw Queen Alicent flinch. Prince Daemon adjusted his hold so that he had his hands under Prince Aemon’s arms before raising him so that their faces were level. He inspected his nephew for a couple of seconds before a sneer of disgust curled his lip. Saying something to the king that Lyman did not catch, he then roughly passed the child to his mother. Queen Alicent accepted Prince Aemon with a look of relief, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

The other nursemaid then presented Princess Helaena to her uncle. Prince Daemon seemed happier with his niece, running a light hand over her silver hair. Lyman wondered if it was the babe’s colouring that made the difference or the fact that Princess Helaena was no threat to Princess Rhaenyra’s claim.

Once they had all had their fill of the food and drink, the godswood began to empty. However, before Lyman returned to his office to resume his duties he saw Princess Rhaenyra lingering, clearly waiting for the opportunity to speak to her uncle.

The princess came to his office later that afternoon. After she settled into her now-customary chair opposite him, she remained silent until Lyman finished off the report he was reading. Once he had done so, he set the papers to one side and focused on Princess Rhaenyra.

“How fares Prince Daemon then?” Lyman asked, assuming he was the reason for her visit.

“My uncle does seem changed,” she began. “Calmer more mature. It has perhaps done him good to be away from my father and the court these last years.”

Despite their frequent disagreements, the prince had always kept somewhat close to his brother. When he was not banished to Runestone, that is. Striking out into the Stepstones may have allowed Prince Daemon the opportunity to become his own man, rather than defining himself by his relationship with the king.

“Were you able to converse with him about the Vale at all?” Lyman asked.

“A little,” the princess replied. “He heard about the uprising and that it was mainly Syrax and I that put it down.” She rolled her eyes. “He congratulated me for bloodying myself, said I proved myself a true dragon.”

Lyman supposed that such a remark should have been expected from the prince, rather than any concern over his niece’s wellbeing.

“My uncle had not heard yet about his marriage being annulled,” she continued. “He mentioned Rhea when we were discussing the Vale.”

“I presume Prince Daemon was delighted by the news,” Lyman replied. He had certainly complained about his wife often enough and made no secret of the fact he wished their marriage had never occurred.

Princess Rhaenyra frowned. “He was happy and grateful, to be sure, but did say we could have saved ourselves some bother if I had just allowed Runestone to be sacked during the uprising.”

Which would likely have resulted in Lady Royce’s death. As well as the deaths of many more innocent people.

“He was probably joking though,” she quickly added, although she did not sound certain. “Daemon has agreed to stop calling her his bronze bitch so I suppose that is progress at least.”

Lyman thought it best that they move the conversation on from the tumultuous relationship between Lady Royce and Prince Daemon.

“Did you speak to him about the blood of the dragon?” he asked. The princess still believed that her uncle would have some kind of advice on managing their family’s temper.

She shook her head in response. “I did not think we had enough time,” she said. “But my uncle has agreed to meet with me this evening so we can discuss it then.”

Not long after that, the two of them were called to a Small Council meeting to discuss Prince Daemon’s arrival back at court and the significance of Lord Velaryon failing to return with him.

Once everyone had placed their orbs of office into their holders and settled into their seats, discussion began.

“The Stepstones were meant to be won for the realm but it seems we have traded a Crabfeeder for a Seasnake,” Ser Tyland said.

“This is clearly a rebuke for passing over Lady Laena for Queen Alicent,” Lord Lyonel added.

“Years have passed since the business with his daughter,” the king said, sounding exasperated. “Surely he cannot still be wroth?”

“The Sea Snake is an over-proud man, to be sure, Your Grace,” the Grand Maester replied. “That pride has been injured. Perhaps we can salve the wound?”

Yes, but how? House Velaryon had been much insulted over recent decades; there was little that would serve to assuage Lord Velaryon.

“I fear Lord Corlys's pride is the least of our worries, Your Grace,” Ser Otto said. “I do not wish to cause you further distress but my brother has sent disturbing word from Oldtown. Lord Corlys is said to have engaged in negotiations with the Sealord of Braavos. He plans to wed his daughter to the Sealord's son.”

How had Lord Hightower of all people heard such news? Both Driftmark and Braavos were clear across the realm from Oldtown. Either he had gotten very lucky with a well-informed, loud-mouthed sailor making port … or the Hightowers were keeping a close watch on House Velaryon.

However, the implications of such a match were startling. It did not bode well for the realm that House Velaryon was now seeking stronger ties with one of the Free Cities. Lord Velaryon’s trade brought in a good bit of coin to the crown’s coffers, trade that he may start diverting to Braavos instead if the match was successful.

Also, with two dragons under their control, it behooved the crown to fix relations with the Velaryons. Although, Lyman thought, at least Lady Laena does not have a dragon herself.

“If House Velaryon entered into an alliance with the Free Cities then we would have to seek our own marriage pact,” Lord Lyonel said.

One by one, the eyes of the other councillors went to the princess. She studiously avoided their gazes, instead focusing on the table in front of her. It did make sense for Princess Rhaenyra to wed Ser Laenor Velaryon and he was foremost among the options she was considering. Still, Lyman bristled at the insinuation that it was her who should be offered to assuage House Velaryons’s pride. After all, it was the slights dealt to House Velaryon by King Jaehaerys and King Viserys himself that had put them in this mess to begin with.

The king downed the contents of his wine goblet. “Enough,” he said, gesturing for a page to refill it. “This is a happy day, my brother has finally returned to court. I will not have such an occasion marred by ill tidings of the Sea Snake.”

King Viserys rose to his feet, stumbling slightly before Ser Harrold moved to assist. How many goblets of wine had he downed since the afternoon? “You must excuse me, my lords, Rhaenyra. I believe I shall retire early for the evening.” There was still a definite slur to his words. The meeting broke up then as Ser Harrold helped the king from the room.

Later that night, as Lyman too retired, he hoped that the princess’s discussion with Prince Daemon proved fruitful.

After breaking his fast early the next morning, Lyman went to his office to get started on the day’s work. Just as he was uncapping a pot of ink he heard a commotion from the courtyard below. Moving to the window, he looked down to see what the ruckus was.

It was Prince Daemon, surrounded by several of the keep’s guards. Lyman would not have recognised the prince were it not for his distinctive silver hair. He was dressed like a wastrel, wearing nothing but a thin linen shirt and dark breeches. Hardly garb befitting a prince of the realm.

The guards seemed to be trying to persuade Prince Daemon to mount a horse. However, the prince was having none of it, shaking his head and stumbling as though drunk. One of the guards made the mistake then of grasping the prince’s arm.

His reaction was immediate and violent. A punch to the guard’s jaw saw him crashing backwards onto the courtyard’s ground. Prince Daemon did not stop there, pinning the guard’s arm beneath his right boot before repeatedly stomping on his hand with the left. Lyman was too far away to hear the crunch of breaking bones but he could hear the guard’s scream of pain clearly enough. The prince was yelling something about the guard daring to lay his hand upon him.

Two of the other guards leapt to their comrade’s defence, pulling Prince Daemon away from him. He struggled in their grip but appeared to be wearing himself out. The guards were speaking but Lyman could not understand what they were saying. Not long after that, a wheelhouse was brought round and the prince unceremoniously bundled inside. An attendant rushed outside then holding a sheathed sword in his hands. The sword was passed to one of the guards at the front of the wheelhouse before it began moving out of the courtyard.

Lyman’s eyes followed it in disbelief at what he had just witnessed. For the guards to have handled Prince Daemon in such a manner they could only have been acting on the orders of the king. But what had the prince done overnight that had angered his brother enough to throw him out of the Red Keep first thing in the morning?

Deciding it was no business of his, Lyman turned away from the window and moved back to his desk to get started on his work. He was reading over the docking fees that the Harbourmaster of King’s Landing had gathered when he heard that high-pitched whistling screech from outside. Looking out across the city, he saw the Blood Wyrm taking off from the Dragonpit.

Shortly after, Princess Rhaenyra arrived at his office. She looked better rested than she had over recent moons, less tense. Lyman hoped this meant her talk with her uncle had gone well and that whatever had happened between him and the king was unrelated. Once they had greeted each other, he poured the princess a cup of tea while she made herself comfortable.

“So, did your uncle have any insights in helping you control your temper?” he asked. Although, given the earlier display of violence from Prince Daemon in the keep’s courtyard, he somewhat doubted it.

Princess Rhaenyra rolled her eyes and let out a huff of exasperation. “Not particularly, no. He said that the blood of the dragon was simply part of what made us Targaryens, that it was not something I needed to keep on a leash.” She took a sip of her tea. “Though he did say that drinking, fighting and fucking have relieved his stress in the past.”

Lyman nearly choked on his own tea; it was far too early in the morning for such talk. Once recovered he gave the princess a look of sympathy, feeling disheartened on her behalf. She had been so hopeful that her uncle would be able to help with her temper.

“I am sorry he was not able to aid you more,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Our evening was not totally wasted. After our conversation, we snuck out into the city—”

“You snuck out of the Red Keep?” Lyman interrupted, incredulous. “Without any guards?”

The princess was the heir to the Iron Throne and not without her share of enemies. It was unsafe for her to be out in the city without adequate protection. If the king had found out that Prince Daemon took her into King’s Landing, that might explain why the prince had been sent away from the keep earlier.

“I know, I know,” Princess Rhaenyra replied with a groan, burying her face in her hands. “But I was with my uncle, we made effort to conceal our appearances and I go into the city every other week anyway.”

While the charity work that she and the queen were doing meant that the princess was hardly unfamiliar with King’s Landing, such excursions were always planned and with guards in place.

“Besides,” she continued, raising her head again, “with all this talk of marriage and everything that happened in the Vale, I wanted to get away from the keep and have fun for just one evening.”

Lyman felt his ire drain at that. He could hardly begrudge the princess for desiring one night of respite. There was a lot of pressure on her shoulders and he knew Princess Rhaenyra had been struggling with what she was forced to do during the uprising in the Vale. He only wished that respite involved something less dangerous than sneaking out into King’s Landing.

“I suppose you made it back safely, princess,” he eventually said. “And that is the important thing.”

She smiled, likely relieved at his understanding. “It was an exciting evening, to speak true. We stopped for drinks in a few taverns, saw a play.” Princess Rhaenyra brightened at this. “The play was rather enlightening. I do not know if it is because of the Vale but they thought I would make a powerful queen. They said that Alicent and I were the only ones in the Red Keep that gave thought to those below. Their wigs were atrocious though.”

That was interesting. The only smallfolk that he came into regular contact with were the servants in the keep so this was an intriguing insight into how the princess was widely regarded.

“My uncle was surprised at how positive the play was until I explained about Alicent and I’s charity work,” she continued. “I am unsure if he thought I had been doing nothing these last four years but he said it was smart to have won the love of the smallfolk.”

So Prince Daemon was not blind to the politics that had been playing out at court in his absence. To the threat Prince Aemon represented.

“Was that the end of your night then?” Lyman asked.

“Not exactly,” the princess replied. “My uncle started leading me up Rhaenys’s Hill next. I thought at first we were heading to the Dragonpit for a late-night ride. However, when he began circling the hill instead, I was reasonably sure we were heading for the Street of Silk. I think he wanted to demonstrate the ability of fucking to relieve stress by buying me a whore for the night or something.”

Gods above. Lyman felt his eyes widen in shock. From stories he had heard around court over the years, it was not too uncommon for men to take their sons or nephews for a night out on the Street of Silk when they felt they were old enough. However, the princess was a woman and her reputation would not survive that kind of scandal.

“Yes, that was my reaction,” she said, taking in his face. “Luckily, it was then that we ran into Harwin on patrol. I told my uncle it was perhaps better if he continued his evening alone and Harwin escorted me back to the keep.”

That was a relief. Gods know what sort of rumours would circulate had the princess been seen on the Street of Silk, let alone inside a brothel.

The two sat in silence for a time then, drinking their tea.

By the sound of it, Princess Rhaenyra was unaware of her uncle’s expulsion from the keep that morning. Given how public it had been, she would not remain so for long.

“Princess, this morning I witnessed—”

Lyman was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come,” he called.

Ser Colin – a member of his household guard – entered the room, followed by one of the keep’s guards.

“This guard has a message for you, princess,” Ser Colin said.

The guard stepped forward, handing the princess a tightly wrapped scroll. “It is from her, princess,” he said.

Princess Rhaenyra looked at the scroll curiously before unfurling it and reading the contents. As she did, an expression of confusion appeared on her face. Once finished, she threw the scroll into the fireplace before reaching for a spare piece of parchment on his desk. Quickly writing a reply, the princess then folded over the parchment before sealing it with some wax and her signet ring. She passed the parchment to the guard along with some coins.

“Ensure that this gets back to her,” she said. “Thank you, Hal.”

The guard, Hal, bowed in response before leaving, Ser Colin returning to his post outside the door.

As Princess Rhaenyra settled back into her chair, Lyman could not help but regard her curiously, wondering what all that had been about.

“There is apparently a peculiar rumour regarding my uncle going around the city this morning,” she said. “I will see if I can find out anything more. I may go and speak to him when we are finished here.”

Lyman was not quite sure how to explain to her what he had witnessed earlier. “I fear you may have to wait until later,” he replied. “I saw Prince Daemon … expelled from the keep this morning and his dragon took off from the pit just before you got here.”

“Expelled from the keep? He only just arrived back yesterday.”

Lyman gave a shrug of his shoulders. He was unsure what Prince Daemon had done to anger the king so. “Could it be connected to that rumour?” he asked. “Or your jaunt last night?”

“I do not know, maybe?” The princess shook her head. “But I did not come here to talk about my uncle. Do you recall our discussion from yesterday, the one Daemon’s arrival interrupted?”

“Yes,” he said. “We were talking about the Faith’s taxes.”

“Correct. There is—”

She was interrupted as another knock rang out from the door.

“Enter,” Lyman called.

Again Ser Colin opened the door. As he entered, Lyman saw two knights of the Kingsguard standing in the corridor behind him.

“My lord, princess,” Ser Colin said, “Ser Lorent and Ser Clement are here for Princess Rhaenyra.”

She moved her gaze to the two kingsguards. “You are here for me?”

“Yes, princess,” Ser Lorent replied. “The king has demanded your presence.”

Demanded? Lyman and the princess exchanged worried glances.

“If you will excuse us, Sers,” she said. “I just require a few moments.”

Ser Colin left the room with a short bow, closing the door behind him.

“Fuck,” Princess Rhaenyra exclaimed. “My father must have found out about last night. Fuck!” She was aggravated, running a hand through her hair.

“I am sure he will not be too angry,” he soothed. “Your adventure last night was misadvised, to be sure, but hardly the worst scandal the royal family has ever been involved in.” The escapades of several of King Viserys’s aunts had been far more torrid than anything like this.

“Yes, but what if he uses this to say I cannot be trusted to pick my own husband?” she replied. “You heard them all yesterday, at the Small Council meeting. They want me to marry Laenor. What if my father agrees?”

“The king would not back out of your agreement, surely.”

The princess let out a scoff in response. “I would not be so sure of that. Fuck!” She smacked her fist on the armrest of her chair.

Lyman wracked his brain for a solution. “Perhaps I can accompany you,” he said. “I can argue your side if King Viserys does attempt to renege on your agreement. I know you still have some matters you need to clarify with Ser Laenor before agreeing to marry him.”

“Thank you,” she replied, looking at him gratefully. “Your support would be appreciated.”

The two of them stood up and left the office. If Ser Lorent and Ser Clement were confused by him accompanying the princess, they gave no sign of it. Soon the four of them had reached the king’s chambers. With her father’s consent, Princess Rhaenyra entered, Lyman following behind.

Not seeing King Viserys at first, Lyman’s eyes were drawn to the model of Valyria that dominated the main room. It had grown since the last time he had cause to be here. To one side of the model there was a lit brazier, what looked like a dagger nestled in the flames. The princess approached it but as she reached for the dagger, the king emerged from the shadows.

“Rhaenyra, Lyman,” he said, surprise clear in his tone. “It was only my daughter I sent the Kingsguard for.”

“I found myself rather perturbed by your abrupt summons, Your Grace,” the princess replied, clasping her hands in front of her body. “It is not every day that two knights of the Kingsguard are sent to retrieve me.”

“This is something that is better discussed in private.” The king sounded as though he was trying to be reassuring but a faint undercurrent of anger curdled the words.

Alarm crossed her face at this. If King Viserys was about to confront his daughter over the events of last night or break their agreement and dictate her husband, he would likely not want any witnesses.

“Are you ordering Lyman out then, Your Grace?” she asked.

The king looked exasperated at this. “Have it your way then,” he said with a huff. “You know, Rhaenyra, I thought you understood the responsibility that I was placing upon you. But then you go and do this. Jaehaerys would have disinherited you.”

What? If he was aware of her late-night escapade with Prince Daemon, while it was ill-advised it surely did not warrant disinheritance.

The confusion on the princess’s face mirrored Lyman’s own. “Is this about last night with my uncle because—”

“Of course it is about Daemon!” the king exploded, striding towards his daughter. “I allow you your choice of husband and this is how you repay me? By letting Daemon ruin you in the middle of a brothel?”

Seven hells!

Princess Rhaenyra looked stunned at this accusation. Not that Lyman could blame her. Losing her maidenhood before marriage would utterly destroy her reputation, let alone losing it to her uncle in such a manner. While the princess certainly had a wilful side, he knew she had worked too hard over the years to throw it all away by doing something so base.

“Father, I am unsure who has been telling you these lies but I was never with Daemon in a brothel. It is true we went into King’s Landing last night but we only visited a few taverns and took in a play before I returned to the keep.”

The king scoffed. “You need not deny it, Rhaenyra. I have already spoken to Daemon and he admitted to it.”

“Then he is lying,” she replied heatedly, moving forward so she stood toe to toe with her father. Lyman wondered if they remembered he was still there. “You would truly take Daemon’s word over mine on this? After all the chaos he has sown over the years?”

King Viserys looked momentarily uncertain in the wake of her outrage before his expression once again hardened. “The two of you share the blood of the dragon, you have always been restless and chaotic.” There was a look of contempt on his face now as he regarded his daughter. “You and Daemon were seen together.”

“By who?” the princess challenged, not cowed in the face of his anger.

The king was silent for a long moment.

“I have the right to know who has levelled these vile accusations against me,” she pressed. “To question my virtue is an act of treason!”

After staring at her for a couple of seconds, the king then broke their stand-off to lean over his Valyrian model. “Otto was the one who brought this matter to my attention.”

He had to be japing. Ser Otto – who had been pushing his grandson’s claim for years – just happened to learn information that would destroy Princess Rhaenyra’s reputation? Was the king truly so blind to his good-father’s ambitions?

The princess was clearly thinking along the same lines as she let out a humourless laugh. “Of course it was,” she said, again advancing on her father. “And do you not see how this benefits him, to have me disinherited?”

“I can see his wants for Aemon plain enough but there were witnesses. As I said, Daemon has already confessed—”

“A pox on Daemon!” Princess Rhaenyra interrupted, slamming her hand down on the edge of the model’s table. “I do not know what game he is playing but he lied to you. Let me speak to him when he gets back from his ride. I will get the truth out of him.”

“He is not coming back, Rhaenyra,” the king replied. “I have banished him to the Stepstones for this.”

That explained the confrontation he had witnessed between Prince Daemon and the guards in the courtyard that morning.

“Leaving me no opportunity to dispute my uncle’s telling of events,” the princess said.

“It was not only Daemon. What of the witnesses who brought this matter to Ser Otto’s attention?”

She met her father’s gaze, eyes burning. “Bring him here.”

“What?” the king asked.

“Bring Ser Otto here, now. I want to hear what evidence he could possibly have of this, what his so-called witnesses saw.”

They regarded each other for several beats, the silence only broken by the crackling of the flames. Then the king turned away, walking towards the door. He spoke briefly to the guards outside before returning to the room proper and pouring a goblet of wine.

The minutes that followed were among the most awkward of Lyman’s life. King Viserys leant against the fireplace’s mantle, staring into the flames while silently drinking his wine. On the other hand, the princess angrily paced back and forth across the room, reminding him of a taut bowstring about to snap. He considered trying to speak to her but, seeing the snarl that curled Princess Rhaenyra’s lip, decided it was perhaps best to leave her to try and work out her fury.

Finally, a knock sounded at the door and Ser Otto’s arrival was announced by Ser Harrold. With the king’s agreement the lord Hand entered the room, dressed in his now-customary green tunic. He did not look surprised to see the princess there but his eyes lingered on Lyman himself after he had performed the necessary obeisances.

The king opened his mouth to speak but the princess was quicker. “You truly have a lot of nerve,” she said to Ser Otto. “Accusing me of fucking my uncle in a brothel.”

Lyman noticed King Viserys wince at having it put so bluntly but Ser Otto stood tall in the face of the princess’s ire.

“I only fulfilled my duty to the crown by alerting the king of your … behaviour last night,” he replied calmly.

She scoffed. “What happened, did you finally run out of patience? Your attempts to discredit me before now were far more discreet.”

This move by the lord Hand was somewhat out of character. Everything he had done against the princess and her claim up to this point had been rather more subtle. To be so brazen as to falsely claim she had lost her maidenhead to her uncle meant Ser Otto must be convinced he could persuade the king to side with him.

“You are hardly one to speak of discretion, princess,” he replied, a definite sneer in his voice. “A near score of people saw your uncle take you against a wall!”

How dare he? Lyman opened his mouth to intervene but the king spoke first.

“Enough, Otto,” he said, moving away from the fireplace. “Whatever foolish actions she has committed, my daughter is still a princess and you will not speak to her so crudely.”

A look of contrition appeared on Ser Otto’s face then. “Forgive me, Your Grace.” He gave a short bow. “I allowed my passions to get the better of me.”

It was a flimsy excuse. Especially considering that the king was entitled to take Ser Otto’s tongue for the words he had uttered to the princess. However – perhaps predictably – King Viserys seemed satisfied with the apology.

“Now, Otto,” the king said, “Rhaenyra has denied the truth of these allegations and wishes to know what proof you have of them.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied. “A message came in the night from a person I have had contact with in the past. They informed me that Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon were seen coupling in a brothel on the Street of Silk.”

“A person you have had contact with in the past?” the princess queried incredulously. “You would dare to level these accusations against me without even naming your source? This is a mummer’s farce.”

“To carry out my duties, I need to have confidential sources of information. Besides, these reports were corroborated by others.”

“Who?” she asked bluntly.

“You and Prince Daemon were seen by two blue cloaks drinking in a tavern near Flea Bottom,” Ser Otto said. “The prince was wearing a hooded cloak and you were apparently dressed as a page but the men recognised the two of you anyway.”

“Two blue cloaks?” Princess Rhaenyra scoffed. “Has Ser Gwayne got members of the City Watch reporting back to him on my movements now?”

Lyman recalled that Ser Otto’s youngest son was a serjeant in the City Watch. He must have informed his father of this development.

“As I have already told my father,” she continued, “my uncle and I did go drinking in the city last night.”

“And then continued your evening in a brothel,” Ser Otto bit out.

“No, I returned to the keep. Accompanied by Ser Harwin Strong.”

The lord Hand looked taken aback by this declaration.

“Ser Harwin?” the king asked his daughter.

“Yes,” she replied. “We ran into him on Rhaenys’s Hill and he walked with me back to the Red Keep. If Daemon continued his evening on the Street of Silk, it was not with me.”

“You are lying!” Ser Otto protested. “They were seen together in a brothel.”

The king let out a huff of exasperation. “Well, we can easily check,” he said, moving once again to speak to the guards outside, presumably to summon Ser Harwin.

The wait this time was less excruciating, although Ser Otto and the princess were trading glares whenever King Viserys was not looking at them. Lyman moved over to Princess Rhaenyra’s side to have a discreet word.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

She tried to muster a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “I am as well as I can be given the circumstances. I just cannot believe my father would be so stupid as to trust Ser Otto and Daemon’s words on this.”

“Do you know why your uncle may have confessed to this debauchery?” What possible reason could Prince Daemon have for trying to ruin his niece’s reputation in such a way?

“Only the gods above know why Daemon does anything. To irk my father, presumably. Although I wish he had picked another means to do so.” The princess paused for a few moments. “It is funny, I actually thought we had fun last night. Yesterday was the first time I had seen him in over three years and he does this.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Lyman reached over to give her arm a comforting rub.

Just then there was a knock on the door.

“Yes!” the king called.

“Ser Harwin Strong and Lord Lyonel Strong to see you, Your Grace!” Ser Harrold’s voice boomed out.

Lord Lyonel? Lyman exchanged a confused glance with Princess Rhaenyra. What was he doing here?

King Viserys allowed them entry and the two men were admitted into the room. Ser Harwin was dressed down in a tunic and breeches, a stoic expression on his face. By contrast, Lord Lyonel was wearing his formal black robes and looked worried.

Once greetings were completed, the king turned to Lord Lyonel. “You need not have come here. We simply needed your son to give us a retelling of some events from last night.”

“I was breaking my fast with Harwin when your summons came, Your Grace,” Lord Lyonel replied. “I wished to know why two knights of the Kingsguard had demanded his immediate presence.”

As Ser Harwin’s father and the head of House Strong, this was not an unreasonable request.

“Very well then,” the king said. “Ser Harwin, did you encounter my daughter out on the streets of King’s Landing last night?”

Lord Lyonel’s eyes widened and his gaze moved between his son and the princess. Ser Harwin maintained his stoic expression but his gaze too settled briefly on Princess Rhaenyra. Lyman thought he saw her give the knight a slight nod out of the corner of his eye.

“Aye, that is correct,” Ser Harwin replied. “I ran into Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon on the south side of Rhaenys’s Hill, just off the Street of the Sisters. The princess asked me to accompany her back to the Red Keep so I did.”

“What time did this allegedly take place?” Ser Otto did not sound at all convinced by Ser Harwin’s testimony.

He thought it over for a few moments. “We met sometime around the end of the hour of ghosts, I think, and were back at the keep for the close of the hour of the owl. I did not wish to take the princess through Flea Bottom so we went the long way round: down the Street of the Sisters before crossing to come up the King’s Way.”

That route would involve traversing half the city so it was unsurprising it had taken the two an hour.

However, Ser Otto was already shaking his head. “That cannot be true, Your Grace,” he said to the king. “It was the hour of the wolf that Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon … spent together.” There was a definite expression of distaste on his face. “I have checked with the guards and servants that were stationed near the keep’s entrance and none saw the princess enter during the night. She must have slunk in after dawn with the arriving staff or with a delivery.”

If Ser Harwin and Princess Rhaenyra had been at the Red Keep for the close of the hour of the owl, she would never have had enough time to get back to the Street of Silk to be seen with her uncle during the following hour.

At this denial of the truth of his son’s testimony, Lord Lyonel rose to his full height with a look of indignation upon his face. “Are you calling my son a liar?” he said, taking a step towards Ser Otto.

Oh dear. Lord Lyonel had long been a relatively sedate presence at court but, in his youth, the man possessed a formidable reputation. And now Ser Otto had roused his temper.

“I am merely saying—”

“What?” Ser Harwin interjected. “What are you saying?”

As the two Strongs and Ser Otto began bickering, the princess caught her father’s eye before speaking to him quietly in High Valyrian. Lyman had no idea what she was saying but he thought he caught ‘Maegor’ among the foreign sounds.

Whatever Princess Rhaenyra said seemed to surprise the king who, by his intonation, asked her a question in High Valyrian in return. At the princess’s reply, her father turned and looked curiously around the walls of the room.

Their raised voices then drew Lyman’s attention back to the three arguing men.

“I am only pointing out that Ser Harwin is known to be close to Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Otto said. “All those lessons in the training yard together. He may have been … influenced by her.”

The unspoken insinuation was clear. Lyman began taking a breath to defend Princess Rhaenyra but she nudged her elbow into his side and shook her head when he turned to her questioningly. She wanted to see this play out.

“How dare you question the honour of the princess and Harwin in such a way?” Lord Lyonel asked as his cheeks reddened, Ser Harwin glowering from behind him. “The honour of House Strong?”

This was starting to get out of hand but the king made no move to interject. He was filling up his goblet of wine, glancing with narrowed eyes between his daughter and Ser Harwin.

“The honour of House Strong?” Ser Otto asked with a scoff. “I have noticed you are far happier about the princess being named heir since she raised the standings of your children. You are hardly a neutral party in this.”

“I do not remember concerns being raised about a potential conflict of interest when it was your daughter that was the princess’s lady-in-waiting,” Lord Lyonel replied sharply.

Ser Otto dismissed this with a negligent flutter of his hand. “Perhaps your son follows more the example of Ser Lucamore Strong than your own. He would not be the first man in your family to abandon his honour in the face of the wiles of women.”

This provoked a wince from Lyman. Ser Lucamore Strong had been a knight of the Kingsguard during the reign of King Jaehaerys. However, it was revealed that he had broken his oath by unlawfully taking three separate women to wife and fathering over a dozen children. Ser Lucamore was gelded and sent to the Wall in disgrace.

He thought he heard a low growl emerge from Lord Lyonel but it was his son who spoke. “Princess Rhaenyra is my friend, nothing more. And keep your mouth shut on any lies to the contrary. I plan to get my father’s permission to enter into a formal courtship and will not have the likes of you casting aspersions on my character.”

This was apparently news to Lord Lyonel. “A formal courtship?” he asked his son. “With who?”

Was that a blush appearing on Ser Harwin’s cheeks? “Lady Royce,” he replied simply.

At this, Lord Lyonel moved his attention to King Viserys. “Your Grace, my son has accounted for his and the princess’s movements last night. Truthfully,” he added, with a dark look at Ser Otto. “If you have no further need of us, I would ask your leave to depart. It seems my son and I need to have a conversation.”

The king nodded his assent and the two men left the room.

The door had barely closed behind them before Ser Otto turned to the king, an expression of triumph on his face. “While we are speaking of Lady Royce, the princess was most eager to have Prince Daemon’s marriage annulled, Your Grace.”

“What?” King Viserys asked, brow scrunched in puzzlement. “You think Rhaenyra arranged that so she could have Daemon for herself?”

“The princess had Lady Royce bring the matter to court and then personally flew the annulment request to the High Septon,” Ser Otto replied. “You must admit, it is suspicious.”

“Rhea was miserable and that marriage has done nothing but harm our relations with the Vale,” Princess Rhaenyra said hotly. “Besides, my father has allowed me my choice of husband.”

Ser Otto looked to the king, who nodded in confirmation.

“If I wished to wed my uncle, I would have presented him to my father,” she finished.

“Not if you thought His Grace would never agree to the match and you meant to force his hand,” Ser Otto replied.

The king glanced between his Hand and daughter before speaking. “Otto is correct, Rhaenyra. I would never have allowed you to marry Daemon. And he did ask to be wed to you this morning when I confronted him over … last night.”

“He what!" The princess sounded torn between bewilderment and fury. “That fucking cunt.” Her hands clenched into fists before she moved them behind her back.

Lyman could forgive Princess Rhaenyra her crude language on this occasion. Especially after all the consideration she had given to making a powerful marriage alliance. Effort her uncle was now undermining with his thoughtless actions.

On the other hand, Ser Otto looked as though he had solved a vexing puzzle. “Well, there you have it,” he said to the king. “I have long cautioned that your brother covets your throne and he obviously sees marrying the crown princess as his path to it. He must have seduced her into going along with this darkling scheme.”

The princess rounded on Ser Otto. “What exactly are you accusing me of?” she spat. “Fucking Daemon in a brothel so my father would have no choice but to wed us? Ruining my name and throwing away years of work and dedication? Risking disinheritance just to have Daemon as my husband?”

“It would explain a great deal,” Ser Otto replied. “Particularly if you thought you could convince His Grace to keep you as heir. He has proved unwilling to name Aemon in the past, perhaps you thought your uncle was worth the gamble.”

Princess Rhaenyra scoffed. “Until yesterday I had not even seen Daemon since I retrieved Baelon’s egg from him on Dragonstone,” she said. “It is not exactly easy to get ravens to the Stepstones. When do you suppose we plotted this?”

Ser Otto paused for a few moments before replying, “All those monthly trips to Dragonstone would have provided you ample opportunity,” he said. “It would not have been hard for you to meet Prince Daemon on some island in the Narrow Sea. You could even have met with him when you were in Oldtown; you were gone for a while.”

“The trips I took to Dragonstone to carry out my duties as its ruler? Those trips? And I am sure your brother would have heard if Caraxes was spotted anywhere near Oldtown. Besides, if this was all a plot to force my father to marry me to Daemon, why would I deny being with him in a brothel?”

The king’s gaze was still moving between Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Otto as though he was unsure who to believe.

“Your Grace,” Lyman said, interrupting whatever rebuttal Ser Otto was about to make. “The princess and I spoke on Prince Daemon’s suitability as a suitor several weeks ago and she rejected him in no uncertain terms. She has no designs to take him as her consort and is considering other, more favourable, men.”

“Of course you would defend her,” Ser Otto said. “The two of you have been in cahoots with each other from the start.”

In cahoots? Lyman straightened his spine before replying, “I have been helping the crown princess fulfil—”

A knock sounded at the door. The king – likely seeking respite from all the arguing – yelled, “Enter!” before the visitor could even be announced.

Grand Maester Alester entered, looking over a sheaf of parchment he carried. Lyman had the sudden wild thought that perhaps they should summon Ser Tyland from wherever he was in the keep. He was now the only member of the Small Council not involved in this travesty.

“Your Grace,” the Grand Maester said, still looking down, “I just had a few questions regarding that tea you wanted me to brew. When exactly—” He stopped then after looking up and seeing the various people arrayed before him. “Oh, apologies for interrupting.”

“You might be just who we need to finally get to the truth of this matter,” Ser Otto said. “Your Grace, I ask that Alester examine Princess Rhaenyra to check whether she is still a maiden.”

The Grand Maester froze in place, eyes wide.

This was too much for Lyman as he found himself fighting the urge to strike Otto Hightower across the face. “How dare you, you loathsome—”

“I have been riding a dragon since I was seven years old, what do you think that would even prove?” the princess asked irately.

King Viserys poured himself more wine and gulped the whole goblet down.

“Your Grace, I think I shall come back later,” Alester said, looking anxiously between the four of them. “You are obviously … occupied.” With that, the Grand Maester fled back out the door, not even waiting for the king’s leave. Lyman had always known he was a smart man.

“This is ridiculous,” the princess said. She walked over to the king and clasped both his hands in her own. “Father, I swear to you on mother’s memory, I have never bedded any man,” she beseeched, looking directly into his eyes.

The king softened at this, the tension in his frame loosening.

However, Ser Otto had already started speaking again. “From what I heard of the princess’s activities last night with Prince Daemon, there was no bed involved,” he said snidely. “Other than Ser Harwin’s dubious testimony, there is nobody that can attest to her coming back to the keep last night.”

“That is not true,” Princess Rhaenyra replied, breaking her eye contact with her father and dropping his hands before turning to look at Ser Otto. “Several other people saw me here last night.”

“Who? I already checked with the servants and guards and none saw you.”

“Not every guard. After I arrived back in my chambers last night, I was somewhat restless so I went to see the queen. Ser Criston, Ser Steffon and Alicent herself can attest that I was in the queen’s chambers until well after dawn.”

“You went to see Alicent,” Ser Otto said through gritted teeth, “in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, it is not that unusual,” the princess replied primly.

“Rhaenyra, if you were with Alicent why did you not just inform us of this earlier?” the king asked, rubbing a hand over his forehead in exasperation.

“For one thing, I was hoping I could keep Alicent out of this whole torrid affair. For another, I thought my word would be enough for you but clearly I was wrong.”

The king looked chastened but Ser Otto walked to the door. Lyman heard him bark out orders for Ser Criston, Ser Steffon and the queen to be summoned. Only the gods above knew what the guards were thinking of all this, running from one end of the keep to the other to bring people to the king’s solar.

“Your Grace, to prevent any collusion I would prefer if the three of them could be questioned separately,” Ser Otto suggested.

“Fine, fine,” King Viserys replied, waving his arm. He clearly wanted this whole matter to be finished with as soon as possible.

The four of them were once again forced to wait together. The king sunk heavily into a chair and stared into the fireplace. Princess Rhaenyra stood by the model of Valyria, idly tapping her fingers on the roof of one of the structures. Lyman himself and Ser Otto traded hostile glances but neither were willing to break the silence.

The two knights of the Kingsguard arrived before the queen, having been sleeping in White Sword Tower after their night watches. Ser Criston was admitted to the room first, wearing breeches and a coat. It was the only time Lyman could remember seeing him without his armour on.

After all the bowing had been completed, it was Ser Otto that spoke. “We just need you to answer some questions regarding the princess’s movements,” he said.

Ser Criston turned to the princess with a raised eyebrow.

She replied with a nod.

“What did Rhaenyra do yesterday evening?” King Viserys asked.

“After the Small Council met, Princess Rhaenyra took dinner with Prince Daemon.” There was a definite note of distaste in Ser Criston’s voice as he spoke of the prince. “Then she retired for the night not long past sunset.”

“And during the night?” Ser Otto prompted.

Ser Criston once again glanced to his charge before speaking. “The princess left her chambers and went to the queen’s around about the hour of the wolf. I did not see her again before I was relieved of my watch around dawn.”

“He is lying!” Ser Otto exclaimed. “Princess Rhaenyra has already confessed to going out into the city at the very least. How could she have done so without her sworn shield being aware? Did she climb out of her window?” he finished sarcastically.

“You are sure this was the hour of the wolf?” the king asked. He did not seem concerned with how exactly his daughter had left and then re-entered her chambers without detection.

“Quite sure, Your Grace,” Ser Criston replied. “There is a maid that always comes to scrub the corridor floor during that hour.”

“Your Grace, the word of this man cannot be trusted,” Ser Otto said, making no attempt to lower his voice. Lyman saw Ser Criston’s jaw clench in response. “Were it not for the princess, he would just be a common hedge knight roaming the countryside.”

King Viserys regarded his Hand for a moment before returning his attention to his daughter’s kingsguard. “Ser Criston, do you swear to me, your king, that what you have spoken is true?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Criston replied, bringing his closed fist to rest over his heart. “I swear upon my honour as a knight.”

“And we all know how much the honour of a Dornishman is worth,” Ser Otto said with a sneer.

Ser Criston’s hand twitched towards his side, where his sword would normally rest. “I am a Stormlander … lord Hand.” The length of the pause bordered on insult.

Perhaps sensing the mounting tension in the room, it was then that the king decided to bring this discussion to an end. “Thank you, Ser Criston,” he said. “That will be all. If you could please send in Ser Steffon.”

Ser Criston hesitated, looking hatefully at Ser Otto before turning to the princess.

“It is all right, Ser Criston,” she said. “Go and get some sleep. I will see you after luncheon.”

Ser Criston bowed to the king and princess and then gave Lyman himself a short nod before leaving the room.

His sworn brother entered soon after.

“Ser Steffon, did you see Princess Rhaenyra last night?” King Viserys asked.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Steffon replied. “She came to the queen’s chambers in the middle of the night.”

For the first time that day, Ser Otto looked genuinely shocked. It was one thing to accuse the princess’s own common-born kingsguard of lying to the king; it was quite another to accuse the highborn Ser Steffon Darklyn, the third of his house to serve in the Kingsguard. “The princess definitely visited the queen’s chambers last night?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, lord Hand,” Ser Steffon confirmed. “I believe it was around the hour of the owl or the wolf.”

“And you did not think this at all unusual?” the king asked.

“Not particularly, Your Grace. The princess and the queen quite often spend the night together.”

Princess Rhaenyra let out a quiet groan at this but it was Ser Otto’s reaction that was the most noteworthy, his face flushing red and a vein starting to throb on his forehead. Lyman was unsure why he was reacting in such a way, the practice of highborn women sharing a bed was a common one.

“Although there was one thing that was unusual, Your Grace,” Ser Steffon added.

“What?” Ser Otto demanded before the king had a chance to reply.

“The princess’s clothing, lord Hand,” Ser Steffon replied. “She was dressed as a page boy.”

The same outfit that the blue cloaks had reported her wearing earlier that evening. The king had obviously made the same connection, now regarding Ser Otto with an expression of suspicion.

“Thank you, Ser Steffon,” King Viserys said. “If you can send in the queen, if she has arrived.”

Queen Alicent had arrived and entered the room shortly after Ser Steffon departed. She looked around in confusion before turning to the king. “How is it I can help you, Your Grace?” she asked. “I was taking tea with some ladies in the gardens.”

“We will try not to keep you, Alicent,” he said, walking over and placing a hand on her shoulder. Princess Rhaenyra’s whole body twitched at Lyman’s side. “Your father has made a vile accusation and we are trying to get to the truth of the matter.”

The queen glanced between Ser Otto and Princess Rhaenyra, who gave her a reassuring smile, before turning her attention back to her husband.

“Now, did Rhaenyra come to your chambers last night?” King Viserys asked.

Moving her hands so that they met in front of her, the queen began picking at her cuticles. “I do not understand. What accusation?”

“That does not matter. Was Rhaenyra with you last night or not?”

Queen Alicent’s face had drained of all colour. She tried to turn again to look at the princess but the king directed her gaze back to him with a light hand on her cheek.

Princess Rhaenyra took a step towards them then. “It is all right, Alicent,” she said. “I promise. Just answer him truthfully.”

Seeming to take heart from this, the queen’s eyes met the king’s own. “Yes, Your Grace. Rhaenyra came to my chambers in the middle of the night and did not leave until this morning.”

“They are all lying!” Ser Otto exploded. “Princess Rhaenyra has obviously influenced the queen and they have persuaded their kingsguards to go along with it. Nobody saw the princess entering the keep during the night. She was seen coupling with Prince Daemon in a brothel.”

The queen’s gaze snapped to the princess in shock. “What?” she asked. Whatever vile accusation she thought her father had made, it had clearly not been that.

Princess Rhaenyra just gestured at Ser Otto and shrugged her shoulders in response.

“Otto,” the king said, “I need to ask you to present your witness. Everyone we have spoken to has confirmed Rhaenyra’s telling of events.”

“Your Grace, my source must remain confidential,” he beseeched. “I need to maintain private contacts that I can trust and that can trust me.”

“Father, this is ridiculous,” the princess interjected. “Ser Otto must have heard I was out with Daemon and made up this whole brothel incident to discredit me.”

“You were seen,” Ser Otto gritted out.

“By who?” she challenged.

“If you cannot present your witness, there will be consequences,” the king demanded, clearly at the end of his tether over this whole affair. “I will not have you slander my daughter.”

The lord Hand floundered at this, trying to come up with a response. “Your Grace, I—”

Another knock rang out from the door then.

“What?” the king shouted.

“A message for the princess, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold called back.

“Enter!”

Ser Harrold entered the room accompanied by a guard. It was Hal, the one the princess had received a message from earlier that morning. After paying obeisance to the royal family, Hal walked over to the princess and handed her a small scroll. With that he turned and left the room, Ser Harrold following after and closing the door.

Princess Rhaenyra opened the scroll and read its contents. As she finished, a short bitter laugh left her lips.

“The brothel I allegedly fucked my uncle in, was it The Blooming Rose?” she asked Ser Otto.

“Yes,” he replied, anger burning in his eyes.

A smirk curled the corner of the princess’s lip before her expression smoothed again. “The Blooming Rose includes among its staff a Lyseni named Taena. She is of Valyrian heritage and has silver hair and purple eyes. She and my uncle put on quite a show last night during the hour of the wolf.”

At this declaration, Ser Otto’s previously flushed face whitened.

Princess Rhaenyra’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Daemon is said to have cried out my name when he … well, I am sure you can guess. Half the city is now gossiping about how it’s the closest he could get to fucking his niece. His preference for silver-haired maidens has apparently long been known in certain circles.” She passed the note to her father.

So Ser Otto’s little spy – whoever they were – had heard Prince Daemon … use his niece’s name while coupling with a silver-haired woman and assumed it was the princess without checking. Combined with the true sightings of the two together in King’s Landing, that had been enough for Ser Otto to bring the matter to the attention of the king.

The king who was now turning to his Hand with a look of fury upon his face. “You would present these lies to me to try and bring ruin upon my daughter? I should have your tongue carved out of your skull!” he roared.

“Your Grace, I acted in good faith—” Ser Otto desperately tried to defend himself.

“In good faith to discredit my heir?” King Viserys asked incredulously. “Your judgment has long been compromised, Otto. I see that now. I have let this go on long enough,” he finished decisively before turning to his daughter. “Rhaenyra, I owe you an apology. We will speak on this later.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the princess replied. She did not sound appeased.

“If the rest of you will excuse us,” the king said. “I need to speak to Otto in private.”

Surely this was the end of Ser Otto’s tenure as Hand of the King. There was no possible way he could continue in the position after this farce. His ambitions for Prince Aemon had long been clear to those at court but surely not even the king could ignore them now.

Lyman himself, Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent filed out of the room and began walking down the corridor.

“My father is finished,” the queen said. He noticed that she was beginning to pick at her cuticles again. “The king could have his head for making such an accusation.”

For all that the queen and Ser Otto had been in conflict as of late, he was still her father and the only parent that she had remaining. Lyman could not begrudge Queen Alicent her worry for him given the circumstances.

The princess reached over and clasped one of the queen’s hands. “I do not doubt that he will lose his position at court over this but my father will not go that far,” she said comfortingly. “They have been friends for near all our lives.”

“It is likely Ser Otto will just be sent back to Oldtown and ordered never speak to this again,” Lyman added. “The King’s Justice has barely been used since His Grace took the throne.”

Queen Alicent seemed to relax at this, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “I thought my father had accused—”

“I know,” Princess Rhaenyra interrupted. “I am sorry I was not able to warn you.”

The queen nodded. “What exactly happened with my father?” she asked.

Lyman decided that he had experienced enough excitement for the morning and it was best if he left the two of them to discuss these matters in private. “If you will excuse me, princess, Your Grace,” he said. “I think I shall go have a lie down for the rest of the morning.” It was nowhere near luncheon but an exhausted haze had already settled over his mind. Perhaps he was getting too old for all these goings on.

“Thank you for your support, Lyman,” the princess said, turning away from the queen to favour him with a smile. “I am grateful.”

“Of course, princess.” He bowed to them both before taking his leave.

Late that afternoon, Lyman lingered in the Red Keep’s courtyard waiting for the princess’s arrival. The king had called an emergency session of the Small Council. Based on the rumours swirling around the keep that Ser Otto left the king’s chambers without the pin designating him Hand of the King, there was little doubt what the meeting was about.

Likely in response to her stressful morning, Princess Rhaenyra had left for a dragonride that afternoon. With the Small Council due to convene as soon as she was back in the keep, Lyman had gone outside to meet her upon seeing her dragon descend into the Dragonpit. That way they might discuss events together on the way to the meeting.

He had not been waiting long when the princess rode into the courtyard, Ser Criston following on a horse behind her. Spotting Lyman, she swiftly dismounted before handing off the reins to a waiting stableboy and walking over.

“A guard said the Small Council is meeting,” Princess Rhaenyra said when she reached him, forgoing greetings.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Ser Otto did not have the Hand pin when he left your father’s chambers so he has been removed from his position at the very least.” They began heading towards the entryway to the keep proper. “We will have to see what other measures the king has taken.”

A savage grin split the princess’s face. “Do not misunderstand me,” she said, “I still want to punch my uncle in the face for his part in this. But, he has inadvertently done us a favour in getting Ser Otto removed from the Small Council and likely banished from court as well.”

That was one way to look at it. Although Lyman wished that Prince Daemon had not tried to ruin the princess’s name for his own ends.

“We must not be complacent though, princess,” he warned. “Just because Ser Otto is no longer Hand, that does not mean he will cease his plots.”

She let out a groan. “I know but let me savour this a little,” she implored. “Did you see the look on his face when I announced my uncle had been fucking a Valyrian-featured whore?” the princess finished with a laugh.

Lyman allowed a smile to lift the corners of his lips. Ser Otto’s horrified reaction had been amusing.

They had reached the keep’s entrance hall now, the few courtiers that lingered about moving to one side to let them pass as they walked towards the staircase.

There was one thing though that was still bothering him. “If you do not mind my asking, how was it that you left and then re-entered the keep without being noticed?” he asked.

“Oh, well—” She broke off then, looking to their left. “Oh no.”

Lyman looked over to see Ser Otto striding angrily towards them. A quick glance confirmed that the Hand pin – which had graced his chest for near two decades – was gone.

“You!” He stopped within a few feet of them, raising his arm to point a finger at the princess. “You have ruined everything.”

Princess Rhaenyra crossed her arms over her chest at this, not backing down in the face of Ser Otto’s glare. “I have ruined everything?” she asked sarcastically. “It seems to me you did a fine job of ruining things for yourself. You really should get better informants.”

His face flushed with rage. There was silence now in the hall, the courtiers having ceased their conversations to watch the unfolding confrontation.

“You think you are so untouchable, princess” Ser Otto retorted. “But no matter what you do, they will never accept you as queen.”

“I think you are wrong,” she replied calmly, unfazed by his statement. “And deep down, I think you know it too. Why else would you be going to so much effort to drum up support for Aemon? To discredit me.”

Ser Otto scoffed. “Believe what you will but should you ascend the throne, war will break out. Alicent might not see it, she thinks she can cleave to you and your mercy, but I do. War will break out and you will have to kill Aemon and any other brothers you might have to secure your claim!”

He had made no attempt to lower his voice and gasps broke out from the people around them.

The princess uncrossed her arms and took a step towards Ser Otto, fury clear upon her face. “I am no kinslayer, you traitorous snake!” she yelled. “I would die before I ever harmed Aemon.”

“Do not feign self-righteousness with me!” Ser Otto roared. “I know you for what you are: a deviant whore!” He was moving towards the princess, arm outstretched.

Lyman was unsure what he intended and moved to intervene—

Something slammed into the left side of his back. Before he could catch his balance, the floor was rising to meet him. He thought he saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye before his head impacted the unyielding stone.

Stars exploded across his vision.

Lyman thought he could hear yelling but everything was so muffled, like being underwater.

The iron tang of blood filled his mouth; he must have bitten his tongue.

He lay there for a few moments trying to gather himself.

Thump

Thump

Thump

He thought at first the pounding was his own heartbeat but no, his heart was beating in his chest far faster.

“Criston, stop!”

He knew that voice. Princess Rhaenyra.

Thump

Thump

Silence.

Lyman gathered his strength, raised his head and slowly pushed himself up onto his knees.

It took a few moments for his vision to resolve and longer still for him to make sense of what he was seeing.

Princess Rhaenyra stood several yards in front of him, both her arms wrapped around the right arm of her kingsguard, immobilising it. There was a gash through her right eyebrow, blood slowly trickling down her face. Ser Criston was kneeling, panting from exertion but not making an attempt to remove his arm from the princess’s grip.

Before them on the ground was a figure. What remained of its face was completely unrecognisable, a mess of blood and gore. The figure took one last wheezing breath before its chest fell still. Its green-clad chest. The chest of Ser Otto Hightower.

Chapter Text

The sun had set a few hours before and night now truly fallen across King’s Landing. The rest of the Small Council sat in silence as they waited for Princess Rhaenyra’s arrival, not even the customary rustling of papers breaking the stillness of the room. Lyman found himself grateful for the quiet. While the Grand Maester advised his head injury earlier that day was not too severe, there was an uncomfortable pounding across his forehead. What he truly craved was the dark solitude of his chambers but he doubted he would be able to return to them any time soon.

Lyman’s eyes flicked unconsciously to the empty chair to the king’s right. The chair traditionally occupied by the Hand of the King.

A knock sounded out before the doors opened and Princess Rhaenyra walked into the room. She had still not changed out of her dragonriding leathers and he caught a whiff of that now-familiar pungent odour as she took her seat to the right of the empty chair. Alester had seen to the princess earlier as well and a neat row of stitches closed the gash through her right eyebrow. However, the area surrounding it was red and looked slightly swollen to Lyman’s untrained eye. Whatever levity she had found while out for the night with her uncle had been erased by the events of the past day and there was a stoic, guarded expression on her face.

The silence continued for a few seconds longer before the king addressed his daughter. “How is she, Rhaenyra?” He seemed as though he had aged a decade compared to the man that had so jovially greeted his brother the day before.

The princess looked at the king incredulously at this. “Her father was beaten to death and she is now an orphan,” she replied. “So Alicent is a bit upset.”

King Viserys winced, although Lyman thought he deserved the harshness of her reply given the inaneness of the question.

“Very well,” the king said. “Is there anything I can …?” he trailed off awkwardly.

She snapped something at him in High Valyrian that Lyman did not understand but caused her father to recoil in his seat.

The two had been at odds for the last several years but he worried that the king’s readiness to believe his brother and Ser Otto’s lies may have fractured their relationship completely. Not that he could blame the princess for her anger.

The king gathered himself before addressing the entire council. Well, what remained of it at least. “I presume you have all heard by now what has befallen Otto?”

There were sombre nods from around the table.

“I heard that there was some sort of confrontation that resulted in the princess’s kingsguard killing Ser Otto,” Lord Lyonel said. “However, the finer details are a mystery to me.”

Murmurs of agreement were spoken by the other men at this.

“On your instruction, all the witnesses were confined to their rooms, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold spoke from behind the king. While the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had a seat on the Small Council, Ser Harrold had never taken his up, preferring to remain a stalwart protector at the king’s back. “That has likely done much to prevent rumour from spreading through the keep.”

“Good, good,” the king said. “Gods know this is enough of a mess without hearsay being passed from one courtier to another.”

If there was one thing the court of King’s Landing could be relied on to do, it was gossip.

“Rhaenyra,” the king called upon his daughter, “if you could share your account of what happened between yourself and Ser Otto, I believe we would all find it enlightening.”

The princess straightened in her chair and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “Lord Lyman and I were walking from the keep’s courtyard to this chamber when Ser Otto confronted me in the entrance hall,” she said clearly and with no emotion in her voice. “He blamed me for the loss of his position as Hand. Words were exchanged and Ser Otto said that the lords would never accept me as queen. That there would be war over the throne and I would kill Aemon and any other brothers I had.”

Next to him, Lyman heard a sharp intake of breath from the Grand Maester. It was a weighty statement, to accuse the princess of one day being a kinslayer.

“I lost my temper and insulted him in kind,” she continued. “It was then that he called me a ‘deviant whore’ and lunged towards me.”

That final exclamation from Ser Otto still rankled Lyman. The protracted confrontation in the king’s chambers that morning had conclusively proved the princess could not have bedded her uncle. And while House Targaryen did practice some queer marriage customs compared to the rest of the realm, that would not have made Princess Rhaenyra a deviant.

“Do you believe Ser Otto meant to strike you?” Lord Lyonel asked.

She thought about it for a few seconds before shrugging her shoulders. “I am honestly not sure. I think he was reaching for me, maybe to grab me, but then I got distracted by Lord Lyman being knocked over. By the time I looked back, Ser Criston was already on Ser Otto.”

“Ser Criston reported that he saw Ser Otto moving towards the princess and reacted on instinct,” Ser Harrold said, glancing to a sheet of parchment he held. “Lord Manning and Ser Quincy Wayn thought that Ser Otto meant to hit the princess. Lady Manning, Lady Farring and Ser Jasper Staedmon thought he meant to grab her. Ser Jarman Gaunt thought he was gesturing with his arm for emphasis. The other witnesses could not say.”

The king’s gaze moved to Lyman himself then.

“I am unsure what Ser Otto intended, Your Grace,” he said. “I moved to intervene when he started advancing on the princess but Ser Criston pushed past me from behind before I got very far.”

King Viserys nodded slowly in contemplation before turning back to his daughter. “And then?” he prompted.

“Ser Otto was on the ground in one or two hits,” she said. “I assumed Ser Criston would stop when it was clear Ser Otto was no longer a threat but he just kept punching him.” The princess’s voice sounded distant and her eyes were out of focus. “I was too shocked to intervene at first but then I yelled for Ser Criston to stop. He did not. I am not even sure if he heard me at all. He seemed lost in some sort of madness. Then I tried to push him off Ser Otto instead.”

“Which is when he hit you?” the king asked.

She nodded. “It was just the once and not a very solid hit but I think the edge of his vambrace must have caught me,” she said, gesturing at the cut through her eyebrow. “Though it seemed to snap Ser Criston out of whatever haze had come over his mind. He had stopped hitting Ser Otto by the time I found my balance again. I thought it best to grab his arm to be on the safe side but it was too late for Ser Otto by then anyway.”

The king closed his eyes for a few moments, perhaps contemplating the fate that had befallen the man that had been his friend for decades. “Why did nobody else witnessing this intervene?” he asked Ser Harrold tiredly.

“Ser Criston is a kingsguard, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold replied. “They say they did not wish to meddle with matters of the crown. Until Princess Rhaenyra called out for Ser Criston to stop, those there assumed he was acting with her approval. By the time they realised otherwise, it was over.”

“I removed Ser Criston’s cloak and used it to cover the body,” the princess said. “Which was lucky because that is when Alicent descended the staircase.”

Lyman could remember the look of confusion on the queen’s face at the scene transforming into one of horror as blood began to soak through the white cloak.

“I ordered Ser Steffon to escort Ser Criston to the dungeons and took the queen back to her chambers to inform her of her father’s death in private,” she continued. “Everybody else was to remain in the entrance hall until the king had been summoned.”

It has been Lyman himself who informed the king and Ser Harrold of what had happened when they arrived. King Viserys was disbelieving at first and insisted on removing the white cloak to see Ser Otto for himself. At the grisly sight, his face had turned white and Lyman had half expected him to lose his luncheon.

“What exactly has Ser Criston said about all this?” Lord Lyonel asked. “Can he provide any further insights into his actions?”

“He is not sorry for killing Ser Otto,” Ser Harrold said. “Apparently, Ser Criston has long been aware that Ser Otto sought to advance his grandson’s claim to the throne over the princess’s. Ser Criston regarded him as little more than a traitor, even before the events of today.”

It was a bold opinion for the knight to possess. The Kingsguard was meant to be neutral to the politics of the court, devoted solely to the protection of the royal family.

“Ser Criston has been rather … intense this last half year,” the princess added. “He took my encounter with the white hart to mean that the gods wish to see me on the Iron Throne.”

Lyman himself had witnessed how devoted Ser Criston was to her as of late. It was rare that they met without the kingsguard trailing in the princess’s wake.

“While Ser Criston is not sorry for killing Ser Otto, he is most distraught over striking Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Harrold said, a note of contempt in his voice at his sworn brother’s actions. “He knows he has broken his oath and soiled his white cloak. Ser Criston is prepared to accept whatever punishment is deemed appropriate.”

“Even ignoring what happened to Ser Otto, striking the crown princess is treasonous in and of itself,” Lord Lyonel said. “Especially for a kingsguard.”

“Before we discuss what is to be done with Ser Criston, I did have a question if you do not mind, Your Grace?” Ser Tyland asked.

King Viserys nodded him on.

“The events of today have moved quickly and I find myself at something of a loss. Why exactly was Ser Otto removed from his position of Hand in the first place?”

The king was silent for a couple of seconds, seemingly searching for the right words to sum up the farce which had taken place that morning. “Otto made a treasonous accusation against my daughter,” he finally said. “An accusation that was proved false by the testimony of several witnesses.”

“Surely such an accusation should have been brought before this council so we could ascertain its veracity for ourselves,” Ser Tyland replied. “What was this accusation?”

The Grand Maester shifted awkwardly in his seat next to Lyman. While he had not heard enough to be aware of Prince Daemon’s involvement, Alester’s ill-timed entrance into the king’s chambers meant he knew Ser Otto had questioned Princess Rhaenyra’s maidenhood.

The king straightened. “A treasonous accusation which any further talk of will cause the speaker to lose their tongue,” he said decisively, making eye contact one by one with the men sitting around the table, several of who had witnessed at least part of the confrontation that morning.

While Lyman was pleased that King Viserys was now prepared to act strongly to defend his daughter’s reputation, he wished that same resolve had been present when Ser Otto first uttered his falsehoods. From the unmoved expression on the princess’s face, she likely felt the same.

Ser Tyland seemed to be appropriately cowed by the king’s threat as he did not press further over Ser Otto’s lies.

“For too long I ignored Otto’s blatant ambitions for Aemon,” the king continued, “but after this morning I could ignore them no more. He no longer had the best interests of the realm at heart so I removed him from his position and he was to leave for Oldtown with his household within the week.”

It was a far softer punishment than Ser Otto had deserved but, well, that hardly mattered now.

King Viserys looked around the table, presumably waiting to see if any of them had any further questions about Ser Otto’s removal as Hand. However, none did. Ser Otto’s conflict of interest had been clear for months, if not years.

“If that is all regarding Ser Otto, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold said, “might we return to the matter of Ser Criston?”

The king nodded in reply before pausing to contemplate the matter for a few moments. “What is your opinion, Rhaenyra?” he asked. “Ser Criston is your kingsguard and it is your defence he acted in.”

Princess Rhaenyra opened her mouth to reply but before she could, the doors of the Small Council chamber opened.

“Her Grace, Queen Alicent,” Ser Steffon announced as the queen swept into the room.

Rising to his feet along with the other members of the Small Council, Lyman saw that the queen had changed out of the dress she had been wearing earlier that day. She had now donned a samite gown of deepest black. While the dress at first seemed unadorned, the flickering candlelight revealed small black jewels beaded around the bodice. Gloves hid the queen’s hands from view and the only piece of jewellery she wore was a necklace with the seven-pointed star of the Faith.

There were no tears on Queen Alicent’s face but Lyman thought her eyes looked redder than usual.

“Alicent.” The king looked surprised by his wife’s presence in the Small Council chamber. “I thought you would be abed by now. You had a most trying day.”

“I wished to be here, Your Grace,” she replied. “My father has been killed and I will not be excluded from discussion of what is to happen to his killer.”

King Viserys looked between his councillors uncertainly but none of them reacted – apart from Princess Rhaenyra who gave a nod of her head. It was, after all, the king’s decision who sat in on Small Council meetings.

“Very well then,” he finally replied as he indicated to one of the attendants for another chair to be placed next to Princess Rhaenyra’s.

As the queen sat down, the rest of the table joined her in retaking their seats. Lyman saw the princess reach over and give Queen Alicent’s hand a quick squeeze before withdrawing.

“What had been said before I entered, Your Grace?” the queen asked primly.

“Not a lot, Alicent,” the king replied. “We have mainly been discussing the events that led up to Otto’s confrontation with Rhaenyra and the confrontation itself.”

“In that case, I believe I can add some insight as to why my father was angry enough to confront the princess publicly,” she said. “He came to see me this afternoon and impressed upon me that Rhaenyra would have to put my children to the sword to secure her position as queen. My father said I either had to prepare Aemon to rule or cleave to her.”

There were shocked mutterings around the table at this. It was one thing for Ser Otto to try and advance his grandson’s claim; it was quite another for him to advise the queen to repudiate the king’s chosen heir.

“I told him I did not believe Rhaenyra capable of such evil and that I would gladly cleave to her mercy,” the queen continued. “My father did not react well and stormed out when we had finished speaking.”

The king rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Why did you not bring this matter to me?” he asked. “I would have had Otto arrested.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Ser Steffon spoke from behind the queen, “Queen Alicent was most shaken following her argument with her father. Once she had gathered herself, we went looking for Princess Rhaenyra which was when …” he trailed off.

When they came upon the scene in the entrance hall. With being banished from court and the queen refusing to push Prince Aemon’s claim in his stead, it was no wonder Ser Otto had grown so wroth. All his dreams of seeing his grandson on the Iron Throne were going up in smoke.

Lyman felt a sharper stab of pain go through his head and winced, automatically closing his eyes against what little light was in the room. When he re-opened them, Princess Rhaenyra was watching him concernedly. He forced a small smile onto his face to reassure her but did not think it had much effect.

“So Ser Otto was guilty of treason,” the Grand Maester said. “That does rather cast Ser Criston’s actions in a different light.”

Queen Alicent frowned at this. “Whether he committed treason or not has no bearing on Ser Criston’s actions,” she said. “My father should have answered for his words in a trial before the king. Instead, he was savagely beaten to death in a lawless attack.”

“The queen speaks true, Your Grace,” Lord Lyonel added. “By the laws of the land, Ser Otto should have faced a trial. An opportunity to defend himself that he was denied.”

There was little that could be said in the defence of treason but due process needed to be followed. Especially with the good-father of the king and the brother of the Lord of Oldtown.

“Then what are we to do with Ser Criston?” the king asked the table.

Ser Harrold spoke first. “He has broken his Kingsguard vows several times over, Your Grace. Ser Criston ignored the princess’s command to cease his attack on Ser Otto and struck her across the face. Under King Jaehaerys, there were only two options given to kingsguards who forswore their oaths: death or the Wall.”

“I would still have him answer for what he did to my father,” the queen replied. “Not just the breaking of his vows.”

“It may be prudent to simply offer Ser Criston his choice of death or the Wall and have done with this whole mess,” Ser Tyland said. “There is no point muddying the waters by bringing Ser Otto and his treasons into it. The outcome would be the same anyway.”

“No,” Princess Rhaenyra said decisively. “If we quietly execute Ser Criston or bundle him off to the Wall, it looks as though we have something to hide. He will need to answer in front of the court for killing Ser Otto.”

There were looks of confusion on the faces of the Grand Maester and the king but the others around the table looked like they caught her meaning.

“I do not understand, Rhaenyra,” the king said. “What could we be trying to hide over this?”

She let out a noise of exasperation. “Father, Ser Otto was my greatest enemy at court and now he is dead at the hands of my kingsguard. It looks as though I ordered his death! Come morning, half the court will probably suspect the same.”

King Viserys regarded his daughter disbelievingly. “Even if some people did think you capable of such a thing, what would have been the point? Ser Otto had already been removed as Hand and banished to Oldtown.”

“He could have had others at court push Aemon’s claim in his stead,” the princess argued. “Ser Otto was too close to the crown to give up now. Even back in Oldtown, he would have been a threat to me. A threat that is now conveniently no more.”

“I agree with Princess Rhaenyra, Your Grace,” Lord Lyonel added. “An open trial of Ser Criston before the court should help to put any unsavoury rumours to rest.”

King Viserys still looked incredulous that anyone could believe his daughter had ordered Ser Otto’s death but nobody else spoke out against this possible interpretation of events. Lyman himself knew the princess would never have done such a thing but he could not argue with how much it had worked out in her favour.

“Very well, a trial for Ser Criston for unjustly killing Otto,” the king said before turning to his wife. “Should we summon Lord Hobert to court for it? Otto was his brother and as the head of House Hightower, he has a right to be there.”

“No,” the queen quickly answered. “It would take Uncle Hobert weeks to even arrive and rumour would spread across the realm in the meantime. Also, he would just make the situation worse.”

“Lord Hightower may be displeased about missing the trial of his brother’s killer,” the Grand Master cautioned.

“He shall bear it. As queen, my authority exceeds his and I wish the trial to be held as soon as possible. A few days should be plenty long enough for you to perform the necessary investigations.” This last was directed at Ser Harrold.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold said.”If I might be given leave from my normal duties?” he asked the king.

King Viserys nodded in response, seemingly happy for his wife to take command of the proceedings.

“I would also ask that my father be given a funeral in the Grand Sept, with all the honours due for his long service to the crown,” Queen Alicent said, a barely perceptible quiver in her voice.

Lyman felt his eyebrows rise at this. It was a bold request given Ser Otto’s actions.

“Alicent,” the king said cautiously, “you have admitted that Otto was encouraging treason. I am unsure how appropriate such a funeral would be given the circumstances.”

“My father’s actions are known only to those in this room,” she argued. “To the rest of the court, he served the crown ably for two decades. People will expect his passing to be marked.”

The king cast his eyes about the room, silently inviting the rest of the Small Council to share their opinions. Every hesitation only highlighted how much he had depended on his now-departed Hand.

“With the accusation unproved, declaring Ser Otto a traitor in death would only serve to anger his allies and House Hightower,” Lord Lyonel said. “The news that the Hand of the King was committing treason would also create instability. I advise we keep his actions to ourselves and give the people the funeral they would expect for his long years of service.”

“You are suggesting we cover up Otto’s plots?” King Viserys asked.

“Lord Lyonel is right,” the princess said. “This infighting makes the crown look weak. All we need say is that Ser Otto was removed as Hand due to his relationship with Aemon being a conflict of interest and that is why he confronted me. There is no need to bring allegations of treason into it.”

While Lyman could see the logic in what Lord Lyonel and Princess Rhaenyra were saying, the part of him that clung to honesty and forthrightness recoiled from concealing the lord Hand’s crimes. However, he could understand the queen having no desire to see her father branded a traitor, especially since the treason had been in her son’s name. With these two impulses battling inside him and his headache mounting the longer the meeting went on, Lyman decided to remain silent.

“It may also serve to mollify Lord Hightower, that his brother is being honoured in death,” the Grand Maester added.

“Very well,” the king conceded. “I presume you will wish to handle the funeral arrangements yourself, Alicent?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied.

“Then you have my leave to give Otto a funeral deserving of his long years of service.”

Queen Alicent nodded in response.

“If that is all then,” King Viserys said, “it has been a long day and I think we could all do with retiring for the night.”

There were murmurs of agreement as everyone started gathering their things. Lyman quickly walked around the table to join the princess and the queen.

“Your Grace,” he began, addressing Queen Alicent, “you have my deepest condolences for your loss. Ser Otto and I did not see eye to eye in recent years but we served together on this council for over a decade and a half. None can dispute that he held the realm together through King Jaehaerys’s failing health and King Viserys’s ascension to the throne.”

For all that Ser Otto had fallen prey to his own ambitions, he had served the realm faithfully for many years. Would that it had left him satisfied.

The queen looked touched by his words. “Thank you, Lord Lyman,” she replied. “I will try and hold onto the memory of the man that he was, rather than the man his desires for Aemon turned him into.”

Lyman then exchanged a nod with Princess Rhaenyra before excusing himself. It was far past time that this nightmarish day came to an end.

After a good night’s sleep, Lyman felt refreshed on the morrow but still had a slight headache. He broke his fast late while having a long conversation with Rosamund over what had transpired the day before.

At the Grand Maester’s urging, he was to take a few days off from his duties to give himself time to recover from his head injury. Thus, with nothing more pressing to do, the late morning found him sitting in front of the fireplace in his chambers doing a bit of light reading.

He was just about to doze off when there was a knock at the door and the announcement of Princess Rhaenyra asking to see him. Rising to his feet and straightening his clothes, Lyman bid her entry.

The princess looked almost guilty as she entered his chambers, her gaze downcast. “I am sorry to disturb you, Lyman,” she greeted. Her eyes then moved to his forehead, where he knew there was now a vivid bruise. “How is your head?”

“Better,” he replied. “The wonders of a good night’s sleep. Your own, princess?”

“Oh.” Princess Rhaenyra’s hand moved to prod the stitches through her eyebrow as though she had forgotten they were there.

“Stop that,” Lyman chided. “You will reopen the wound.”

Looking chastened, her hand moved back down to her side. “Sorry,” she said. “It is fine, as long as I do not frown. Then I can feel the stitches pull.”

“Well then, we shall just have to make sure you stay in good humour,” he joked.

The princess let out a laugh before her expression once again became serious. “Seven hells,” she said, lowering herself to sit on the settee, “what happened yesterday? I almost thought it was all a peculiar dream upon waking today.”

“Indeed,” he replied, joining her. “Prince Daemon managed to set in motion an unfortunate sequence of events.”

“I am going to throttle my uncle the next time I see him,” she said vehemently. “Telling my father I bedded him in a brothel and then asking for my hand? He could have destroyed everything I have worked for.”

With the king so quick to believe Prince Daemon and Ser Otto’s accounts of events, it was lucky that several witnesses could be brought forth to prove the princess’s innocence.

“Do you think Ser Otto was right?” he asked. “That your uncle acted as he did because he covets the throne?”

She shrugged her shoulders in response. “Who can tell with Daemon. I am not even sure if he had a plan or if he was just acting on impulse. He said the other day in the godswood that I had matured in his time away so who knows.”

Lyman had spent decades with the royal family at court but it still made him uncomfortable to speak plainly of a man desiring his niece. Even back before she became heir, Prince Daemon’s eyes had heatedly followed Princess Rhaenyra during the few Small Council meetings he attended.

“Have you seen the queen at all today?” he enquired.

“Yes. She and Gwayne are spending time with Aemon and Helaena at present. I think Alicent is trying to keep busy.”

Ser Gwayne, who apparently had members of the City Watch reporting to him on the princess’s movements.

“Have you given any thought to Ser Gwayne, princess? It sounded yesterday as though he may have been spying on you for his father.”

She frowned before letting out a small hiss of pain and smoothing out her expression. “I was reminded when I saw Gwayne but I do not wish to bring it up to Alicent at the moment. Maybe later, when things have quietened down. Her brother is the only member of her birth house she has left in the city. I do not want her to lose him now.”

Abusing his position in the City Watch to report on the movements of the crown princess could result in Ser Gwayne losing his position as a serjeant, if he was not expelled from the city entirely. Having such befall her youngest brother was the last thing the queen needed after the death of their father.

“I know the queen has been at odds with her father over Prince Aemon but this must have been quite the blow to her nonetheless,” Lyman said.

Princess Rhaenyra nodded. “Alicent hoped Ser Otto would eventually accept my position as heir and cease his plots. Optimistic perhaps but she has taken his death hard, despite their disagreements.” A contemplative look came over her face. “I suppose that is the way of it with fathers. As much as you can grow to hate them, there is that last bit of love which lingers.”

He did not think the princess was talking about Ser Otto and Queen Alicent anymore.

“I can barely wrap my head around it in truth,” she continued. “Ser Otto dead. For as long as I can remember, he has been with us here at court. I have a doll somewhere he gifted me for my fifth name day. I gave him a hug when his wife died.”

Given how much Ser Otto had ingratiated himself with the royal family – and the long-standing friendship between the princess and the queen – he would have been a constant presence during Princess Rhaenyra’s formative years.

“I feel the same,” Lyman replied. “I have known Ser Otto since he was a boy and it is bizarre to think that he is now gone.”

“I cannot imagine him as a child. What was he like then?”

“Rather dour in truth,” he said, thinking back to the serious child he had met at various functions around Oldtown. “Even then he was not quick to smile or laugh.”

The princess grinned at this. “That sounds about right.” Her expression grew more serious then. “I am unsure how I feel about his death,” she confessed. “I did not wish harm on Ser Otto, for Alicent’s sake if nothing else, but I cannot deny it is a relief to know that his infernal plots and meddling are finally at an end.”

“There is no shame in that,” Lyman replied. “His ambition to see Prince Aemon on the throne had developed into treason and he was placing your whole family in danger.”

“Even so,” she said, “Ser Otto was the only grandparent my siblings had left. Well, the only one by blood at least, Beebs. I do feel a bit guilty.”

Lyman decided to ignore this mention of the nickname that Prince Aemon has bestowed upon him but felt his heart warm at the princess’s implication.

“You have no reason to feel guilt,” he replied, reaching over to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Ser Otto’s death is the fault of no one but himself and Ser Criston.”

Princess Rhaenyra was silent for a few moments before speaking. “I froze.”

He waited to see if she would say anything more but she did not. “What do you mean you froze?” he asked.

“When Ser Criston started hitting Ser Otto, I froze,” she replied. “I wanted him to stop but it was like all my limbs had locked in place. I could not move, could not speak. If I had intervened sooner—”

“If you had intervened sooner, by the laws of the land Ser Otto should have been executed,” Lyman interrupted. “He had already damned himself with his words to you and the queen.”

“Yes but now I must throw Ser Criston to the wolves to preserve my reputation,” the princess argued. “Until yesterday he served me faithfully for over three years and I will abandon him to remove the taint of Ser Otto’s death. What does that say about me?”

“Ser Criston’s actions were his own, princess,” Lyman rebutted. “He did not cease his attack on Ser Otto when you commanded it and he struck you in his rage. It was Ser Criston who put himself in this position, not you. He may have been a shield at your back these last several years but he has forfeited the right to your protection.”

He could understand where her guilt was coming from but would not allow it to fester in her. Ser Criston had proved himself undeserving of the honour the princess had bestowed upon him.

“It was me though that chose Ser Criston as my kingsguard,” she said sadly. “Do I not bear some responsibility for him?”

“Not when he broke faith with you first,” Lyman said. The princess did not look convinced so he changed tack. “Would you want Ser Criston as a member of the Kingsguard after this?”

It did not take long for her to think it over. “No,” she said. “After seeing what he is capable of, I do not want him near Aemon or Helaena. And Alicent should not have to face her father’s killer every day.”

“Well then, the only two ways out of the Kingsgaurd are death or the Wall. You do not have much option in that case.”

Princess Rhaenyra still looked unhappy. “It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Ser Criston is in a state about this. He is not particularly guilty about killing Ser Otto but cannot stand that he hurt me. He said that he had soiled his white cloak and honour.” She paused for several seconds. “He even asked me for a blade so that he might end his own suffering.”

Gods above. “You went to see him then?” Lyman asked, withdrawing his hand from her shoulder with one last comforting squeeze.

She nodded. “I thought I owed him that much at least. And I think I have talked him out of doing anything stupid, like asking for a trial by combat and purposefully losing.”

A trial by combat would have been an ugly thing. Either the crown would have been represented by a kingsguard of its own, pitting brother against brother, or Ser Gwayne would have put himself forward. Even on his very best day, Ser Otto’s youngest son would have had no hope of beating Ser Criston in a true contest.

“I tried to convince him that his best option would be to ask for the Wall,” she continued. “That he might regain his honour there. We shall see if he takes my advice.”

Hopefully, Ser Criston would. His only other option would likely be a swift trip to the executioner’s block.

Princess Rhaenyra’s gaze then turned out the window, towards the position of the sun. “I need to go. I am meeting Archsepton Warrick soon with Alicent to organise Ser Otto’s funeral.”

She rose to her feet, waving him back down when he moved to do the same. “I hope you feel better. See you later.” With a quick kiss to Lyman’s cheek, the princess departed his rooms.

Chapter Text

Ser Otto’s funeral occurred several days after his death. His body – after it had been prepared by the silent sisters – was brought to the front of the Grand Sept where it would remain for seven days.

For all that the silent sisters were diligent in their work, there was little that could be done about the damage to Ser Otto’s face. Eventually, the queen made the decision that her father would be displayed in a full suit of armour, with a great helm obscuring his entire head. Luckily, Ser Otto and his youngest son had been roughly of a height, and the former had never fallen prey to the indulgences that would have caused his waist to thicken with age. Therefore Ser Gwayne’s armour was suitable for the occasion. While Ser Otto had been a knight, Lyman still found the sight bizarre, incongruous with the man who wielded words more effectively than any blade.

As both a member of the Small Council and a vassal of House Hightower, he found himself at the front of the sept, across the aisle from the royal family. The foremost pew was only occupied by King Viserys, Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra – with Ser Gwayne sitting off to one side – as it was decided that Prince Aemon and Princess Helaena were too young for the occasion. That was probably for the best; Prince Aemon had recently entered a phase of pretending to be a dragon and was prone to sudden roaring and trying to bite people unfamiliar to him. Consequently, the queen had banned Princess Rhaenyra from taking her little brother to the Dragonpit for at least a month.

Queen Alicent seemed to be the very picture of decorum, facing her father’s funeral with a stiff lip. However, from where he was sitting, Lyman could see her knuckles were white where she clung to the princess’s hand.

Archsepton Warrick conducted the service from the pulpit before the packed sept. The whole court was in attendance along with several noble houses that lived in the vicinity of King’s Landing. As the archsepton talked about a life lived in service to the realm, Lyman could not help but wonder how many in the audience had regarded Ser Otto as an actual friend.

As the official service ended, Lyman followed the royal family up to light a candle at the altar of the Stranger. Kneeling before the blank-faced statue, he prayed that Ser Otto had found the contentment that he never reached in life. That he was reunited with his wife. That he was not but the first casualty as they secured Princess Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne.

Ser Criston’s trial was not a drawn-out affair. Hosted in the throne room, the king presided over the court with Blackfyre at his waist. Once Septon Eustace had blessed the proceedings and called on the Father to see justice done, the witnesses were called on one by one.

In accordance with her rank, it was Princess Rhaenyra who spoke first. Standing confidently before the throne, she recounted how Ser Otto had confronted her after losing his position as Hand. How he made a move towards her before Ser Criston intervened. How her sworn shield continued attacking Ser Otto long after any threat he presented was neutralised. How Ser Criston ignored her order to stop and only ceased his violence when he accidentally struck the princess herself.

As Lyman had not witnessed the attack due to being knocked over, the king did not call on him but instead turned his attention to the near-dozen others that were in the entrance hall at the time. One after another, they presented their accounts of what happened, matching what Princess Rhaenyra had already said. Even those that were knights spoke of their shock at the brutality of Ser Criston’s actions.

Once all the witnesses had spoken, the king called on Ser Criston to offer what defence he could. Ser Criston admitted that a black haze came over his mind when Ser Otto insulted Princess Rhaenyra. That he acted on instinct when Ser Otto moved towards her. When probed on whether he still considered Ser Otto to be a threat when the latter was lying insensate on the ground, Ser Criston could only answer that he was lost in his own rage.

King Viserys rendered his judgement shortly after. The Kingsguard was there to protect the royal family, not mete out summary justice on its behalf. Ser Criston had been right to prevent Ser Otto from reaching Princess Rhaenyra but should have ceased hitting him when it was clear he was no longer a threat. Ser Otto had been denied the opportunity that Ser Criston was now getting: the right to defend himself before the king in a trial.

Ser Criston was found to have unlawfully killed Ser Otto and to have sullied his white cloak in the process.

In recognition of his several years of loyally serving Princess Rhaenyra – and of defending the realm from incursions by the Dornish in the years prior – the king offered him the option of the Wall or he would face execution. With a glance at the princess, Ser Criston chose the Wall. And so her former sworn shield was to head north, his white cloak exchanged for a black one.

Princess Rhaenyra came to Lyman’s office a little over a week later. Well-set in their routine, he put his work aside for the moment and summoned a pot of tea.

“Has the queen settled herself since this morning?” he enquired.

Earlier that day, the court had gathered to see off Ser Otto’s remains. Seven silent sisters would accompany his bones on their long journey back to Oldtown, joined by Ser Gwayne and Ser Otto’s own household.

The princess nodded in response. “We visited Aemon and Helaena after which seemed to calm her some,” she said. “Then Alicent went to do some more research into Lord Stark’s worries over this harvest.”

With Ser Otto removed from his position so abruptly, he had left several tasks and projects unfinished. Having appropriate time to spare, these duties had been taken up by the queen and princess until the king named a new Hand.

“Is Lord Stark truly so concerned over his grain levels?” Lyman asked, vaguely familiar with the issue.

“Yes. The war in the Stepstones disrupted the North’s ability to procure food by trade so their winter stores are not as high as usual.”

He cast his mind back to the last time the Small Council discussed the coming winter. “If I remember correctly, Grand Maester Alester said the Citadel does not expect winter for at least another year. Does Lord Stark not have enough time to resolve the issue?”

Princess Rhaenyra let out a chuckle. “Lord Stark wrote that this has been caused by the crown dallying over the Stepstones for too long,” she replied. “And that if we expect the North to continue paying its taxes, we will provide assistance.”

Lyman felt himself blanch at this. Due to the fact that much of the North was eking out a subsistence living, the taxes gathered from that kingdom were barely comparable to say the Westerlands or the Reach. However, their loss would still be a blow to the crown’s coffers, especially those gathered from the city of White Harbour.

“Well, Lord Stark is certainly blunt,” he choked out, mind whirring as he fought the urge to immediately review his ledgers pertaining to the North.

The princess looked unperturbed in the face of his mounting stress, although he had realised over the years that she did not have much of a head for figures.

“Honestly, his bluntness is refreshing,” she said. “It is a nice change from some other lords where there are pages of flowery compliments before they get to the point. You should see the last letter we received from Lord Jason Lannister, it took him about fifteen pages before he got to the reason he was writing!”

The king wished to host a tourney and a large feast to celebrate the princess’s nineteenth name day but they could cut down those festivities. The scheduled repairs to the kingsroad would need to be postponed. And they might need to look over the budget allocated to the queen and princess’s charity projects.

Princess Rhaenyra’s fingers suddenly snapped in front of his face, pulling him from his thoughts. “Lyman, relax,” she said calmly. “I am sure there will be no need for Lord Stark to follow through with his threat. Alicent plans to get in touch with some of the houses in the Reach and see what grain they might spare. Then the Redwyne’s fleet would be able to ship it to White Harbour now that the Stepstones are secured.”

Lyman let out a harrumph at this. “I am still sure the Redwynes are falsifying their taxes,” he grumbled. “I doubt they will be eager to inconvenience themselves for the good of the realm.”

She perked up in her seat. “Alicent could maybe use that to her advantage. Tell the Redwynes we will ignore any past … discrepancies if they sail grain to White Harbour and get their books in order going forward.”

He did not like the idea of letting the Redwynes get away with withholding coin that should rightfully have come to the crown. However, if the alternative was the North withholdings its taxes, he could acknowledge it was the lesser of two evils.

“Very well,” he grudgingly assented. “I was never able to prove any wrongdoing anyway. As long as they pay their taxes correctly going forward, I am prepared overlook it.”

“Thank you!” the princess said, grinning. “I will let Alicent know. She is quite looking forward to getting in touch with Lord Redwyne. It has been some time since she has had any contact with her mother’s birth house.”

Of course. Ser Otto’s wife had originally been Lady Melara Redwyne. If Lyman remembered correctly, she had been the cousin of the current Lord of the Arbor.

“It would perhaps do the queen some good to have closer ties with her relatives,” he said. From what he had seen around court, he was unsure if Queen Alicent had many friends beyond the princess, himself and Rosamund. “She does not seem to have a wide circle at present.” He made a mental note to invite the queen to dinner with him and his wife sometime that week.

Princess Rhaenyra nodded solemnly in agreement. “There have never been many people that Alicent is close with. Although she has been visiting the gardens with Larys recently. They share an interest in flowers.”

Lyman made a vague noise of interest. He was not altogether familiar with Larys Strong, even though the man worked under him as Warden of the King’s Mint. However, he had gotten the impression that Larys was rather reclusive. A friendship between him and the queen may bring them both out of their shells.

“Speaking of new relationships, princess,” he began, “how have you been getting on with Ser Lorent?”

She glanced at his closed office door, outside of which her new kingsguard undoubtedly lingered. “I have no complaints thus far. Ser Lorent has been most diligent in performing his duties as my sworn shield.” The princess paused for a couple of seconds. “It might be terrible to say, given everything, but it is a relief to be out from Ser Criston’s scrutiny. I never realised before how much he watched me. Not that Ser Lorent is not vigilant in his duties,” she hastened to add. “It is just his regard feels less weighty.”

Lyman understood what she meant. There had been an intensity to the way Ser Criston performed his duties that had, at times, bordered on unsettling.

“The timing of all this is unfortunate,” she continued. “I am not sure if you have heard but Ser Clement has sickened. The Grand Maester does not expect him to recover so the Kingsguard effectively has five knights at present.”

Ser Clement had served for several decades under King Jaehaerys before his grandson took the throne so it was unsurprising he was now reaching the end of his life.

“Has the king given any indication when he might replace Ser Criston?” he asked.

“Not at the moment. Once a respectful amount of time has passed, appointing a new Hand of the King will be the priority.”

“Any news on that particular appointment?” He knew from Rosamund that the recentness of Ser Otto’s death had not stopped the court conjecturing on who his replacement might be.

“My father lacks imagination so I doubt it will be anyone unexpected,” Princess Rhaenyra replied with a wry smile. “Honestly, I will be surprised if he does not pick Lord Lyonel.”

“It would be a good choice,” he said. The realm could do much worse for a Hand than the current Master of Laws. From what Lyman had observed, Lord Lyonel always endeavoured to give the king advice that would best serve the crown.

She nodded in agreement. “It would be a nice change to have a Hand that does not actively oppose my position as heir. I swear Ser Otto disagreed with everything I said on principle.”

He tried to recall if Ser Otto had sided with the princess on any matter that had been brought before the Small Council but found himself stumped. Ironically, the only time Ser Otto had ever supported her may have been when he wanted her to be named heir over Prince Daemon in the first place.

They exchanged idle conversation for a while longer before Princess Rhaenyra put down her now-empty cup of tea. “I have been trying to discuss this with you for some time but events kept overtaking us,” she said. “How hard would it impact the crown’s coffers if the Faith stopped paying its taxes for about five or ten years?”

Lyman let out a puff of air before getting up and moving to one of the shelves that lined the room. Running his finger along the spines, he pulled out the relevant ledger, a seven-pointed star embossed on the cover. Returning to his desk, he began flicking through the pages of neatly arranged figures.

“As you know, the Faith was exempt from taxes before King Jaehaerys took the throne,” he began. “To avoid inciting further unrest, the taxes introduced were never that substantial, proportionally far less than what a lord would pay. However, the Faith has significant holdings throughout the realm and generates coin through running wineries and the like.”

He found the relevant page and turned it to the show the princess. “That is how much the Faith paid in taxes last year,” Lyman said, tapping the corresponding figure.

Her eyes widened in shock and she let out a low whistle. “Seven hells, over eighty thousand golden dragons?”

“It is a considerable sum,” he replied. “What exactly are you planning?”

“You said before that many lords would be displeased if the king broke with Andal succession and introduced a law decreeing that firstborn, regardless of sex, would inherit the Iron Throne.”

Lyman made a noise of affirmation, remembering the conversation between them about a month ago over the possibility of King Viserys introducing such a law.

“Well, you set my mind churning,” Princess Rhaenyra replied. “King Jaehaerys’s marriage to Queen Alysanne, his sister, was only widely accepted due to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. That Targaryens do not have to follow the Faith’s laws against incest because we are from Valyria, which had different laws to those of Andalos where the Faith originated. That the gods made Targaryens different to other men. If that applies to marrying brother to sister, why can it not apply to laws of inheritance too?”

It clicked into place then where she was going with this.

“You wish to have the Doctrine of Exceptionalism expanded so it would support a law declaring that the ruler’s oldest child would inherit the crown?” Lyman asked. It was an audacious plan, to be sure. The original Doctrine of Exceptionalism was introduced at a time when the Faith was weak, with their militant branches freshly outlawed and a High Septon that was unwilling to risk the wrath of the dragons.

“Indeed. You said that many lords would disagree with the passing of such a law but if the Faith supports it, surely many of them would fall in line. Especially those that are devout.”

“Would the High Septon support updating the Doctrine of Exceptionalism? Traditionally, the Faith has always had close ties to House Hightower and this goes against its interests.” One of the High Septons during King Jaehaerys’s reign had even been the brother of the then Lord Hightower.

The princess leant forward in her chair. “This is where it gets interesting. While Alicent and I were in Oldtown to secure Rhea and Daemon’s annulment, we talked to the High Septon about the possibility of expanding the Doctrine of Exceptionalism.”

“Oh,” Lyman interrupted. “Is that why the two of you were gone so long?”

“Yes,” she replied, looking sheepish. “I would have told you but it seemed such a far-fetched plan, I was unsure if it would work.”

“But the High Septon was open to the idea?” They surely would not be having this conversation if he was not.

“He was more of a pragmatist than I expected and is open to a … mutually beneficial agreement,” she revealed. “After King Jaehaerys reconciled with the Faith, it grew used to having some influence at court. Septon Barth was my great-grandsire’s Hand for four decades and had been on the Small Council as an advisor before that. Much of the good attributed to his reign was actually Septon Barth’s work. Along with my great-grandmother, of course.”

Lyman himself had only served alongside Septon Barth for a few years before the latter passed away but he was both diligent and humble in performing his duties as Hand of the King.

“When Ser Otto was appointed as Hand, the Faith assumed that – as a Hightower of Oldtown – he would be interested in carrying on that tradition and aiding the Faith in improving the lives of the smallfolk,” the princess continued. “The archsepton of King’s Landing reached out several times with proposals but, as far as I can tell, Ser Otto never brought them before the Small Council.”

Thinking back, he too could not recall Ser Otto proposing any measures that would benefit the people of King’s Landing. They had been rather ignored through King Viserys’s reign until the princess and the queen began their charity work.

“So the High Septon was prepared to support you over Ser Otto because he thought you would do more to advance the Faith’s cause?” Lyman asked.

She nodded in response. “Archsepton Warrick has written to him praising the work Alicent and I are doing in King’s Landing and he heard about how I was ‘blessed’ by the appearance of the white hart. It is ironic, I do not even believe in the Seven! Not that I told him that,” she hastened to add.

Princess Rhaenyra’s lack of faith was a subject that had come up between them a few times over the years. The last time they discussed it, she said she did not particularly believe in any gods but felt more of an affinity for the pantheon of the Valyrians than the Seven. However, with the power and the influence of the Faith, she was cautioned by both him and the queen not to voice such thoughts beyond the three of them. Instead, the princess presented herself as a suitably pious maiden.

“But the High Septon wants something in return?” he asked, now seeing the true reason for her asking how detrimental it would be if the Faith withheld its taxes.

“As I said, he is a pragmatist,” she replied. “A break in the Faith paying its taxes for maybe five or ten years, we never quite agreed there. In addition, a member of the Most Devout being granted a position at court as a liaison.”

Lyman sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Those are no small asks, princess,” he said.

“Originally, he wished for a permanent position on the Small Council, similar to what the Citadel has with the Grand Maester. But Alicent and I were able to talk him down. I did not think it wise to give the Faith too much influence over matters of the realm.”

That was likely a wise decision. Such an arrangement would be fine as long as the will of the crown and the Faith were in concert but what if they disagreed? The Faith would be able to bring a great deal of pressure to bear.

“Is it feasible for our coffers?” the princess asked. “I did not wish to bring it up to the rest of the Small Council before consulting you first.”

He thought it over. The crown’s coffers had taken a hit as the war in the Stepstones continued, with less tax gathered from traded goods and port fees. While trade was now starting to recover, it had not reached the level it was at before the war began. Further, for all that it had been a short campaign and they had done no fighting, the men sent by the crown to secure the Vale had been a significant expense. What Lyman had hoped for was a period of relative stability to allow the crown’s coffers to return to levels he was more comfortable with. However, the long-term advantage of the Faith supporting a law that declared that firstborn, regardless of sex, inherited the throne was clear.

Overall, the amount the Faith paid in taxes was comparable to what House Velaryon paid before war broke out in the Stepstones. There had been a sharp decline since, attributed by the Velaryons to how much their trade was suffering. However, he thought they were capitalising on the king’s unwillingness to confront them after all the slights they had been dealt. If House Velaryon resumed paying what it rightfully owed …

“You should take the High Septon’s deal,” Lyman finally said. “The advantage is too great not to. Let me worry about losing the Faith’s taxes.” He was silent for a few moments. “Although, if you can, I would prefer a five-year tax break to a ten-year one.”

“Yes, well, the High Septon should be more amenable now that Ser Otto is dead. It is not as though he has much alternative to backing me.”

True enough. “But it would benefit me greatly if House Velaryon started paying its taxes in full again,” he said.

She leant back in her chair and closed her eyes in exasperation. “The king has caused a proper mess there.” After sitting quietly for some time, Princess Rhaenyra nodded to herself before opening her eyes. “I have put off contacting Laenor long enough. It is past time I see if we can reach an accord and marry.”

“I am not trying to push you into—”

“I know, Lyman,” she interrupted. “But the Velaryons need to be reconciled. This has gone on long enough. And I do need to marry.”

He could do naught but nod in response. The only other house in the realm with dragons had been at odds with the crown for too long.

“Do you think you can convince King Viserys to go along with all this?” he asked. That was the major factor in this scheme that they had not discussed.

The princess let out a mirthless chuckle. “After accusing me of bedding Daemon and how much losing Ser Otto has rattled him?” she said. “I am sure I could get him to agree to anything at the moment. I cannot see my father having an objection to a law declaring that the firstborn inherits the throne. And I think he will agree to the High Septon’s deal to expand the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, if you assuage any concerns over the coin involved.”

There should be no other resistance in that case. Ser Otto would have vehemently opposed such a law but he was no more and the rest of the Small Council had no reason to advise against it. Not that it would make much difference if the king had already agreed.

“In that case, princess,” Lyman said, “I will get my figures in order and await your bringing this up to the king.”

The matter was raised at a Small Council meeting two weeks later. By that point, Lyman and his fellow councillors had grown used to the queen’s presence and did not raise an eyebrow when she took her now-customary seat to the right of the princess.

It was King Viserys who made the announcement, declaring that the Iron Throne would henceforth pass to the eldest child of the ruler, regardless of sex. Lord Lyonel – who had been informed in advance – had the law already drafted and presented it to the king for him to sign. It was to be Lord Lyonel’s last act as Master of Laws before he assumed his new position as Hand of the King.

Ser Tyland and the Grand Maester were shocked by this formalisation of the succession, having not been consulted at all. However, any objections concerning the breaking of Andal tradition were silenced when Princess Rhaenyra triumphantly revealed the updated Doctrine of Exceptionalism, signed by the High Septon. It had taken her but a quick trip to Oldtown to secure, the king’s seal authorising any accord reached. In the end, it would be seven years of missed taxes from the Faith that Lyman had to account for. Given the divine significance of that particular number, he should have predicted the outcome.

With the updated Doctrine of Exceptionalism due to be preached across the realm, copies of the new law were being sent out to every city, town, keep and castle. With the Red Keep’s scribes working night and day and the rookery all but emptied, it did not take long for the news to spread.

He and Princess Rhaenyra met to have a drink together and toast their success. It was while they were perhaps overindulging on a strong vintage that a high-pitched roar sounded from outside.

“Seasmoke,” the princess said, jumping to her feet with a grin and moving to the window.

However, the high-pitched roar was then replaced by a deep, low rumble that Lyman could feel resonate in his chest.

Princess Rhaenyra, staring out across the city, began laughing. “She did it! Laena actually did it!”

Joining her, he looked out and moved his gaze skywards. A massive dragon lazily circled King’s Landing, casting large parts of the city into shadow. Around it, a silvery-grey dragon pirouetted, looking tiny by comparison.

“Is that … King Jaehaerys’s old dragon?” Lyman asked, squinting against the glare of the sun.

The princess shook her head. “Vhagar,” she said. “Ridden by Queen Visenya and my grandsire, Prince Baelon. And now by Laena.”

Vhagar. The largest dragon in the world. The last of the Conquerors’ dragons, which had helped form the realm. Now under the control of Lady Laena, giving House Velaryon three dragons against House Targaryen’s two. Lady Laena who, as far as Lyman was aware, had not received permission from the king before claiming that dragon. Lady Laena, whose father was in talks to marry her to the son of the Sealord of Braavos, potentially giving Essos access to such destructive power. Seven hells, how was King Viserys going to handle this?

Chapter Text

With the arrival of her cousins on dragonback, the princess ran off to find the queen and make sure Ser Laenor and Lady Laena were appropriately greeted at the Dragonpit. Although Lyman doubted Vhagar was capable of fitting inside the structure.

Word soon came that the senior members of court were being summoned by the king to welcome the young Velaryons back to the Red Keep. After Lyman joined the rest of the Small Council in the courtyard, it was not long before a wheelhouse rolled through the gates. Once it had come to a stop, an attendant rushed to open the door and formally announced Queen Alicent, Princess Rhaenyra and their newly arrived companions as they emerged one by one.

Lady Laena had not been at court since the princess’s sixteenth name day and Ser Laenor since Lord Velaryon’s household relocated back to Driftmark following news of the king’s betrothal. Both siblings had grown taller in that time and cut fine figures in their teal-blue dragonriding leathers.

The king was sincere enough in greeting his cousin’s children but Lyman saw Lord Lyonel and Ser Tyland exchange worried glances when he congratulated Lady Laena for claiming Vhagar.

Their party did not linger in the courtyard long, with the Velaryons retiring to freshen themselves up before a small feast. A ship had left Driftmark ahead of the dragonriders and soon knights and maids of House Velaryon arrived to ensure Lord Velaryon’s children were properly attended to.

At the feast that night, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor spent most of their time talking or dancing together. Despite no formal announcement of courting being made, it was not long before the court was gossiping about the true reason the unwed heir to Driftmark was visiting the Red Keep.

Over the following days, Lyman saw less than usual of the princess as she and Ser Laenor hunted, practised archery, walked in the gardens and went dragonriding together. Of course, they were chaperoned at all times by some combination of Lady Laena, Ser Lorent and Ser Laenor’s guard, Ser Joffrey. One day, Lyman even stumbled upon Queen Alicent, Princess Rhaenyra, the Velaryon siblings, and the little prince and princess all taking luncheon together in the godswood.

The next Small Council meeting was awkward, to say the least. After tiptoeing around the subject, Lord Lyonel eventually spoke what many in the room were thinking.

“Your Grace,” he said, “forgive the impertinence but what exactly are we going to do about Lady Laena Velaryon? We cannot risk this betrothal with the Sealord’s son occurring and the largest dragon in the realm falling under the control of Braavos.”

“The lord Hand speaks true,” the Grand Maester added. “It would make the crown look weak and massively increase the threat that Braavos presents to us. King Jaehaerys was prepared to burn the palace of one of the former Sealords to the ground on the mere whisper that he might have a dragon hatchling, let alone a full-grown one.”

The less said about Lady Elissa Farman stealing three inert dragon eggs and selling them to Braavos, the better.

The king glanced around the table with a frown on his face. “I do not see what I can do about this, my lords. I can hardly tell Corlys what he can and cannot do regarding his own daughter,” he finished with a chuckle.

Looking across the table at the expression on Princess Rhaenyra’s face, Lyman suspected she wished she could slap her father across the face.

“I know the histories of our house since the Conquest better than most, Your Grace,” she said. “None of my great-aunts were allowed to claim dragons because of the risk they might fall under the control of other houses through marriage. The Dragonkeepers were specifically ordered to block any attempts, both in the Dragonpit and on Dragonstone. Out of all King Jaehaerys’s daughters, only your mother was given leave to claim a dragon and that was after she wedded her brother.”

“Such an edict never applied to Laena,” King Viserys argued. “Gods above, she was given a dragon egg at birth!”

“I was at the Small Council meetings where it was decided Ser Laenor and Lady Laena would be given dragon eggs, Your Grace,” Lyman said. “Ser Laenor’s was given to him at birth as a way of apologising to Lord Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys for the princess being passed over in favour of Prince Baelon six years prior. Lady Laena’s was given not at birth but after the Great Council as an attempt at further appeasement.”

The latter had been among the last of the Small Council meetings the Old King attended before he became bedridden and much of the ruling of the realm fell to Ser Otto.

“King Jaehaerys never explicitly stated it,” Lyman continued, “but it was implied that Lady Laena would be expected to marry back into House Targaryen. The dragons were never meant to pass between houses outside of the control of the crown, let alone pass outside the realm.”

The princess nodded in agreement. “No dragon egg was given to my mother when she was born at the Eyrie for that very reason. And my other grandmother was never given the chance to claim one.”

From what Lyman had heard of Princess Daella, she was afraid of several different animals and he was unsure whether she would have wanted to claim a dragon. Although, on the other hand, the members of House Targaryen could be peculiar about the great beasts.

“Be that as it may, Lyman,” the king began, “Laena’s egg never hatched and it was through her own gumption that she claimed Vhagar. I remember my father’s dragon well and that hoary old girl would not bond with just anyone.”

“Nobody is disputing what Lady Laena has accomplished,” Queen Alicent replied. “But we do need to respond.”

“This could set a worrying precedent,” Ser Tyland said. “We cannot simply have every descendant of House Targaryen trying to claim a dragon. It is not much of a problem at the moment, Your Grace, but if your descendants marry into a half-dozen houses, it would destabilise the realm if all those houses had control of dragons.”

“It could become a problem now,” Princess Rhaenyra said, a contemplative expression on her face. “It has never been known how much Targaryen blood is required to control a dragon. Orys Baratheon was a bastard half-brother of Aegon the Conqueror; a Baratheon may be capable of claiming a dragon. And Lord Boremund was most interested to hear about my fighting on Syrax in the Vale.”

Lyman felt his eyebrows rise at the confirmation of Orys Baratheon’s ancestry. The histories had recorded rumours of his father being Aerion Targaryen but he had never been officially acknowledged. However, the king said nothing to dispute his daughter’s statement, suggesting it was known as a truth to those of House Targaryen.

The implications were alarming. King Aegon, Queen Visenya and Queen Rhaenys had so easily conquered the realm due to the overwhelming advantage their dragons gave them. Much of the crown’s authority was based on the fact it could call on dragonriders to put down any uprisings. If that authority was neutralised by other houses having dragons, where would that leave the crown?

Based on their worried faces, the others around the table were having the same revelations that he was.

“But there are no dragons unaccounted for,” the king argued. “Every other unclaimed dragon is either in the pit or on Dragonstone. Vhagar was the only one that roamed outside of our domains. There would be no opportunity for somebody to claim another without leave.”

“That is not wholly true,” the princess replied. “The dragons on Dragonstone roam far afield hunting for food. They always return to their lairs on the Dragonmont but are not on the island all the time.”

Meaning someone could potentially try and claim one without being stopped by the Dragonkeepers.

“It is not just blood, Rhaenyra. You would still need to know the Valyrian commands. I doubt Laena just walked up to Vhagar and climbed onto her back!”

“Actually, Laena sang her a lullaby, Hāros Bartossi. But High Valyrian is not solely known by us. Gods above, one of Lord Lyman’s sons can speak it!” Princess Rhaenyra gestured towards him. “Admittedly, his accent could do with a bit of work but still.”

When had she and Garlon conversed in High Valyrian? At the motherhouse in the city where Garlon now worked?

“Your Grace,” Lord Lyonel interjected, “I propose we meet at a later date to draft a law forbidding any attempts to claim a dragon without the crown’s leave. On pain of death. I know I am no longer Master of Laws but this should not be left until the position is filled.”

There were nods around the table.

“Very well,” King Viserys agreed, conceding in the face of their logic.

“However, that does not solve the problem of what to do about Lady Laena,” the queen said, her brow burrowed.

The king groaned. “She can hardly unclaim Vhagar.”

The princess rather unsubtly rolled her eyes.

“We are aware of that, Your Grace,” Lord Lyonel said. “What I propose is this: we inform Lord Velaryon that due to the fact his daughter is now a dragonrider, her future marriage comes under the domain of the crown. Any match will need to be made with the king’s consent.”

There were winces from the other men around the table, Lyman included. A man’s dominion over his daughter was one of the realm’s oldest laws and customs. Lord Velaryon would not react well to having that right infringed upon.

“He will never agree to such,” the king protested.

“Father,” the princess said, pure steel in her voice, “you are the king and he is your subject, order him if you have to.”

“The situation with House Velaryon is volatile enough as it is. That will surely just make it worse.”

King Viserys did actually have a point there.

“Princess,” Lord Lyonel said, turning his head to face her, “forgive me but it is clear that Ser Laenor Velaryon has been summoned to court so you might assess his suitability as your consort. Could this perhaps enter into your considerations?”

The princess returned Lord Lyonel’s gaze, a frown on her face. “For the sake of my position, there are many factors I need to consider before agreeing to marry Laenor. I cannot promise anything but I will bring this up with him and Laena and discuss how best to appease Lord Corlys.”

Late one evening, Lyman was walking across the entrance hall when he saw Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor and Ser Joffrey conversing off to one side. The entrance hall had disquieted him since Ser Otto’s death. He could not walk across the flagstones without picturing what had remained of Ser Otto’s face. While the maids had scrubbed the spot, Lyman could swear that the stone was still stained ever so slightly red.

Pushing the grim recollection from his mind and walking closer to the group, he saw that the princess was handing Ser Laenor a purse.

“—should be enough,” she said, giving Lyman a nod to acknowledge his presence. “You will probably want to leave a bit extra.”

As Ser Laenor weighed the purse in his hand, there was the familiar jangling of coin.

“Rhaenyra,” he began, taking a peak inside, “there must be twenty golden dragons in here!”

She looked at him in confusion. “Do you not think that will be enough? I can go and get more. I never thought to ask Mysaria how much this will cost.”

What were they talking about?

Ser Joffrey raised an eyebrow. “I am sure that will be plenty, princess,” he said. “Or else half the men in the realm would be out begging on the streets.”

“Well it is hardly a regular … woman that you are going to be meeting,” the princess said, crossing her arms over her chest. “She is well regarded in the city and known for her utmost discretion.”

“Even so,” Ser Joffrey said, with a brief glance at Lyman himself, “I am sure you could get twenty such women for that price.”

“How would you even know?” Ser Laenor asked. “You are as inexperienced in these matters as I am!”

“I have heard things from my fellow knights and squires.”

Not wishing to interrupt and unsure how much longer Princess Rhaenyra would be occupied, Lyman caught her eye and made a gesture at himself before using his hand to mime walking away.

She shook her head in response and held up a finger, indicating she would not be too much longer. “Anyway,” the princess said, interrupting the bickering between Ser Laenor and Ser Joffrey, “take the coin.”

“I still find it bizarre that you are paying for this,” Ser Laenor said, tying the purse to his belt.

“It was my idea,” she replied. “Even if I was rather drunk at the time. And mostly jesting.”

While he made a noise of acknowledgement, Ser Laenor did not look altogether pleased about the situation, his gaze downcast.

Perhaps realising this, the princess reached over and clasped his hands in hers. “Laenor, you do not have to do this,” she said warmly, ducking her head to try and catch his eye. “Nothing has been formally agreed yet, we can call this off. I can find another suitor, one whose tastes are more compatible with my own.”

Ser Laenor took a deep breath before straightening his back and raising his head. “No. If we can make this arrangement work, it will be the best option. For all of us and for the realm. And you are right, we would not know until it was too late if I am unable to rise to the occasion.” His expression broke out into a grin at this last.

Princess Rhaenyra let out a guffaw. “Rise to the occasion,” she repeated, chuckling.

“Oh gods, Laenor,” Ser Joffrey said, covering his face with one hand. “That was terrible.”

Ser Laenor continued to grin unrepentantly.

Lyman did not understand the joke but knew that the humour of young people was different to his own.

“We should head off,” Ser Laenor said, growing more serious. “What is this woman’s name again?”

“Rosey,” the princess replied. “Though I doubt that is her real name. Mysaria worked with her a number of years ago and says she is experienced but kind. She will not judge you or the unusualness of the request. Have you got the address?”

Ser Joffrey raised a small slip of parchment.

If Lyman did not know any better, he would almost swear that the princess was sending Ser Laenor off to a—

“Good … luck to the two of you, I suppose,” Princess Rhaenyra said hesitantly, interrupting his thoughts.

“Good luck?” Ser Laenor asked incredulously.

“Oh, be quiet,” she replied, giving a whack to his arm. “My etiquette tutors hardly taught me the correct sentiment to express for this particular occasion.”

“You should ask your old septa,” Ser Joffrey said with a wry grin. “I would be curious to hear her response.”

The princess snorted. “Her heart would burst most likely.”

With a couple of bows, the two men headed off into the night. Just before they went out of sight, Lyman saw them pull hoods over their heads.

Turning back to the princess, he raised an eyebrow at her in question.

“Lyman,” she said, “trust me on this. You absolutely do not wish to know.”

He thought back over what he had overheard. “I believe you are right,” he said. “I was just going to my study for a nightcap. Would you like to join me?”

She nodded and the two of them began ascending the main staircase.

As they went, he tried to put the previous conversation out of his mind. How Princess Rhaenyra chose to conduct her personal affairs was none of his business.

It was early the next day that Lyman was invited to a meeting in the princess’s solar. Arriving outside, he found the princess’s kingsguard and Ser Joffrey guarding either side of the door. After Ser Lorent announced his arrival, he was bid entry into the room.

Princess Rhaenyra, Queen Alicent, Ser Laenor and Lady Laena were already sitting around a table, deep in conversation.

“—there are bolts of fabric, jewellery, books,” the princess said as Lyman began walking over. “I never realised how many presents my uncle has given me over the years until I put them all in a pile.”

“Your Grace, princess, Ser Laenor, Lady Laena,” he greeted, offering appropriate bows and nods depending on the person’s station. His greetings were returned by each in kind.

“Thank you for coming, Lyman,” the princess said with a smile. “Sit yourself down.” She gestured to several unoccupied seats further down the table.

“And you are just going to sell it all?” Lady Laena asked, presumably resuming their earlier conversation.

“I was originally going to have Syrax burn everything but that seemed like a waste,” Princess Rhaenyra replied. “The crown’s coffers can have the coin. How much do you think a jade tiara, rumoured to have belonged to the Empress of Leng, would fetch?”

“A jade tiara?” Ser Laenor questioned incredulously. “Are you sure you would not rather keep it?”

“I do not want any of his gifts and trinkets. Though there is one necklace I plan to return to him personally.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Besides, green was never my colour anyway.”

“Now that we are all here, shall we get started?” Queen Alicent interjected.

“Your Grace, what is this meeting about,” Lyman asked. “The message did not say.”

“My future betrothal to Laenor, of course,” the princess replied with a grin.

While he had known the purpose of her inviting her cousin to court, Lyman had been wary of putting too much faith in it working out, not wanting to count his chickens before they hatched as it were. However, this was brilliant news, both for securing Princess Rhaenyra’s claim with a strong marriage and for mending ties between the crown and House Velaryon. Assuming Lord Velaryon agreed to the marriage, of course. Although Lyman could think of no reason he would not given how much he wanted his blood on the throne.

“So you were able to assuage your concerns?” Lyman asked, remembering that Princess Rhaenyra had needed to discuss something with Ser Laenor before committing to him as a suitor.

Ser Laenor’s eyes widened at this. “You told Lord Beesbury about that?” he asked the princess incredulously.

“Not the details, obviously,” she replied. “Just that we had some matters to settle.”

Lady Laena’s head dropped into her hands. “Please let us not go over this again,” she said, her voice muffled. “I still cannot get the images out of my head.”

“Anyway,” Princess Rhaenyra hurried out, “Laenor and I have reached an accord. We thought it best to have a meeting to discuss the issues surrounding our marriage before bringing this up to our fathers.”

Normally, a marriage agreement would just be made between the fathers of those getting married with no input from the couple of themselves. However, the king had granted his daughter an unprecedented amount of leeway in choosing her own husband. Leeway she was apparently taking advantage of to agree as much with Ser Laenor himself as possible.

“Yes, about that,” Ser Laenor said. “Not to be rude or disrespectful but why exactly have you invited Lord Beesbury here?”

“He is my friend,” the princess defended. “Our friend.” She gestured to herself and the queen. “Whatever progress I have made in securing my place as heir would not have been possible without his help and support. Gods know, my father has been next to useless. So I wanted his advice for this too.”

It always touched Lyman to hear that what he had done over the years meant so much to the princess. Although he did not feel that he had made much difference overall. All the qualities of a suitable heir to the throne were already there. He had just needed to bring them out, polish her rough edges, so to speak.

Ser Laenor and Lady Laena must have been mollified by this explanation for they offered no further protests to his presence.

“To business then,” Princess Rhaenyra began. “I assume that Lord Corlys will be happy to agree to our betrothal?”

Lady Laena let out a bark of laughter. “I half expected him to start dancing through the halls of High Tide when he heard you wanted to meet with Laenor!” she exclaimed.

“Our father is too proud to have formally presented me as a suitor after everything but I know this is the outcome he hoped for,” Ser Laenor added. “There has never been a whisper of him considering any other betrothal agreements for me.”

“Mother is a bit more reserved over the situation,” his sister continued. “She has been impressed with the work you have done to secure your claim over the years but still has worries over the succession.” She paused for a few moments. “Although both legally ensuring your position and the updated Doctrine of Exceptionalism have eased her concerns somewhat.”

“The new situation at court has also helped,” Ser Laenor finished.

New situation at court?

“You mean my father’s death?” Queen Alicent said in flat tone.

The Velaryons exchanged awkward glances. “Ser Otto continuing to serve as Hand and influencing the king would have been a worry given the circumstances,” Ser Laenor finally said. “They are happier with Lord Strong in the position.”

Lyman suspected that was an understatement. While Lord Velaryon’s feelings towards Ser Otto had never reached the vitriol of Prince Daemon’s, the two men had never gotten along together.

“Very well, so that is your parents dealt with,” the princess said. “And my father has already consented to whatever match I decide to make so there are no problems there. What should we discuss next?”

“I really must ask, what is the arrangement here?” Lady Laena gestured between the princess and the queen. “When last I was at court, the two of you were barely exchanging pleasantries. Then Prince Aemon was born and Rhaenyra wrote that the two of you had reconciled. Forgive me, Your Grace, but I suspected for a time you may be manipulating Rhaenyra to try and advance your son’s claim. Instead, it seems you wholeheartedly support her heirship.”

The princess looked affronted by the suggestion that the queen may have been manipulating her but Queen Alicent herself seemed nonplussed.

“You can just call me Alicent in private,” she said to Lady Laena. “We grew up together and, hopefully, we will soon be family.”

“Very well then, Alicent,” Lady Laena replied with a smile. “But yes, even on Driftmark we have heard about how the two of you seem united in purpose.”

The princess and the queen glanced at each other before the latter gave a nod of her head.

“We are doing everything we can to secure my claim to the throne,” Princess Rhaenyra said. “The new law regarding the succession and the altered Doctrine of Exceptionalism being our biggest victories. The crown is my birthright and I do not intend to have all that my mother sacrificed be in vain by losing it. However, if I take the throne and there are major rebellions on Aemon’s behalf or the like, I will give up the crown before ever allowing harm to be done to him in my name.”

Lyman had heard this before but the two Velaryons looked shocked.

“Gods, you seriously think it may come to that?” Ser Laenor asked.

“We pray not,” the queen replied, touching the seven-pointed star hanging from her necklace. “But we thought it prudent to at least discuss the possibility.”

“The dragons should be enough of a deterrent,” the princess continued. “It did not take much for Syrax and I to quell the uprising in the Vale. But I wanted to make it clear, both to yourselves and Alicent, where I stood on the subject. Especially after Ser Otto said I would have to kill Aemon and any more brothers I have to secure my claim.”

Queen Alicent let out a shudder at this.

Princess Rhaenyra focused her gaze on her potential husband. “Laenor, I would need you to be with me on this. I cannot marry you unless you are prepared to accept that our child may not one day sit the Iron Throne. I need to protect my family.”

There was a tense silence as he mulled this over. It was a large ask. Anyone marrying the heir to the throne would, rightfully, expect that their own child would follow her. And, if things had turned out differently, Ser Laenor himself would be the one due to inherit the crown.

“For all that my mother’s loss at the Great Council still burns my father, I have never wanted the throne,” he finally said. “Truthfully, Cousin, I thank the gods every day that it is you who carries this burden and not I. All I want out of this marriage is the freedom to be who I am without judgement or reproach.”

The princess gave him a soft smile. “That, I can assure you.”

Lyman could well understand that particular sentiment. It had long been a comfort to him that he could be himself around Rosamund without the need for any artifice. Especially in a place like the Red Keep where so many wore masks and disguised their true feelings.

“And I am no kinslayer,” Ser Laenor said, his eyes moving from the princess to the queen. “I would never harm my future good-brother.”

Queen Alicent gave a sigh of relief in response, her posture easing.

However, Lady Laena was frowning at her brother. “Laenor, you may not mind if your child does not inherit the throne but what about our father? Thrice his blood has been passed over, you think he would stomach a fourth?”

The Sea Snake was a proud man and twice his wife had been overlooked as heir to the throne: firstly following her father’s death and secondly at the Great Council. Then the king had refused to take Lady Laena as his wife. With all the slights already dealt to his house, Lyman doubted Lord Velaryon would stand to see his grandchildren disinherited.

“He might not be in a position to object by then,” Ser Laenor cautiously ventured. “Father is well over a decade the king’s senior. He may have …”

May have died by the time King Viserys did, thus having no bearing on who succeeded the throne.

The princess was shaking her head. “Keep this to yourselves but my father is not well,” she revealed. “The maesters are doing what they can but I would not reckon on him outliving your father, especially given how hale Lord Corlys is.”

What? “Princess, why is this the first I am hearing of this?” Lyman asked.

She gave him a guilty look. “I am sorry. The maesters are unsure what illness plagues him but he wears gloves near permanently now to hide the fact he is missing several fingers. Ser Otto was aware, as is the Grand Maester, but it was thought the rest of the Small Council should be kept in the dark for fear the news would spread.”

Lyman let out a slow exhale. He had been hoping the princess would have several more decades before acceding the throne. Time enough to forge strong alliances and for the lords of the realm to grow used to her position.

“We are getting off topic,” Lady Laena interjected. “The king could die falling down the stairs five years from now and our father would expect Rhaenyra to hold the throne and his grandchild to follow. I do not think he would accept any other outcome,” she finished seriously.

“You think he would be prepared to go to war?” the princess asked.

Lady Laena shrugged her shoulders. “He amassed a fleet to support my mother’s claim when Prince Baelon died. I cannot say what would have happened were it not for the Great Council.”

“Fuck!” Princess Rhaenyra said, burying a hand in her hair. “I thought we could make this work.”

“There is another option for Lord Velaryon to get his blood on the throne if it comes to it,” the queen said. “If Rhaenyra and Laenor’s eldest child is a girl—”

The princess cut her off with a noise of displeasure, releasing her grip on her own hair. “Alicent, we have had this conversation already,” she said, her tone carefully even. “I will not just marry off our children with no thought to their desires or wishes.”

“It would be the safest solution, for the children as well,” Queen Alicent retorted. “If your eldest is a daughter and she marries Aemon, my uncle will eventually have Hightower blood on the throne. And there would be Velaryon blood as well, no matter what happens.”

Princess Rhaenyra looked like she wished to continue arguing but her cousin spoke first.

“You are worried about Lord Hightower?” Ser Laenor asked.

“He made it clear on Prince Aemon’s second name day that he supports him inheriting the throne,” Lyman said, thinking back to their conversation over half a year ago. “I do not think the loss of Ser Otto will curb Lord Hightower’s ambitions.”

“We searched my father’s chambers after his passing for any correspondence that might reveal anything but he must have burned all his letters,” the queen said.

“I was hoping to find a journal of his evil plots and all his co-conspirators but no such luck,” the princess added.

Queen Alicent gave her an exasperated look in response. “A letter did arrive for my father from my uncle right after his death though,” she said. “Uncle Hobert must have sent it before the news reached Oldtown.”

“Anything interesting?” Lady Laena asked.

“My uncle expressed concern that Aemon’s dragon egg has still not hatched. From the tone of the letter, I would guess they had written to each other on this matter before. Uncle Hobert suggested it may be time Aemon tried to claim one of the older, larger dragons. Preferably King Jaehaerys’s old dragon.”

The dragons were the might of House Targaryen and how they managed to conquer the realm in the first place. Prince Aemon’s claiming of a dragon would grant him more legitimacy, an important factor given how much his looks favoured his mother. If the dragon he claimed was that of the great Conciliator King, there was symbolism there too.

Princess Rhaenyra scoffed. “Your uncle speaks of matters of which he knows nothing,” she said vehemently. “There is a reason why infants are only given eggs or hatchlings. Bonding to a fully grown dragon at that age, Aemon would be consumed by the bond. It was tried in Old Valyria but the children were too young to have a true sense of self. The instincts of their dragons overwhelmed them and they turned feral.”

“I can attest to that,” Lady Laena said, rubbing her chest absently. “When my bond with Vhagar snapped into place, it was a rush of power, age and undaunted might. Even now, I can feel her desire to take to the skies and burn.” There was a dark tone creeping into her voice that Lyman could only compare to hunger.

The princess must have heard it too because she started frowning. “Mind that, Laena,” she cautioned. “I nearly lost control fighting in the Vale. Giving into my bond with Syrax was a heady feeling.”

Lady Laena shook herself out of whatever stupor she had fallen into. “Yes, apologies. I am not accustomed to feeling Vhagar in my soul yet.” She turned her attention back to the queen. “So your uncle wants Vermithor for Aemon?”

The queen nodded. “He also suggested that Helaena might eventually claim Queen Alysanne’s old dragon.”

Princess Rhaenyra gave a dragon egg to her younger sister shortly after her birth but that one had not hatched yet either.

“Uncle Hobert is clearly hoping for Hightower blood on the throne,” Queen Alicent continued. “Which is why I think we should consider betrothing your eldest child to either Aemon or Helaena,” she said to the princess.

“And, as I said before, I do not want to force our children into marriages,” Princess Rhaenyra replied firmly.

“We may have no choice to protect them. We have already agreed Aemon can never marry outside our house, not with the danger his wife’s house might press his claim.”

Lyman had never considered Prince Aemon’s marriage prospects before but he could see where the queen was coming from. Any house that the prince married into may support his claim over Princess Rhaenyra’s to try and get their own blood on the throne. House Targaryen’s unique marriage practices presented the best solution to that problem, allowing him to marry a close relative instead.

“Do you truly believe that would appease your uncle?” the princess asked. “A consort when he wants Aemon to be king?”

The queen could say nothing in reply, starting to pick at her cuticles before Princess Rhaenyra stilled her hands.

“Too much of this is uncertain until we actually have children,” Ser Laenor said. “There is little point discussing betrothals until we know whether it is a son or a daughter that will follow Rhaenyra onto the throne.”

The rest of them made noises of agreement; he spoke true.

“About children,” the princess announced, turning to Ser Laenor, “I was thinking three?”

He nodded in response. “An heir for each of us and one more child as a spare. That is practical.”

Oh, he did not yet know about the Vale.

Princess Rhaenyra winced. “Not exactly. Our second child in terms of inheritance will become Lord or Lady of the Eyrie.”

“You must be japing,” Lady Laena said. “You are the heir of the Vale? How? I thought your grandsire already had several children before marrying Great-Aunt Daella.”

“I am not the heir to the Vale yet. Apart from Cousin Jeyne, my Aunt Amanda still lives and she is the heir at the moment. However, she has no living children and everyone else closer than me in the succession is dead.”

“Your cousin is not going to marry and have children of her own?” Ser Laenor questioned.

The princess only shook her head.

Ser Laenor let out a slow exhale. “So the throne, the Vale and Driftmark, all being passed through us. It will be the strongest match the realm has ever seen.” He snorted. “Our father will be delighted. But in that case, if we have just three children, there will be no spare.”

“Three is my limit,” Princess Rhaenyra replied decisively. “My mother died having birthed but one child that survived past infancy. My mother’s mother equalled that, my father’s managed two. All dead in childbed or from post-childbed complications.” A weary expression had come over her face. “I have no wish to join them. Even three might be hoping for too much.”

While Lyman knew the princess had tried to quell her worries surrounding childbirth, it was unsurprising that some lingered given her family history.

“Your great-grandmother managed ten,” Queen Alicent said encouragingly. “Your great-great-grandmother seven.” Something in her tone suggested that this was a well-trodden conversation.

The princess was not appeased though. “And look how Dowager Queen Alyssa died,” she replied vehemently. “The same way as my mother: carved open for the sake of a child. Although at least Jocelyn lived.” Bitterness marred her final words.

There were long seconds of silence following this declaration. Ser Laenor had completely stilled in his chair and Lyman was not even sure if he was drawing breath. Meanwhile, Lady Laena’s hand had flown to her chest and there was an expression of disgust on her face.

“What?” she said. “Your mother was– I thought she passed after delivering Baelon?” She turned to her brother with a questioning look upon her face.

Ser Laenor nodded his head. “That is what we were told.”

“Baelon would not come,” Princess Rhaenyra said, her tone far away. “My father had the former Grand Maester …” she trailed off, jaw working in anger.

There was fury rising on Lady Laena’s face too. "Queen Aemma was his wife for twenty years. He loved her.”

“Not more than a son,” the princess replied, her gaze meeting her cousin’s with a burning intensity.

“But Father wanted me to wed the king. Did he know how the queen met her fate?”

Princess Rhaenyra took a few deep breaths as she mastered herself. “I am honestly unsure if Lord Corlys knew.”

“He did,” Lyman himself interjected, thinking back to those dark and terrible days when so much was uncertain. “The whole Small Council knew. And agreed it was best to keep that information contained.”

Lady Laena’s eyes fixed on him as though searching his face for any deceit. She apparently found none. “So Father was happy enough to sell me off at two-and-ten as a broodmare to a man who just killed his wife? All to get our blood on the throne?”

“Laena,” her brother cautioned, “stop.” He gestured at the princess who looked as though she was in pain. The queen was rubbing a gentle hand on her back.

“Oh gods.” Lady Laena leapt to her feet and rounded the table. “I am so sorry,” she said, taking her cousin into her arms.

Lyman respectfully averted his eyes to a nearby window but could hear them talking to each other in low tones in High Valyrian.

When he heard Lady Laena retaking her seat, he judged it safe to move his attention back to the table.

“Rhaenyra,” Ser Laenor began slowly, as if considering his next words with care, “I have never really imagined children in my future. I would be content with three daughters. Or only two children. Or whatever.” He reached over and clasped her hand. “It does not matter to me if Driftmark goes to Laena’s line after me.”

That was a rather sweet sentiment. In Lyman’s experience, the vast majority of men wanted sons that would follow after them. If Ser Laenor was prepared to set such ambitions aside, perhaps he was worthy of the princess’s hand.

Princess Rhaenyra’s gaze looked wet as it met Ser Laenor’s. “Thank you, Cousin, truly,” she replied, giving a squeeze to his hand. “I suppose I can see how I get on with the first one and we can go from there?”

He nodded in response. “That is fine by me.”

“You are assuming that I am going to have children,” Lady Laena interjected. “Driftmark might end up going to Uncle Vaemond’s lot.” A malicious smile curled the corners of her lips. “Although that would serve our father right.”

“That is another issue we need to discuss,” Queen Alicent said to Lady Laena. “Your marriage.”

“What about my marriage?” she replied, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Your claiming of Vhagar does put the crown in somewhat of an awkward position, my lady,” Lyman said delicately.

“What Lyman means is we cannot allow Vhagar to fall outside the control of the realm,” the princess said. “Even the appearance of such would weaken us. Lord Corlys is to be convinced that this match between you and the Sealord’s son should not go ahead.”

Ser Laenor let out a low whistle. “Rhaenyra, my father is a proud man,” he said. “Even with us marrying, he will not take well to the suggestion that he cannot decide his own daughter’s husband.”

“We have little choice,” the queen said. “The dragons must remain under the dominion of the crown. We cannot just give the largest to Braavos.”

Ser Laenor looked as though he wanted to say something further but his sister spoke before he could.

“So the king plans to just pick a husband for me?” Lady Laena asked, the displeasure clear in her voice.

“No,” Princess Rhaenyra replied. “Your father will need the king’s approval before deciding on a match. And it will need to be a Westerosi man at the very least.”

Lady Laena was silent for a couple of seconds, a calculating expression on her face. “If I understand the dynamics here at court, yourselves and Lord Strong are essentially guiding the king’s decision-making at the moment,” she said, indicating the princess, queen and Lyman himself.

The three of them exchanged awkward glances, considering how much the king leant on his advisors and how much power they wielded as a result of that. Gods, had they become Ser Otto?

“I would not put it in quite those terms,” Queen Alicent eventually replied.

Lady Laena waved this protest off. “I have a counter-proposal. I do not wish to marry Sallello anyway. He is a fool and a drunk. I want what you have, Rhaenyra: the opportunity to choose my own husband. Someone that will not seek to control me. Get me that and you will have my undying support, no matter what you ever decide to do about the succession.”

Thus ensuring she would not turn against them if the princess felt she had to give up the crown for Prince Aemon’s sake.

Princess Rhaenyra thought it over. “So you propose we what, inform Lord Corlys that your husband is now the crown’s decision to make?” she asked. “Then convince the king to go along with whoever your choice is?”

“Essentially,” Lady Laena replied. “I now fly the largest dragon in the world and I refuse to be used as a fucking tool for my father’s trade negotiations.”

Lyman exhaled. The princess’s freedom over her marriage may have started inspiring others. But there was still Lord Velaryon to deal with.

“Laena, Father will be furious if the king starts dictating to him on matters of his house after everything that has passed between them,” Ser Laenor warned, thinking along the same lines.

“What does Father have to be furious about with this arrangement?” his sister argued. “He is getting the crown, the Vale and a Valyrian bride for his son to carry on his line.”

“Most of those he thinks have been his due since marrying Mother. For this, after all the affronts by King Jaehaerys and King Viserys, he will want something more.”

“I am not sure what else we can offer him, Laenor,” the princess said, leaning back in her chair. “If the position of Master of Ships was available, he could have that back but I do not wish to insult House Lannister by having Ser Tyland removed from the Small Council. Even moving Ser Tyland to Master of Laws to make way for Lord Corlys may imply we thought him inadequate at his duties.”

“Would your father be interested in being Master of Laws?” the queen asked hopefully.

Lady Laena scoffed. “Spend all his time looking up obscure rulings in dusty old tomes? I think not.”

Ser Laenor suddenly straightened, a glimmer entering his eyes. “Father might not be interested in being Master of Laws but Mother would be,” he said, excitement rising in his voice. “Our grandsire held the position until he died and I know he taught Mother a great deal.”

Princess Rhaenys as Master– Mistress of Laws. Now there was an idea.

“Father has always resented Mother being passed over at the Great Council,” Ser Laenor continued. “Not only because I was no longer in line for the throne but as the lords judged Mother unfit to rule. Her being granted a position of importance would help appease those feelings.”

A smile was breaking out on Lady Laena’s face and Princess Rhaenyra looked intrigued but the queen was frowning.

“And Mother got used to being in charge of Driftmark while our father was away at war in the Stepstones,” Lady Laena added. “I know she has found him coming back, and her subsequent loss of station, an adjustment.”

“While Dowager Queen Alyssa served as regent, if you discount advisors, the only woman to serve in an official position on the Small Council was Queen Tyanna as Mistress of Whisperers,” Queen Alicent said. “There is not much of a precedent.”

Lyman could not help it, he scoffed.

The others in the room looked at him in surprise.

“Honestly, the situation with my predecessor as Master of Coin was an absolute farce,” he said. “Martyn Tyrell may have been picked for the position but everyone knew it was his wife, Lady Florence, that was the true mind behind his accounting. It was her that did all the work for the Small Council. King Jaehaerys may as well have just named Lady Florence as Mistress of Coin in the first place!”

He still remembered the absurdity that was his preparation to assume the position of Master of Coin himself. Martyn Tyrell had been woefully ill-informed about both the crown’s coffers and the taxes of the realm. Any specific questions that Lyman had were written down before Martyn disappeared into his chambers to research the answers. Eventually, Lyman had grown so tired of the subterfuge that he asked for Lady Florence to emerge so he could speak to her instead. The conversation had gone far quicker after that.

“Have you been holding that in a while?” the princess teased, looking amused by his vehemence.

“It was inefficient,” he retorted, holding in a huff of frustration. “You attempt to speak on matters of coin with a man who got the amount of tax the Stormlands pay wrong by a factor of ten!”

Princess Rhaenyra shot him another smile before continuing to address the table. “Very well, I think we can convince the king to invite Princess Rhaenys to sit as Mistress of Laws. He should have named her to the Small Council after he took the throne. And, from what I have been hearing on Dragonstone, Princess Rhaenys did a fine job ruling Driftmark in Lord Corlys’s absence.”

Princess Rhaenys had been raised with the expectation that she would one day be queen. Her political acumen would have been a great boon to King Viserys in those early days he sat the throne.

“It will help the realm adjust too,” Lady Laena added. “Having a woman in a position of such authority.”

Queen Alicent slowly nodded. “At this point, anything that—” She abruptly stopped speaking, her face blanching and her hand flying to her mouth. Shoving her chair backwards, the queen stood before rushing into the princess’s bedchamber.

A look of concern on her face, Princess Rhaenyra rose to her feet and hurried after.

Lyman soon heard the distinctive sounds of someone retching.

He waited with the Velaryons, the three of them exchanging worried glances as time dragged on. Lyman had just resolved to check on the queen when she returned, the princess supporting her by the arm.

“If you will all excuse me,” Queen Alicent said weakly. “I think I may have …” she trailed off before raising her unoccupied arm and counting on her fingers, muttering under her breath as she did so. Then realisation crossed her face. “Rhaenyra, take me to a maester.”

“What? Why?” the princess replied, sounding panicked.

The queen leant over and whispered something in her ear. A peculiar combination of joy and dread crossed Princess Rhaenyra’s face then.

“Excuse us,” she said, already half-dragging the queen out of the room. “We will have to resume this conversation later.”

There was silence as the door thudded shut behind them, those that remained taken aback by the abrupt departure.

Lady Laena recovered first. “Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?” she asked.

It was not long before Lord Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys were invited to the Red Keep to formally agree the betrothal.

In a meeting that lasted from sunrise to sunset, King Viserys, Lord Velaryon, Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys, Ser Laenor and Lord Lyonel discussed, debated and then argued as they strove to reach an agreement everyone was happy with. According to gossip in the keep, eleven carafes of wine were drunk and one hurled against a wall over the course of the day.

In the end, Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen and Ser Laenor of House Velaryon were set to be married three moons hence. Ser Laenor would continue to be styled as such until his wife ascended the throne, whereupon he would be granted the title Prince Consort. That particular debate was rumoured to have lasted two hours, with Lord Velaryon pushing for King Consort. However, the princess would not be moved, wishing it to remain clear who the rightful ruler was.

Their eldest child would take the name Targaryen, making clear the continuity of the royal line. Again, Lord Velaryon protested, citing it went against the Westerosi tradition of children being named for their father’s house. On this matter, it was Lord Lyonel and Princess Rhaenys that were finally able to cool the Sea Snake’s ire. Apparently, the courting between Ser Harwin Strong and Lady Rhea Royce had reached the point where they had discussed their respective successions. With Lady Royce being in more urgent need of an heir, it had already been decided that their eldest son would bear the name Royce to continue his mother’s house. Lord Lyonel announced he had no shame over his grandchild carrying a name as old and proud as Royce and that Lord Velaryon would find himself in good company.

Princess Rhaenys pointed out that her own descendants carrying the name Velaryon may have turned some lords against her at the Great Council given the weight such matters were afforded. It was also during this argument on house names that Lord Velaryon discovered one of his grandchildren would inherit the Vale, a fact that likely aided in securing his concession over the subject. In return for the eldest child bearing the name Targaryen, their first name would be one that was traditionally Velaryon.

The other children would bear the name Velaryon but the child that became heir to the Vale would take the name Arryn upon becoming Lord or Lady of the Eyrie. This had apparently been one of the conditions laid down by Lady Jeyne Arryn when she and Princess Rhaenyra first discussed the subject.

During the argument that resulted in the shattered wine carafe, Lord Velaryon was eventually made to see that the realm could not have a dragon under the control of Braavos. On the understanding that the arrangement would be kept secret, Lord Velaryon turned Lady Laena’s marriage over to the crown. However, he retained the right to dismiss any suitor he found unworthy of his daughter.

At the next Small Council meeting, Princess Rhaenys stood with a straight back and a proud smile as she was announced as the new Mistress of Laws.

And – most importantly, from Lyman’s perspective – House Velaryon was going to pay for all the lavish wedding festivities that Lord Velaryon insisted upon to honour his son and future good-daughter. Praise the Seven!

Chapter Text

The Lord of the Tides wanted the celebrations to rival that of the famed Golden Wedding between Lord Rogar Baratheon and Dowager Queen Alyssa Velaryon. Days of feasting, a tourney, a hunt, all of it culminating in the wedding ceremony itself between Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor on the seventh day. Even though Lyman knew the burden would not fall on the crown, he could feel his heart beat faster every time the predicted cost was discussed.

Before long he found that his days were filled with greeting lords and ladies as they arrived at the Red Keep, the king wishing to ensure that nobody felt snubbed. While Lyman was busy though, he knew the princess was twice as occupied trying to make a good impression on those that still doubted her heirship. In a bid to connect with as many of the visiting nobles as possible, Princess Rhaenyra went on rides through the kingswood, hawked, hosted tea and – for the curious – demonstrated the improvements she and the queen had made within the city.

The wedding festivities were to open with a great feast in the throne room to officially welcome those that were attending.

Wanting to take the measure of each new arrival, Lyman ensured that his family arrived early and were amongst the first in their seats. The room had been transformed for the occasion: House Velaryon banners joined those of House Targaryen that normally hung upon the walls; a raised platform had been constructed along the back of the room, upon which the high table sat; greenery and flowers wove up the furniture, with a large garland hanging in the centre.

Princess Rhaenyra’s seat was situated directly in front of the Iron Throne, creating a striking image as the pointed swords rose up behind her. The high table was rather empty at the moment, only occupied by the princess, queen and king as they began to welcome their guests. Queen Alicent’s pregnancy was obvious now, the cut of her red and black dress accentuating her growing belly. Beside her, the king surveyed the room with an air of contentment. Lyman could not recall the last time he had seen King Viserys in such a jovial mood as he revelled in finally marrying off his oldest daughter.

At one of the tables down below, Lyman himself sat with his grandson, Rosamund, Mathis and Selyse. While he had seen his son and good-daughter when they journeyed to King’s Landing for Rosamund’s sixtieth name day, it had been years since he last saw his oldest grandchild. Alan had flourished while squiring with the Tarlys and, even at two-and-ten, had all the makings of a fine future lord. Although, he had proved to still possess some boyish tendencies when his first question upon meeting Princess Rhaenyra was asking if he could meet her dragon. With a quick check that it was all right with Lyman himself, the princess had been happy to agree.

He was startled out of his thoughts as the benches next to his family were occupied.

“Lord Lyman,” Lord Lyonel greeted as he and his four children sat down.

After they had all exchanged pleasantries, Lyman turned to Lord Lyonel’s elder son. “Congratulations, Ser Harwin,” he said. “I heard your betrothal has finally been made official.”

Ser Harwin and Lady Royce had spent several moons courting, with Princess Rhaenyra reporting they regularly exchanged ravens and that Ser Harwin used what leave he had from the City Watch to travel to Runestone in person. With Lady Royce having arrived in King’s Landing several weeks before the royal wedding, the pair had used that time to confirm they wished to marry and had received Lord Lyonel’s permission.

“Thank you, Lord Beesbury,” Ser Harwin replied, a grin lighting up his face. “I am most—”

“House Baratheon with their lord, Boremund Baratheon!” the announcer exclaimed. “Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm’s End.”

Lyman’s gaze focused on the Baratheons as they walked into the room and towards the high table. While he and Lord Baratheon were about of an age, the latter still looked hale and strong – even though his black hair was now threaded with grey.

Rosamund made a small sound of surprise from beside him.

He looked at her questioningly.

“Their cuffs and collars,” she said, a dip of her head towards the Baratheons.

Turning back around, Lyman saw what his wife meant. While the tunics and dresses the Baratheons wore were in their traditional house colours of yellow and black, they were also trimmed with the distinctive teal-blue of House Velaryon. Lord Baratheon’s mother had been a Velaryon but such a display was not the norm.

Reaching the high table, Lord Baratheon led his house in bows and curtseys. “Your Graces, princess,” he greeted. “I wish you and my great-nephew well together. Long have our houses been unified in blood and purpose and it brings me great pleasure to see such unity continue.”

“Thank you, Lord Boremund,” King Viserys acknowledged with a smile and a nod of his head.”

“I can think of no better man than Ser Laenor, my lord,” the princess replied. “He is a true testament to his Velaryon, Targaryen and Baratheon ancestry.”

The compliment was hardly subtle but Lyman saw the backs of several Baratheon men straighten.

Lord Baratheon let out a great booming laugh. “Now, princess, I thought we agreed when you visited Storm’s End that you were to call me uncle,” he said, his formerly serious manner gone. “And that was before our lines were further intertwined.”

“Well then,” the princess returned, “I hope you enjoy the festivities, Uncle.”

The rest of House Baratheon left to take their seats but Lord Baratheon lingered for a moment. “I would also like to express my condolences, Your Grace,” he said to the queen. “It was a terrible business, what happened to your father. I know Lord Dondarrion wishes to speak to you regarding the future of the Coles in his service.”

Whatever response the queen gave was drowned out as House Lannister was announced into the room.

The benches quickly filled as the most prominent houses of the realm arrived one by one. Lyman made idle conversation with his family and the Strongs but kept one ear out for how each house addressed the princess.

The Tyrells had certainly been effusive in their compliments. Indeed, the flowery words of Lord Uthor Tyrell were matched only by all the roses embroidered on his family’s clothing. Lyman pitied the seamstresses that must have spent weeks labouring over those outfits. Ladies Liane and Celia Strong broke out into giggles at the sight of Lord Tyrell’s heir, Ser Willas. From what Lyman could gather from their whispered words, his ‘luscious brown curls and soulful amber eyes’ were well known among the maidens of the realm.

“Lady Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, Protector of the Vale!” the announcer called. “And her aunt and heir, Lady Amanda Arryn.”

Lady Arryn walked proudly into the room. An unusually tall woman, her deep-blue dress contrasted with her neatly pinned, dark-brown hair. But the woman on Lady Arryn’s arm, gods above.

Lyman had spent the previous weeks entertaining various nobles but had not seen every new arrival to the keep. Lady Amanda Arryn had previously escaped his notice. However, looking at her now … Queen Aemma had been well over a decade her half-sister’s junior and her colouring had favoured her Targaryen mother. However, despite that, Lady Amanda’s features were nearly a mirror of the departed queen’s: the same round face, the same slightly pointed nose.

Turning to the high table, Lyman saw the king gazing at the two women as if he had seen a ghost, his face grey. It must be disconcerting, to see the face your first wife would have worn had she been allowed to age. Had you allowed her to age.

“Congratulations, Princess Rhaenyra,” Lady Arryn greeted. “I am sure it is a relief to many that the bonds between Houses Targaryen and Velaryon are at last being mended.”

In a breach of decorum, Lady Arryn had not addressed the king and the censure towards him in her words was clear. However, King Viserys was still looking at Lady Amanda with an expression on his face Lyman could only characterise as pained longing. Before long, the two women had moved to sit beside the queen at the high table, as their relation to the princess entitled them to.

Shortly after the Arryns, Lady Royce arrived with her cousin. After greeting the royals, they sat down at Lyman’s table next to the Strongs. He did not think he had seen Lady Royce in a dress since her wedding day and while she did not look as comfortable as she did in her bronze armour, she wore it well. Ser Harwin clearly thought so too as he rose from his seat to greet her, admiration in his gaze.

“House Hightower with their lord, Hobert Hightower!” the announcer called. “Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, the Voice of Oldtown.”

Lyman turned to the door to see his liege lord … and was greeted by a sea of green garments as House Hightower filed into the room. He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth and heard Mathis swear lowly beside him. All subtlety had been abandoned now.

“Do you think we should remind them that their house colours are white and grey?” Rosamund asked. “They appear to have forgotten.”

“Perhaps we should have worn matching colours too,” Larys Strong replied sardonically. “Although it would not have had quite the same effect as calling our banners to war.”

As Larys explained the significance of the Hightowers wearing green to his brother and sisters, Lyman took in the assembled family members. He thought he recognised Ser Ormund, Lord Hightower’s son and heir, at his father’s right shoulder but not the brown-haired woman on his arm. The last Lyman heard, Ser Ormund was still unmarried. Two of the men in Lord Hightower’s party he had not seen since the king and queen married but he still recognised Ser Bryndon and Ser Myles, Queen Alicent's oldest brothers.

Ser Gwayne was not among the Hightowers but that did not necessarily mean anything. Upon arriving back from accompanying his father’s bones to Oldtown, Ser Gwayne was persuaded to give up his City Watch role in favour of becoming his niece’s sworn protector. His days were now spent guarding Princess Helaena. Although, at the moment, that largely consisted of trying to sooth the princess’s crying fits and allowing her to gum at his armour.

The hall was silent by the time the Hightowers reached the high table, all those assembled curious to hear what would be said after Ser Otto’s death.

“Your Graces, princess,” Lord Hightower said. “We wish you many happy returns on this special occasion.” The words were perfectly polite but delivered without any inflection.

“Be welcome, Lord Hightower,” the king greeted. “You have my condolences for your brother’s passing.”

“His murder, you mean,” Lord Hightower retorted. “I would have expected that after twenty years of loyalty and friendship, Otto’s killer would be more harshly punished. Ser Criston’s head should be mounted on one of the city gates.”

“The option to serve in the Night’s Watch has always been available for even the worst offences,” Princess Rhaenyra replied. “To change that now would rob the Watch of many able recruits.”

“As you say, princess.” Lyman could not see Lord Hightower’s face but he did not sound appeased. “Though it perhaps presents too … convenient an option for the realm’s lowlifes.” There was a pause. “I was hoping to see Prince Aemon here,” he continued, tone warmer as he turned towards Queen Alicent. “It has been many moons and I am sure he has grown considerably.”

“Aemon is still too young to sit through a feast of this length, Uncle,” the queen said. If she was troubled by the talk of Ser Criston’s punishment, it did not show in her voice. “He will make an appearance later though.”

“Wonderful. I shall look forward to it.”

With that the Hightowers left the dais … and sat down across the table from Lyman’s family, the Strongs and the Royces. Perfect.

“Lord Hightower,” Lyman greeted, courtesy demanding he acknowledge his liege lord. However, Lord Hightower obviously had no such concerns for his greeting was ignored.

“Lord Corlys of House Velaryon,” the announcer called. “Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark. And his lady wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. And their son and heir, Ser Laenor Velaryon, the future prince consort.”

Applause broke out as House Velaryon walked into the throne room. Their wealth was on full display, rich garments of Velaryon blue and gold, accentuated by glittering jewellery.

The princess stood to greet her future husband. “My betrothed,” she said, offering her hand to Ser Laenor with a grin.

“My betrothed,” he returned, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

The couple took their seats, Ser Laenor’s close family filling out the remaining chairs at the high table.

With that King Viserys stood, presumably to begin his welcoming speech. However, before he could even get started, something back towards the doorway caught his attention.

Turning, Lyman barely held back a groan at the sight of Prince Daemon sauntering into the hall.

Did the man truly have no shame? After all that occurred during his last visit, after the king had banished him to the Stepstones in disgrace. To turn up now, uninvited, at the princess’s wedding festivities.

“He never could resist making a scene,” Lady Royce said lowly with a shake of her head.

At the high table, the king, queen and princess had varying levels of anger on their faces. Indeed, Princess Rhaenyra looked like she was trying to immolate her uncle with her eyes based on the ferocity of her glare.

However, Prince Damon would not be deterred, continuing his progress. Likely not wanting to disrupt the celebrations, the king indicated for a seat to be added to the end of the table, next to Lady Arryn. Lady Arryn herself did not outwardly react to this, merely giving Prince Daemon a cool look. Lyman prayed the prince refrained from making any comments about sheep.

With everyone seated, the king turned his attention back to the room. “Be welcome, as we join together in celebration,” he said. “Tonight is only its beginning. We honour the crown's oldest and fiercest ally, House Velaryon, reaching back to the days of Old Valyria and the Age of Dragons. With House Targaryen and House Velaryon united, I hope to herald in a second Age of Dragons in Westeros.”

Thunderous applause broke out at this declaration as servants moved to begin pouring wine and place platters of food on the tables.

When everyone had a goblet of wine in hand, the princess stood from her place at the high table. “I would like to toast my betrothed, Ser Laenor. Who so bravely rode his dragon to protect the realm’s interests in the Stepstones. I can imagine no finer consort to stand by my side in the coming decades. To Ser Laenor!”

The room echoed the toast before drinking deep of their cups. One by one, the members of the high table stood and made their own toasts to the couple. Lady Arryn’s included reference to the fact it would be Princess Rhaenyra that carried on the Arryn line. All those unaware of what was happening with the Vale's succession were not so now. Lady Amanda toasted the memory of the departed Queen Aemma, saying how much her sister would have loved watching her daughter be wed. Princess Rhaenyra looked moved at this declaration. On the other hand, the king was avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Lyman could not help the cold trickle of worry that went down his spine as Prince Daemon stood and raised his own goblet.

“I would like to raise a cup to a group that are oft unappreciated within this keep … the Kingsguard!” he called out.

Oh, gods above.

“I know I for one sleep better at night knowing the safety of the royal family rests in their … capable hands.” A smirk curled the corner of Prince Daemon’s lip as he stared at the Hightowers.

Ser Bryndon was clenching his jaw so hard he was liable to crack a tooth and Lord Hightower’s cheeks were reddening with fury.

Lyman could not help but picture Ser Criston’s capable hands, splattered with Ser Otto’s blood.

“To the Kingsguard!” the prince finished, taking a hearty swig from his goblet.

The toast was awkwardly echoed around the room but the Hightowers’ cups remained untouched.

At the high table, the queen’s gaze was fixed on the wood in front of her while Princess Rhaenyra shot her concerned glances.

With the toasts out the way, everyone soon began tucking in to the bountiful food on offer. Lyman could not help but feel disappointed though. The princess must have taken his suggestion of a compromise with Ser Laenor to heart, for the main meats on offer were roast duck and goose. Hardly his favourites.

As the feasting drew to a close, Prince Aemon and Princess Helaena were brought into the room by their nursemaids. They were well received at the high table, Princess Rhaenyra quickly taking hold of her little brother while the queen took the little princess. The Velaryons and Arryns were soon passing compliments over the children. While Princess Helaena was too young to react, Prince Aemon seemed to be basking in all the attention.

Nothing had been mentioned to him but Lyman wondered if the two women planned this. Ser Otto’s accusation that the princess would one day slay her brother had spread through the keep. However, looking at the two of them now, it was clear how comfortable Prince Aemon was in Princess Rhaenyra’s arms as she doted on him.

Lord Hightower stood from his seat and rounded the high table to the princess.

“If I might hold my great-nephew for a moment, princess?” he asked.

Her eyes moved to the queen and, with her nod of permission, she handed the little prince over.

“Hello, Prince Aemon,” Lord Hightower greeted, holding the prince out in front of him. “My, what a fine young man you are growing into.”

Prince Aemon regarded him for a few moments before a furrow appeared on his forehead. Oh no, Lyman recognised that expression. “I’m not Aemon!” he yelled. “I’m a dwagon!” With that he jerked his head to one side and sank his teeth into Lord Hightower’s wrist.

Lord Hightower fumbled the prince in his shock and Lyman suspected he would have dropped him were it not for the princess reaching over and gently grabbing him.

“Apologies, my lord,” she said. “He takes our family heritage most seriously.” Princess Rhaenyra’s apology was somewhat marred by the fact she was blatantly trying not to burst into laughter.

Holding no such compunctions, a chuckle left Prince Daemon’s lips.

Lord Hightower gave unhappy glances to both princes and the princess before the queen engaged him in conversation.

After that excitement, it was decided that it was time for the little prince and princess to retire.

Soon the musicians struck up a tune and Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor took to the floor to open the dancing. Lyman was not familiar with the dance they performed but, from the steps, he guessed it was based on the mating rituals of dragons.

After a round of applause for the couple, other members of the court stood and began dancing as well. Lyman needed a bit longer for his food to settle but planned to grace the floor with Rosamund before the night was done. For the moment, he was quite content to sit with his wife and enjoy the music and atmosphere.

However, his attention was soon grabbed by two silver-haired figures as he noticed Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon circling each other in the centre of the room. While their movements mirrored those of the couples around them, they looked like they were each taking the measure of the other more than dancing.

The room was too noisy for their conversation to be overheard but Lyman saw their lips moving as they grew close. From the mounting frustration on both their faces, it was clear that the princess and prince were arguing. Eventually, they gave up any pretence of dancing, standing still in the middle of the floor as the other couples moved around them.

Suddenly, the prince’s arm shot out and he roughly clasped his niece’s jaw in his hand. Lyman was halfway out of his seat before he was aware of moving but he need not have bothered. Princess Rhaenyra pushed her uncle’s hand away before turning and beginning to walk back to the high table, anger clear on her face. However, Prince Daemon must not have considered their conversation finished for he grabbed her arm.

The princess’s reaction was immediate and violent as she swung around and backhanded her uncle across the face.

Lyman could hear the crack of impact even from where he stood and Prince Daemon staggered backwards from the force of the blow, his hand reaching up to touch his cheek. The dancing stopped as gasps rang out across the room and the music ceased.

Princess Rhaenyra’s upper-body strength had improved with her archery practice and conditioning sessions under Ser Harwin’s tutelage. She had also always favoured heavy, jewelled rings. Combined, these two factors meant that as Prince Daemon’s hand lowered, it revealed three deep gouges travelling across his right cheek to the side of his nose, blood sluggishly dripping down.

Lyman could not help but take a vicious satisfaction at the sight. It served him right, both for laying hands upon the crown princess and for trying to force her into a marriage with him.

She spat one final comment at her uncle in High Valyrian before turning and walking back to the high table.

The prince stood stunned in the middle of the hall for several long moments before turning and stalking out of the room.

Whispers broke out among those gathered until the music restarted and the dancing slowly resumed.

Looking to the high table, Lyman saw the princess shrug off the concerned hand the king placed on her shoulder before engaging Lady Arryn and the queen in conversation.

Lyman retook his seat and turned back to face his table companions.

“I imagine people will say that was not very ladylike of the princess,” Rosamund said. Despite the censure of her words, a barely concealed smirk was lifting the corner of her lip.

“Bloody satisfying to watch though,” Lady Royce replied, making no attempt to hide her own amusement.

Ser Harwin broke into unabashed laughter that soon had the rest of them chuckling along.

The tourney began the next morn with the first rounds of the jousting. While everything had been arranged days in advance, Prince Daemon’s arrival changed the situation. His intention to compete was made clear early in the morning when he commandeered two pages to act as his squires for the occasion.

There was a brief discussion about banning Prince Daemon from taking part but they realised he would have done so anyway as a mystery knight. Or turned up to the lists, lance in hand, laying down challenges. Accepting that the prince would take part in the jousting anyway, the competition bracket had instead been carefully altered so that there was no chance of him facing any Hightowers. At least unless it was in the final round.

Lyman sat with the Small Council and royal family as they waited for the jousting to begin. Ser Laenor himself was not competing. Apparently, a lance through the shoulder during his first – and only – tourney appearance had soured him to jousting. Lyman was secretly glad of this. After his youngest nephew had died in a jousting accident, he had never looked at the sport the same way again and banned his own sons from ever competing. Not that Garlon had been of a mind to, his interests far more academic in nature.

Most of the competitors had finished their preparations when Prince Daemon rode onto the grounds. His black armour must have been retrieved from wherever it was stored but the prince’s temporary squires had clearly not had enough time to properly buff it. As Prince Daemon approached the stands, while his helm covered most of his face, Lyman could see the edges of a white bandage at the side of his nose.

“I would ask for your favour, Niece,” the prince said, lowering his lance towards the princess. “With it, I am sure I can win these games and crown you queen of love and beauty.”

Lyman would have thought being struck across the face would show Prince Daemon that his ardour towards the princess was unwanted. However, he had apparently decided to disregard the events of the previous day and continue with his antics.

Princess Rhaenyra just stared past him boredly. “You are too late,” she replied. “I have already given it to my sworn shield, Ser Lorent. Actually though …” she trailed off as she bent over to pick up something from next to her chair. With a motion of her arm, she threw it towards Prince Daemon.

Lyman would say this for the prince: he had excellent reflexes, not even fumbling his lance as he caught the object in his free hand. As he examined it, Lyman saw it was a necklace, the distinctive sheen of Valyrian steel clear in the sun.

“You can have your necklace back, Uncle,” the princess continued. “I will one day inherit Blackfyre, that will be the only piece of our ancestry I need.”

Prince Daemon’s jaw clenched in anger. “What do you want, an apology?” he asked. “I am sorry if you feel I have wronged you, Rhaenyra, but ours would have been the stronger marriage. And, you cannot deny, the consequences of that evening turned out fav—”

“If you make one more snide comment about my father’s death, I will have your tongue torn from your head,” the queen spat.

While Queen Alicent had occupied that role for several years, she had remained rather demure and skittish in her disposition. However, there was no trace of that now as command rang out in her voice.

Prince Daemon twitched back ever so slightly in his saddle at the vehemence of her tone. Not that Lyman blamed him, most of those around the queen had done the same. Including the king. On the other hand, Princess Rhaenyra shot her an admiring look before turning to face forwards again.

“Given how much you have complained about being forced to marry Lady Rhea over the years, I never expected you to try and subject me to such yourself,” the princess said.

The prince looked taken aback at this. “That is not what I—”

Princess Rhaenyra interrupted him with a mirthless laugh before responding with several sentences in High Valyrian, the fury in her voice barely contained.

Lyman had no idea what she was saying but Princess Rhaenys was now eyeing Prince Daemon with an incredulous look upon her face. King Viserys had also sunk lower in his seat, a hand raised to cover his eyes.

The prince tried to respond, also in High Valyrian, his tone defensive.

However, Princess Rhaenyra cut him off. “Enough, Uncle. Words are wind. I grow tired of the sound of your voice.”

Despite the dismissal, Prince Daemon could not resist trying his luck. “How about your favour, Lady Laena?” he asked. “You have grown most comely these last few years. Almost as pretty as your brother.”

“As much as I would love to be your second choice, I have already given my favour to Ser Joffrey,” Lady Laena replied sarcastically.

At that, the prince decided to cut his losses and rode away.

The first day of the tourney passed without major upset. Ser Joffrey was eliminated early, Ser Lorent unhorsing him on their first pass. Despite hitting his head upon meeting the ground, Ser Joffrey remained in high spirits and joined them in the stands after his armour was removed.

Ser Willas Tyrell proved to have earned his reputation as an excellent jouster, felling opponents with years more experience than himself. The most exciting match of the morning was when Ser Willas and Ser Ormund Hightower came up against each other. The heirs of Highgarden and Oldtown broke three lances apiece before Ser Ormund was pushed from his horse. He then wished to continue with a contest of arms and swords were drawn. Long minutes later, it was Ser Willas that forced his opponent to yield with a sword to Ser Ormund’s throat.

Ser Willas had courteously reached a hand down to help Ser Ormund to his feet but it was smacked away. Instead, Ser Ormund leveraged himself upright before storming away, a definite limp in his step.

Lyman could see him now sitting on a bench with the brown-haired woman who had been on his arm the previous day. He had since discovered that she was Lady Talla Redwyne, Ser Ormund’s betrothed.

Averting his eyes as the body of a knight – his head caved in by a morningstar – was removed from the field, Lyman noticed Ser Joffrey was staring intently across the stands. Following his gaze, he saw Lady Jeyne Arryn whispering in the ear of a red-headed woman whose name he could not recall. He was about to rebuke Ser Joffrey, tell him that such brazen regard was unseemly, when the knight threw his head back with a guffaw.

“Not planning to get married, indeed,” he said with a chuckle. “And a redhead too. Gods, I wonder if it runs in the blood—”

Ser Laenor’s elbow jabbed into Ser Joffrey’s side. “I think you should rest after that blow to your head,” he said. “It is probably best that you retire for the day.”

Ser Joffrey stood and executed a sloppy bow. “As you command, my lord.” With a final glance in Lady Arryn’s direction and a chuckle, he turned and left the stands.

The second day of the jousting saw the contest reach an exciting conclusion. Ser Willas had finally fallen in the face of Ser Harwin’s sheer power while Prince Daemon appeared to take a great deal of pleasure in unhorsing Ser Lorent. The final round would therefore be Ser Harwin and Prince Daemon going up against each other to see who would carry the day.

The two men exchanged brief words in the centre of the grounds before Ser Harwin abruptly pivoted his horse around to retrieve his lance and shield. Prince Daemon had barely gotten into place before Ser Harwin had spurred on his horse and charged down the lists towards him. Lyman was not sure what words had been spoken between the men but it looked like Ser Harwin had taken definite offence.

The first pass, Ser Harwin missed completely. Prince Daemon got in a glancing blow but it was not enough to unbalance the sturdy knight. The second pass, they broke their lances against each other’s shields but neither was unhorsed. It was on the third pass that it happened: Ser Harwin made no attempt to dodge the approaching lance, instead he absorbed the blow while his own lance slammed into the top of Prince Daemon’s shield.

With an explosion of splinters, the prince was thrown clear out of his saddle onto the field below. There was silence for a couple of seconds as he lay unmoving, squires rushing over to assist. Then, with what looked like great difficulty, Prince Daemon turned and pushed himself onto his knees. He was holding his left arm awkwardly against his chest. Even from yards away, Lyman could tell his elbow jutted out at an unnatural angle.

When the prince made no attempt to call for a contest of arms, applause began ringing out for Ser Harwin. He took a lap of victory around the lists, ignoring the prince being guided towards the maesters’ tent. Steering his horse over to the Master of Ceremonies, Ser Harwin retrieved his prize: a wreath of flowers. He then began heading towards the stands.

Given that the tourney was to celebrate Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s marriage, decorum suggested that Ser Harwin should crown the princess as queen of love and beauty. However, his eyes were fixed on Lady Royce as he rode towards her, the wreath of red and blue roses held in his hand. Judging by the wide grin on her face, the princess did not mind.

Lady Royce’s face had flushed a dark red at all the attention but she gamely leaned over the railing towards her betrothed as he reached her. When she straightened – the wreath of flowers now perched on her head – cheers and foot stamping rang out from the stands for their queen of love and beauty.

Lyman and Princess Rhaenyra finally carved out some time to spend together on the night of the sixth day of festivities. It was with a groan that she sank into the chair on the other side of his desk.

“Gods, I am exhausted,” the princess said, leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. “I swear I shall sleep for a moon when this is all over and done.”

“Lord Velaryon has certainly not scrimped on the celebrations,” Lyman remarked while pouring them both a goblet of wine.

“It is not just the celebrations,” she replied, taking a goblet from him with a grateful nod. “It is all the politicking. I spent an hour with Alicent, Lord Lyonel, Lord Tyrell and Bennard Stark earlier speaking of grain for the approaching winter. If I hear the phrase ‘winter is coming’ one more time …”

“You have been doing a fine job, princess,” he complimented. “Rosamund has heard that many houses in the Reach are most impressed with you. The Tarlys were practically singing your praises.”

“It always both amazes and alarms me how quickly gossip reaches Rosamund’s ears. Perhaps I should make her my Mistress of Whisperers when I become queen.”

“I am sure she would thrive in the role,” Lyman joked back. “You would be astounded at some of the news she hears during embroidery sessions with the ladies of the court.”

“Now there is an idea,” Princess Rhaenyra said, a mischievous twinkle entering her eye. “I will have my entire Small Council be made up of women. Apart from you, of course.”

“In that case, I would be honoured to keep my seat,” he returned. Truth be told, he tried not to think about his own position when imagining her ascension to the throne. While he would love to see the princess crowned queen, the longer the king lived, the more time she would have to strengthen her position. And Lyman himself was several decades the king’s senior.

With a shake of his head, he tried to push such thoughts from his mind. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

She thought it over for a few moments. “Not particularly. It will be a relief to get the actual wedding ceremony out of the way. And it will be nice to ride Syrax, I have not been able to see her all week.”

“Archsepton Warrick and the High Septon have everything in hand then?” Lyman asked.

As was the case for the king and queen’s wedding, the High Septon had travelled from Oldtown to perform the ceremony.

“Yes,” she replied. “The statues of the Mother and Father have been placed in the Dragonpit.”

With it being the largest structure in the city, the wedding itself would take place in the Dragonpit. The Grand Sept was nowhere near large enough to host all the lords and ladies that were now in King’s Landing, let alone the smallfolk that wished to witness the occasion.

“I admit I do not envy you, princess. Tens of thousands of people with their eyes focused on you.” He could not help the shudder that came over him. “I have never myself enjoyed being the centre of attention. During my own wedding, I could feel my knees shaking throughout the ceremony and I was terrified I would fall flat on my face.”

His fingers had been so slick with sweat he had struggled to clasp the bride’s cloak at Rosamund’s throat. Bless his dear wife, she had tilted her head to one side to help him see what he was doing.

Princess Rhaenyra chuckled. “All the attention does not really bother me,” she replied. “My position has meant I have had eyes on me my whole life. It has only been worse these last several years, since I was named heir.”

They both enjoyed sips of their wine.

“It always seemed contradictory to me,” Lyman said. “That something so intimate as binding your life to someone should be witnessed by so many.”

She gave him a considering look. “If there is ever the opportunity, I should invite you to a Valyrian wedding. There is far less frippery, just the binding itself. In fire and blood.”

He had wondered about that. “Have you and Ser Laenor any plans to wed in the tradition of your ancestors? I know the traditions of the Faith do not hold much sway over you.”

The princess did not immediately respond, instead taking a deep drink of her wine. “We have no plans to, no,” she finally said. “It is not something entered into lightly. To do so for a purely political marriage, it would not be appropriate.”

A purely political marriage. “I know we have vaguely discussed it before but do you not believe you could find love with Ser Laenor?” Lyman asked. “From what I have observed, the two of you get on well together.”

“Oh gods.” She leant back in her chair and covered her eyes with her free hand. Letting out a laugh, Princess Rhaenyra then brought her arm back to her side. “Lyman, it is sweet how concerned you are for my happiness but I do not think of Laenor that way. We were friends in our youth and have become so again. That will be enough.”

“My feelings for Rosamund did not bloom in a day,” he replied. “It took a few years; we grew close over time. Just please do not close your heart to the possibility.”

She gave him a pained look at this. “Do you truly not know?”

“Know what?” Lyman asked, the confusion clear in his voice.

The princess shook her head. “Never mind,” she said. “I promise I have not closed my heart to love or the like.”

“That is all I ask."

Hopefully, with time and trust, she could find the same stalwart supporter in Ser Laenor that he himself had found in Rosamund.

The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear, just a few errant clouds in the sky. The temperature had dropped in recent weeks; autumn was finally coming down upon the realm.

Dressed in his finest doublet – a black embroidered with small yellow beehives – Lyman sat with Rosamund before the dais that had been constructed in the Dragonpit. Princess Rhaenyra had insisted that they sit in the front row alongside the royal family, the Arryns and the Velaryons. Lyman was sure he could feel the eyes of Lord Hightower boring into his neck from the row behind.

To avoid any more ‘unfortunate’ biting incidents, Prince Aemon was sitting with the two of them while the queen minded Princess Helaena. Lyman knew Queen Alicent was praying the little princess would not have one of her crying fits during the ceremony. Prince Daemon sat in the front row too, the first time that Lyman had seen his face properly since the welcoming feast. While the gashes across the prince’s cheek had been stitched closed, the damage to his pale skin was clear. His left arm was also held in a sling tucked against his chest, Ser Harwin’s final lance having broken both arm and collarbone. According to Rosamund, people were starting to refer to Ser Harwin as Breakbones because of it.

The High Septon stood patiently on the dais between the statues of the Father and Mother, his crystal crown occasionally catching the light and dazzling the audience. King Viserys and Ser Joffrey were up there with him, waiting to perform their roles in the ceremony. Arrayed before the dais were all seven of the Kingsguard. With Ser Clement having passed away last moon, it was a set of twins from the Crownlands that filled the vacant positions left by him and Ser Criston. Lyman was unable to tell Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk apart and doubted he would ever be able to. At least Lord Jason Lannister and Ser Tyland styled their hair differently but the two kingsguards were identical down to the twists at the ends of their moustaches.

Behind him, Lyman saw the Dragonpit was now packed to the brim. Dozens of benches held the highborn of the realm while behind them were thousands and thousands of smallfolk. Lord Lyonel had informed him that securing the event was the largest undertaking the City Watch had ever had. Ser Harwin was back there somewhere, dressed in his captain’s armour and blue cloak.

Prince Aemon suddenly began clapping between Lyman and Rosamund. “Beebs, Sywax!” he called, pointing his arm up to the sky.

Looking up, Lyman saw the princess’s golden dragon had come into view above the pit, soon joined by a silvery-grey dragon. The two made a few slow turns around each other before coming together and performing a series of twists in the sky, sending out gouts of flame. Honestly. The plan had been for them to just come in and land but apparently Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor could not resist showing off a little.

Eventually, after their display of aerial acrobatics, the two dragons landed in the space that had been left clear for that purpose. Gasps rang out from behind Lyman at the proximity of the large beasts. Over his years at court, he had grown used to seeing dragons fly above King’s Landing and had visited the Dragonpit with the princess on a few occasions. However, for those not accustomed to the sight, they were terrifying. Lyman hoped the Hightowers were taking particular notice of how easily they could be burned to ash.

With a grace that could only have come from doing the movement hundreds of times, the two dragonriders swiftly dismounted. Meeting in the middle, they ascended the dais together.

Ser Laenor wore a rich tunic of Velaryon blue, decorated with gold thread embroidered into swirling designs. His locs were tied back at the nape of his neck and in the sunlight looked almost white.

From behind, all Lyman could see of the princess was the back of her head and her maiden cloak: the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on a field of black. It had been Lady Amanda Arryn that gave her the cloak, the one worn by Princess Daella during her own wedding to Lord Arryn and which had remained at the Eyrie ever since.

With the couple now before him, the High Septon led everyone in a prayer before the main ceremony began. There was no hesitation in their voices as Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor went through the seven vows and promises, their tones pitched to carry as far as possible.

As the High Septon called out the requisite challenge, Lyman kept one eye on Prince Daemon but he remained in his seat.

After a song, it was time for the exchange of cloaks. The king stepped forward and slowly removed the princess’s maiden cloak, appearing to have trouble with the tie. He looked rather overcome as he moved back. Ser Joffrey then unfurled the bride’s cloak in his arms and passed it to Ser Laenor.

The bride’s cloak was a point of debate prior to the ceremony. Traditionally, a man would wrap his bride in a cloak of his own house sigil and colours, signifying that she had joined his house and would henceforth be under his protection. However, Princess Rhaenyra wanted it to remain clear that she was still of House Targaryen, not Velaryon, but they could not disregard the practice entirely. Eventually, it was agreed that the bride’s cloak would be of House Velaryon colours but still carry the three-headed-dragon sigil of House Targaryen.

With a graceful flick of his arm, Ser Laenor wrapped Princess Rhaenyra in the cloak, securing it at her throat. The two of them then clasped their hands.

“I am yours and you are mine,” Ser Laenor said with a smile. “Whatever may come.”

“I am yours and you are mine,” the princess replied, matching his grin. “Whatever may come.”

They then exchanged a brief, chaste kiss.

Lyman could feel a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

Using a crystal to flash rainbow light upon them, the High Septon spoke the final words. “Here in the sight of gods and men I do solemnly proclaim Laenor of House Velaryon and Rhaenyra of House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between them.”

With that, the couple turned to face their audience. The thunderous applause almost drowned out the dragon roars that joined it.

With the official ceremony over, the highborn headed back to the Red Keep for the large feast that awaited them.

It was a jovial atmosphere as the drink flowed freely and course after course of food was brought out from the kitchens. At the high table, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor exchanged light touches as they served each other food, talking and laughing with those around them. Lyman was just glad he did not have to excuse himself before a bedding, everyone involved having decided such a tradition would be undignified for the heir to the throne.

Of course, that was when Prince Daemon walked in.

Lyman had lost track of the man as they all left the Dragonpit but he was still in the same clothing. And in his uninjured hand he carried … a large candle? It must have been nearly two feet from end to end and just slim enough for the prince to hold one-handed.

As Prince Daemon walked towards the high table, the conversation slowly quietened around the hall until it had utterly ceased by the time he reached the main dais. The Kingsguard eyed him warily but, at a small gesture from the king, did nothing to impede his progress.

Seemingly unperturbed by all the eyes fixed on him, the prince reached over and placed the wick of his candle against a lit one on the table. Once the flame had caught, he put the candle on the ground before kneeling next to it.

“Words are wind, Niece,” Prince Daemon said, his voice carrying across the silent room. “So I offer you Fire and Blood.”

Princess Rhaenyra regarded her uncle for several seconds before standing and beginning to walk round the table. Pausing next to her father, the two exchanged a few words before the king handed his daughter the dagger he wore at his waist.

Reaching the prince, she handed him the dagger, which he held awkwardly in the hand strapped to his chest. The princess stood, watching her uncle expectantly.

With a single violent motion, he slashed his right hand open on the dagger. Then, as blood began to drip down, passed his open palm over the flame of the candle. Prince Daemon spoke several sentences in High Valyrian, Lyman catching the princess’s name a few times among the foreign words. Reaching towards his own face, he drew a symbol on his forehead before bringing his bloody hand to touch his lips. Finally, he extended his hand towards the princess.

If she had any compunctions about the blood, Princess Rhaenyra did not show it as she allowed her uncle to press his lips to her hand, leaving a vivid red smear behind. She then spoke several words of High Valyrian back and passed her bloodied hand over the candle, apparently completing her role in what Lyman could only assume was some kind of Valyrian ritual.

He was sure he heard Lord Hightower say something about heathen customs from halfway down the table.

“And in the Common Tongue, if you would please, Uncle,” the princess said, her back straight as she gazed down at him, knelt before her, the marks she had left across his face clear in the flickering candlelight.

Prince Daemon dipped his chin towards his chest before speaking. “I, Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, promise to be faithful to the heir to the Iron Throne, Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. I pledge fealty to her and shall defend her against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Valyrian pantheon.”

Well, the oath was four years overdue but the Rogue Prince had finally bent the knee.

Chapter Text

A few weeks after their wedding, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor left on a brief tour around the realm. With winter quickly approaching, there was no appetite for a full progress that would cause many lords to use much-needed food stores to host the royal couple and their retinue. Instead, the princess and her consort flew between the realm’s other four cities: Gulltown, White Harbour, Lannisport and Oldtown.

Their travels coincided with the festivals for the last harvest and the people of the realm packed the streets for the dual celebration. The couple and their dragons were well received, with many making favourable comparisons with King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne.

In the end, it was for the best that a full tour had not been embarked upon as Queen Alicent began her labours barely a moon after the royal couple returned from Oldtown. With the babe thought to be between one and two moons early, there was doubt throughout the keep over whether the queen’s battle in childbed would end well.

Queen Alicent laboured for a full night, Princess Rhaenyra knelt by her side, to deliver the child. Lyman never heard in full what passed during those dark hours but, as the sun crested the horizon, the queen gave birth to another prince. In spite of the fact that the new babe was half the size Prince Aemon had been at his own birth, he soon proved to be robust and hardy. The first of his mother’s children to inherit her brown eyes, his silver hair was also already showing a slight curl.

According to the princess, the babe’s name had caused some debate between the king and queen. King Viserys wanted to name the babe Aemond after a well-regarded ancestor of House Targaryen who served as an archon of Elyria during the days of the Valyrian Freehold. On the other hand, Queen Alicent wanted to honour Princess Rhaenyra and their years of friendship, especially given the comfort the princess provided during the long night of the prince’s birth. To that end, she wished for a Targaryen name whose beginning matched the princess’s, such as Rhaegar or Rhaegel. In the end – knowing that the people of the realm would be unable to tell the difference – they combined their two preferences, leading to the naming of Prince Rhaemond.

A few weeks after Prince Rhaemond’s birth, Prince Aemon’s dragon egg finally hatched. Barely the size of a cat, the golden hatchling was soon dubbed Sun by the prince because its brightness matched the sun in the sky. This was expanded to Sunfyre at Princess Rhaenyra’s gentle intervention, explaining to her little brother that such a unique dragon surely deserved a unique name.

Before long, it reached a half year since Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor had wed. However, there was still no announcement of a babe on the way. Lyman privately wondered if the queen’s struggles with her third child had caused the princess to delay her own attempts at securing her line. By the time the princess confided in him a few moons later that she was with child, rumours already circulated the Red Keep that she may be barren.

As it was, the court watched with bated breath as the princess’s belly expanded, the struggles Queen Aemma experienced with her own pregnancies not far from anyone’s minds. Despite the fact that Princess Rhaenyra was still battling her worries over childbirth, the pregnancy progressed without issue. She was unafflicted by the retching that oft took hold of expectant mothers, a fact the queen was most jealous of when her fourth pregnancy followed several moons behind the princess’s own.

Indeed, Princess Rhaenyra remained healthy and strong, continuing with her work on the Small Council, her duties to Dragonstone and her charitable endeavours within King’s Landing. As the nine-moon mark approached, they all prayed this good fortune continued.

When Princess Rhaenys asked to speak on a matter that was outside her remit as Mistress of Laws during that day’s Small Council meeting, Lyman could already feel a headache coming on. Any deviation from the normal progression of one of their sessions did not bode well.

“There have been reports of pirates launching attacks on the Stepstones,” Princess Rhaenys said. “They have captured one of the smaller islands, Torturer’s Deep.”

The realm had lost one of the islands already? Prince Daemon and Lord Velaryon had finished their war in the Stepstones only two years ago.

The king was clearly thinking along the same lines as he said, “I thought we were rid of that blasted place.” His eyes closed in exasperation.

“We do still have men there but they have lacked leadership since Daemon left,” Princess Rhaenys replied. “Without any dragons either, it is difficult to fully stop incursions given the number of islands that need to be minded.”

“The Stepstones should not have been left to their own devices,” Ser Tyland said. “Maintaining control of them is vital to securing our naval trade.”

Looking pleased at his interjection, Princess Rhaenys continued, “I agree. My husband, son, good-brother and cousin waged war for years to drive out the Crabfeeder. Yet the crown abandoned the islands in the wake of their victory.”

“What would you suggest then, princess?” Lord Lyonel asked. “I presume you have a solution for this in mind.”

She leant forward and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “Declare that the Stepstones are a new lordship of the realm, with all the associated trappings. Under Prince Daemon.”

What? Minor adjustments to the border with Dorne in the Marches aside, no new territories had been added to the realm since Aegon’s Conquest. And for such a position to be given to Prince Daemon …

“You wish to make Daemon a lord?” King Viserys asked with a chuckle. “To form a cadet branch of House Targaryen in charge of the Stepstones?”

“What do you intend to do with him, Your Grace?” Princess Rhaenys replied. “He has been at loose ends these last few years.”

“Princess Rhaenys has a point,” Princess Rhaenyra added. “The crown has long struggled to find a suitable role for my uncle. Queen Alysanne attempted to marry him off to Lady Rhea but we all know how that turned out. Daemon was tried out in multiple positions on this very council, none fit his skills. You do not want him back in the City Watch after all the dismembering. He needs to do something.”

“We cannot simply grant Prince Daemon a lordship because we are unsure what else to do with him,” Lord Lyonel retorted. “He may have the necessary knowledge from his education as a child but would the prince take such a position seriously? He has not shown great maturity and restraint in the past.”

Lord Lyonel and Lyman himself had spent years on the Small Council listening to Ser Otto report one depravity after another by the Rogue Prince. Even though Ser Otto’s testimony could not be counted as unbiased, many of his complaints were evidenced.

“He has changed since Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding,” Princess Rhaenys replied. “Not entirely but he is not the same irreverent man he once was. His loyalty to the crown cannot be doubted either.”

While unsure if he agreed with Princess Rhaenys’s assessment, whether Prince Daemon would make a suitable lord was irrelevant to Lyman’s position on this council. But part of this plan was.

“The Stepstones are barren and desolate,” he said. “Do you know how much coin would be required for the kind of undertaking you are suggesting? To establish a lordship and then maintain it?”

Princess Rhaenys waved her hand as if this was a trivial concern. “The Stepstones should be capable of self-sufficiency. There could be a toll applied to ships sailing through. It need not apply to those trading with the realm – we already get port fees and taxes there – just to those going to the Free Cities.”

Which meant tolling any ship entering the Narrow Sea to go to Tyrosh, Myr, Pentos, Braavos or Lorath. Or leaving the Narrow Sea from the same. Depending on the level of the toll, that plan should allow for a lordship to be supported on the Stepstones given the amount of trade affected. However, there remained the issue of getting it established.

“That still leaves the initial costs though,” Lyman argued. “There would need to be a keep built; a port for ships to dock for inspection; housing and other amenities for the garrison.”

“A great deal of riches were recovered when the Crabfeeder was defeated,” Princess Rhaenys returned. “The men that fought were given a share and Corlys claimed much but, as far as I know, Daemon is sitting on the rest.”

“Would that be enough to pay for this though?” Queen Alicent asked. “Our coffers are not infinite and we would need to consider the cost to our subjects if the crown was required to contribute.”

Lyman was truly grateful for the queen’s perspective on matters of coin. It sometimes felt that most of those on the Small Council were happy to allocate funds as they liked and then expected him to make golden dragons appear out of thin air!

Princess Rhaenys nodded. “I believe so. Based on the wealth Corlys brought back to Driftmark, the Crabfeeder’s horde was not small. Besides, a loan could always be taken from the Iron Bank and the excess coin gathered from the tolls used to pay it off.”

“But where would we find the men?” the Grand Maester asked, a frown on his face. “The prince would need a proper garrison and other servants. Most people would not wish to upend their lives to relocate for such a venture.”

“Many of the City Watchmen that followed Daemon to Dragonstone remain on the Stepstones,” Princess Rhaenys replied. “It would just be a matter of providing them proper accommodation and shipping out any families.”

“Those men are with him still?” the king asked. “It has been well over five years.”

“Let it never be said that my uncle cannot inspire loyalty,” Princess Rhaenyra said, idly rubbing a hand over her swollen belly. “And he is a dragonrider; Caraxes would be more of a deterrent against pirates than a thousand men.”

That was true enough. Few men would willingly attack a dragon’s den. Especially in flammable wooden ships.

“Would the Free Cities accept this arrangement though?” King Viserys asked. “Would Dorne?”

“We conquered the Stepstones so they are now our rightful domain,” Ser Tyland said. “And a toll is less of an imposition than capturing ships, stealing their cargo and killing all the sailors. If anything, Dorne and the Free Cities should be grateful we are securing their shipping lanes as well.”

The Triarchy continued to insist that it had not supplied the Crabfeeder and that he acted without its leave. Both sides were aware of the pretence but it meant the Triarchy had no cause to outwardly argue against securing the Stepstones from pirates.

“Even if they protest, we cannot just allow pirates to play havoc with our shipping again,” Princess Rhaenyra argued. “Winter is upon us and the North depends on the food being sailed from the Reach. Thousands would die if the Stepstones fell. Tens of thousands.”

Following Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s wedding, Bennard Stark spent weeks in King’s Landing trying to secure his kingdom against the coming winter. Talks with Lord Tyrell resulted in an agreement where grain would be shipped north in exchange for wood. The North was depending on those shipments to see it through a winter that was expected to last years. Luckily, the worst that King’s Landing had suffered so far was colder temperatures, heavy rain and the odd flurry of snow.

The king looked between his councillors one by one but no further protests against the plan were raised. “Daemon, Lord of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea,” he said. Then, so quietly that Lyman barely caught it, “Gods, Otto must be turning in his grave.”

“I envy Syrax,” the princess said, Lyman steadying her with an arm as she eased down into the chair on the other side of his desk. “She grew two eggs for a few moons and then laid them in less than an hour. Would that I could do the same.”

“I am unsure if I share that sentiment,” he replied, moving to take his own chair. “I have seen those eggs, they are hardly small.”

Indeed, the deep-green egg and the cobalt-blue egg were too large for him to fully wrap his hands around them.

“Well, I would obviously not lay eggs that large,” she said as though it were a given.

“Oh, how large would the eggs you lay be?” he asked, hoping a bit of light humour might distract her.

“I imagine about …” Princess Rhaenyra held her hands up in front of her before trailing off, seemingly realising the ridiculous turn the conversation had taken.

Lyman could not help but laugh at the affronted expression on her face.

“That was unnecessary,” she replied. “I am already the size of Vhagar and now you are making me the subject of your jokes!” Her words were rather belied by the fact she was clearly trying not to laugh.

“I do apologise, princess,” he said with mock seriousness. “If you wish to continue describing the eggs you will lay, I will treat the subject with the utmost gravitas.”

She let out a chuckle before shaking her head. “We should probably move the conversation along.” The princess adjusted herself in her seat with a grimace. “My back has been somewhat paining me today and I would prefer to lie down sooner rather than later.”

He could not help the concern that washed over him at this. Dragonstone’s maester, Gerardys – who Princess Rhaenyra had summoned to the Red Keep to attend to her – said the pregnancy was one of the smoothest he had witnessed. However, the spectres of Queen Aemma and the princess’s grandmothers continued to haunt all their thoughts as her time in childbed drew near.

“We need not speak today if you wish to retire now,” Lyman offered.

“No, no,” she replied. “After that Small Council session I am curious to know your thoughts.”

“I can see the logic of securing the realm’s shipping with a properly provisioned garrison on the Stepstones,” he said slowly. “Especially if the crown’s coffers do not have to be touched to do so.” Lyman paused for a few moments before giving voice to his main issue. “Did it need to be Prince Daemon though? Surely there are other, more suitable, men.”

“All things considered, he is likely the best choice. My uncle has a dragon and they have both been tested in battle. Just the thought of facing Caraxes would deter many would-be invaders. Then there is the fact that Daemon already has the loyalty of the men securing the Stepstones.”

While Princess Rhaenyra made a good point regarding the advantages of the fearsome reputations of the prince and his dragon, he was still called the Rogue Prince for a reason.

“I am unsure if Prince Daemon has the right temperament to be a successful lord. He has always been rather wild in disposition. Look at how he handled the duties the king entrusted to him previously.”

“While it was my idea, raising Daemon to the Small Council was hardly the best use of his particular talents,” she argued. “The City Watch was a better fit but he was perhaps a bit too … over-zealous in carrying out his duties.”

Over-zealous was one way to describe a full cart of dismembered body parts.

“It is unsurprising that my good-mother wants him to have a lordship,” the princess continued. “She and Lord Corlys will be thinking of Laena’s future and the future of any children they have. At the moment, Daemon has no inheritance to pass on.”

Let it never be said that Lord Velaryon lacked ambition. Apparently, having his future grandchildren set to inherit the crown, the Vale and Driftmark was not enough. No, he wanted the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea as well.

“Has the situation between Lady Laena and Prince Daemon grown that serious?” he asked. “She was resistant to his advances for quite some time.”

Lyman’s proximity to the princess meant he had borne witness to the bizarre dance playing out between the two. Following Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s wedding, Prince Daemon left the realm and spent several moons hosted by the Prince of Pentos. Upon his return, he and the princess had a long conversation and settled matters between them. Prince Daemon had then spent half a year re-establishing himself in King’s Landing, although his behaviour had been markedly less outrageous than before.

On the other hand, Lady Laena had followed her brother and mother to court and once again taken up residence in the Red Keep. As the daughter of the Lord of the Tides, the good-sister of the future queen and a beautiful young woman, there was no shortage of men wishing to pay suit to her. While Lady Laena seemed to enjoy the attention, none of those men were able to match her temperament. For she laughed too loudly, drank of her cups a bit too deeply and enjoyed life far too voraciously to be considered truly ladylike. Her insistence on introducing potential suitors to her dragon did not help either.

When Prince Daemon and Lady Laena had danced together at Princess Rhaenyra’s twentieth name day feast a half year ago, the spark of attraction from both was clear. However, while they had gone on dragon rides together and out into King’s Landing in the subsequent weeks, no formal courtship was announced. Apparently, aware of the prince’s reputation and his previous behaviour, Lady Laena was wary about moving forward.

“I believe the two of them are close to coming to an agreement,” the princess replied. “Neither are interested in a traditional marriage. If Laena had the same power that Cousin Jeyne does, I do not believe she would marry at all. As it is, she will accept a husband that does not seek to restrict her or her freedom. Daemon will have the same freedom in kind.”

Lyman felt his forehead furrow at this. “But that is not how marriage works,” he argued. “By its very nature, it requires the couple to commit to each other and make sacrifices. For the highborn, marriage is a duty first and foremost.”

Princess Rhaenyra now wore a frown to match his own. “They do intend to do their duty. However, they have no interest in controlling one another and will be able to do as they please otherwise To take their pleasure where they like.”

Unless he was misinterpreting her words, it sounded as though Prince Daemon and Lady Laena were giving each other leave to not keep to their marital bed.

“Such an arrangement would hardly be proper,” he said. “The Seven created us as we are so that we may beget trueborn children.”

“Yes, but if we are as the gods created us, is it so wrong for … Daemon and Laena to follow their natures?” There was an intensity to the princess’s gaze as she leant as far forward as her belly would allow. “Neither wish to be chained so have come to an agreement that allows them to fulfil their duties without compromising who they are.”

Lyman thought back to his own wedding day. To the resolve that entered him as he spoke the seven vows and the seven promises to Rosamund. That she might always share of his hearth, bread and mead. That he would forsake her for no other. In truth, he barely knew the woman that was becoming his wife. However, he kept to those oaths all the same.

“I have seen no shortage of men stray from their marriage beds over the years,” he said. “All they do is disgrace themselves and shame their wives. Or leave unwanted, natural-born children in their wakes.”

While he knew he could be naive to the depravities of the world, Lyman heard the whispers that were passed around court when a lord was spotted on the Street of Silk. The talk of how his wife must be frigid and cold to push him to such. Gods know what words would be spoken about Lady Laena if rumour spread she had invited a man other than her husband into her bed.

“If they plan to be discreet and not bring shame upon the other, then what does it matter?” The princess’s voice was starting to increase in volume. “If they enter their marriage with no expectation of fidelity, fully content in that agreement, then whose business is it but their own?”

“In a marriage ceremony, the septon binds husband and wife as one flesh, one heart and one soul,” Lyman retorted. “There is no room there for any others.”

“A husband and wife can be bound in purpose and loyalty without keeping to their marriage bed. Seven hells, the marriage bed is not everything! Look at my parents. To the best of my knowledge, my father never partook of any whores nor had a paramour while they were married. And how did that end?”

This brought him up short. When Queen Aemma had been alive, her marriage with the king was the envy of many at court. As Princess Rhaenyra said, there were never any rumours of King Viserys bedding another. Despite never straying beyond the bounds of propriety, the two were outwardly loving and affectionate with each other; seemingly the perfect marriage.

He did not wish to dwell on how that marriage ended when the princess was sitting in front of him, heavily pregnant herself.

“It is a matter of respect,” he finally said. “I would never disrespect Rosamund so. Not after all the comfort and support she has provided me over the years.”

Were it not for his wife, Lyman was unsure if he could have survived those dark years when his three nephews and brother died one after the other, leaving the weight of Honeyholt on his unprepared shoulders.

“Nobody is asking you to,” Princess Rhaenyra replied, the vehemence of her tone softening. “But not every marriage is like you and Rosamund’s. Nor would every spouse want their marriage to be.”

Lyman did know that not every marriage was as successful as his own. While their marriage was arranged, he and Rosamund were well-matched. Though, over the years, gossip had reached his ears of bizarre arrangements between spouses that were not so lucky. Lady Crakehall occupied a residence on the other side of her husband’s lands to his seat as they apparently could not bear the sight of each other. A second son of House Darklyn spent as much time as he could at sea for his lady wife took every opportunity to browbeat him.

There were darker tales too. Lords that were a bit too free with their hands when correcting their wives’ behaviour. Wives that were ignored until their husbands wished to enforce their rights in the marital bed. Ladies that conveniently had an accident and, several moons later, their widowers made a prosperous new marriage alliance.

If Lady Laena and Prince Daemon entered into their marriage with their hearts open to each other’s natures and without artifice, was that not preferable to many of the alternatives? If their actions did not reflect badly on Princess Rhaenyra or the crown, what business was it of his anyway?

“It is not the kind of arrangement I myself would ever partake in,” Lyman said. “But judgement belongs to the Father above, not to those of us who live down below. As long as your position is not impacted, what Prince Daemon and Lady Laena do is no concern of mine.”

She stared at him for a long moment.”That is more open-minded of you than I would have expected,” she finally said. “Honestly, I thought—” The princess stopped speaking, a confused expression coming over her face. Then she shifted in her seat. “Oh, that is likely this chair ruined.”

“What?” he asked.

Her hand went to her belly. “The babe is coming.”

“I cannot believe you fainted,” Rosamund said, the amusement clear in her voice. “You have not done that since the start of my labours with Mathis.”

Across Princess Rhaenyra’s solar, Princess Rhaenys let out a chuckle.

“It is not as though I did it on purpose,” Lyman protested. “I must have stood from my chair too quickly.” Despite the words, he found himself grateful for his wife’s teasing. It took his mind off the worry that had curdled to nausea in his throat.

“It is more common than you would think,” Maester Gerardys offered. “Men lack the fortitude required for childbed.”

“I am just glad I will never face such myself,” Ser Joffrey said from a chair in front of the fireplace.

“Speak for yourself,” Ser Laenor commented as he paced back and forth. If he kept it up much longer, he would wear a groove in the floor. “Rhaenyra has already said that I am carrying the next one.”

Lyman was saved from coming up with a reply to that statement by a knock ringing out from the door.

“Enter,” Ser Laenor called.

The door opened to reveal Ser Harrold Westerling, barely concealed concern on his face.

“Any news?” he asked.

Princess Rhaenys shook her head. “The queen, Laena and Lady Amanda Arryn are in there with Rhaenyra. Along with her chosen midwives.”

As the princess’s pregnancy had advanced, her aunt returned from the Vale to support her. However, the king continued to be discomfited by Lady Amanda’s resemblance to his late wife. Indeed, it was something of a jest around court that the quickest way to find Lady Amanda was to check whatever direction King Viserys fled from.

Ser Harrold’s eyes settled on Maester Gerardys. “Should you not be in there too? I thought this was the reason you were summoned to the Red Keep.”

“Rhaenyra made it clear she only wants the maester’s services if there are any serious issues,” Ser Laenor said. “Otherwise, she would prefer to be attended by midwives only.”

Lyman had not needed to ask to know her decision was linked to the role of the Grand Maester in what happened to Queen Aemma.

“But everything is going well so far?” Ser Harrold pressed.

“I AM PUSHING, YOU FUCKING CUNT!” The door did little to muffle that particular exclamation as it sounded from the princess’s bedchamber.

“Quite well by the sounds of things,” Rosamund replied mildly. “Her strength has not wavered.”

Sending up a silent prayer to the Mother, Lyman forced his fingers to stop drumming on the armrest of his chair.

“Good, good,” Ser Harrold said, continuing to stand in the doorway of the room.

“Should you not return to the king?” Ser Joffrey asked. “I am sure he is eager for news if he sent the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard.”

A flush appeared high on Ser Harrold’s cheeks but he made no move to either leave or answer.

“Viserys did not send you,” Princess Rhaenys said. “You came on your own.”

“The king is currently … indisposed,” Ser Harrold replied. “I am sure though he will want an update when he is able to hear it.”

Which meant King Viserys was continuing his tradition of hiding and drinking as one of his relatives laboured. However, Ser Harrold’s reasoning sounded weak to Lyman’s ears. Then he remembered that the knight spent over a decade as the princess’s sworn shield, until he was raised to the position of Lord Commander.

At the entrance to the bedchamber, Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon exchanged glances.

“I do hope that your dizzy spell passes soon, Lord Commander,” Ser Steffon said, stepping away from the door. “In the meantime, I will join Ser Rickard in guarding the king. I am sure that Ser Lorent, Ser Laenor and Ser Joffrey will be more than adequate protection for Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent.” With that he left the room, clapping Ser Harrold on the shoulder as he went.

A look of gratitude on his face, Ser Harrold joined the rest of them in their vigil.

It was Lady Amanda who emerged to make the announcement. “Rhaenyra is fine,” she said. “She has delivered a healthy baby boy.”

There were noises of relief and happiness from those assembled. Thank you, Mother above, for keeping the princess and her babe safe. Lyman made a mental note to visit the keep’s sept later to offer his thanks properly.

“If you will excuse me,” Lady Amanda continued, “the king should hear the news from a familiar face.” She left the solar for the corridor outside, a definite spring in her step.

Princess Rhaenys and Ser Laenor entered the bedchamber at once, the latter quickly returning to drag Ser Joffrey with him. It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later that Ser Lorent, following a command from inside, waved in Lyman himself.

There was still a decent amount of activity going on, the midwives gathering up soiled linens and basins. Across from the doorway, Princess Rhaenys and Lady Laena were speaking in low tones next to an open window. Queen Alicent was sitting in a nearby armchair, likely needing to take the weight off her feet given her own pregnancy. Her eyes though were fixed on the bed that dominated the rest of the room, a smile on her face.

Looking over, Lyman saw Princess Rhaenyra abed, back propped up against the headboard. Her hair was matted to her forehead with sweat but any exhaustion was overshadowed by the expression of contentment as she gazed down at the bundle in her arms. Ser Laenor sat on the bed next to her, Ser Joffrey standing off to one side.

It was then that the princess noticed him. “Lyman!” she called. “I have a son.” There was happiness in her voice but also a note of amazement, as though she could not believe she had grown this little human.

Drawing closer, he finally got his first look at the new prince. His skin was a warm brown colour, only a shade or two lighter than Ser Laenor’s own. With his eyes still scrunched up, Lyman was unable to determine their colour but his wispy hair was pure silver in colour, the texture matching his father’s.

“He has my nose,” Ser Laenor said, the words choked by emotion as they left his mouth.

Peering at the babe, Lyman saw that he did indeed appear to have inherited the broader nose of Ser Laenor rather than the princess’s own.

“He has my hair too,” Ser Laenor continued, passing a hand over the babe’s head. He was starting to sound rather overcome, a tear gathering in his right eye.

“All right, you great big sap,” Ser Joffrey said, tugging on Ser Laenor’s arm. “Give the princess some space. She does not need you crying all over her. Or passing out.” He shot Lyman a wry smile at this last.

Oh gods, he was never going to hear the end of this.

The two knights went over to the other side of the room – where Ser Joffrey poured them each a goblet of wine, seemingly in celebration – leaving Lyman and the princess alone. Well, apart from the babe.

Taking the opportunity to draw closer, he got a better look at the young prince. “He is beautiful, Rhaenyra.” He was so taken with the babe that it took him a few moments to realised why her grin had widened. “Princess Rhaenyra,” he corrected. “I apologise, the occasion must have gotten to me.”

“I knew I could get you to say my name eventually, Lyman,” she replied, clearly delighted. “And it took less than seven years too!”

“Hush,” he said lightly. “Have you and Ser Laenor decided on a name?”

“Jacaerys. Prince Jacaerys Targaryen.”

Chapter Text

During the Intervening Years

It took years for winter to lift but lift it did. The freezing winds and driving rain that plagued King’s Landing ceased and, further north, the snow began to thaw. Soon farmers were able to release their livestock and begin planting anew in their fields.

Before long, the court of the Red Keep returned to its usual vibrancy as courtiers that had left to tend to their lands over the winter returned. Social activities resumed across the rest of the realm too, with the wedding of Ser Willas Tyrell and Lady Serena Stark the first of the season – a match to secure the supply of food from the Reach to the North over future winters.

As spring finally arrived, the Small Council was able to turn its attention away from food provision and back to the petitions and disputes that normally occupied it. With little business of note to be resolved at the moment, Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor and Queen Alicent decided to take all the royal children and enjoy a sojourn on Dragonstone.

A few weeks before they were due to leave, Princess Rhaenyra invited Lyman out for a morning’s ride in the kingswood. It was a fine day and he appreciated the sun on his face and the fresh air after years of largely being cooped up inside.

They made idle conversation as they rode but he soon realised the princess was rather distracted, often asking him to repeat his questions. She was also paying far more attention to their route than was warranted given they were meant to be travelling at random.

Eventually, Princess Rhaenyra led them in dismounting their horses, tying them off and continuing their journey on foot. Ser Lorent and the other household guards fell back far enough that they could pretend it was just the two of them.

“Do you remember the hunt for Aemon’s second name day?” she asked, squinting at the trees around them. “I think it was somewhere around here that we got attacked by that boar.”

Lyman would have to take her word for that. Between almost being gored and then seeing the fabled white hart, their path through the kingswood had not stuck in his mind.

“You saved me most heroically that day,” he said.

The princess offered him a brief grin but still did not look altogether happy. “Maybe keep that in mind,” she muttered under her breath as she drew to a halt.

He paused his own steps and looked to her curiously.

“Is something the matter?” Lyman asked.

She was spinning a ruby ring around her finger and not looking directly at him, feet shifting among the leaves that blanketed the forest floor.

“Alicent thought it might be easier if I wrote this out,” Princess Rhaenyra said lowly, pulling a sheaf of parchment from the pack slung over her shoulder. Straightening the crumpled paper, she cleared her throat before beginning to read. “Lyman, today marks the ten year anniversary of that first day I came to your office.”

He had been vaguely aware that it was around a decade since she came to him for information on the smallfolk of King’s Landing but had not marked the exact date.

The princess continued, “In the spirit of our years of friendship and the guidance you have provided—” She abruptly stopped, her brow furrowing, before stuffing the parchment back into her satchel. “Load of rubbish.” This last was a mutter.

She then stood upright, hands clasped behind her back, gaze fixed unerringly on his own. “Alicent and I are involved with each other. You know, together.” Princess Rhaenyra made an inscrutable hand gesture. “In a relationship.”

Of course, the two women had been friends now for approaching two decades. He waited for her to say more but she just stared at him expectantly.

“Yes, I am well aware of your closeness to the queen,” Lyman replied slowly. “You have been as sisters throughout most of our friendship.” The year between the king announcing his choice of second wife and Prince Aemon’s birth aside.

The princess groaned in response. “Not the sister thing again,” she replied. “Lyman, I need you to really listen to me. Alicent and I are together.” Her back was straight and her chin tilted upwards but there was an almost undetectable tremor in her voice. “Romantically. With each other.”

…

The sound of birds twittering was all that could be heard.

…

The princess and the queen were together? Romantically?

The words settled in his mind but he could not make sense of them.

“I apologise, princess, I do not understand,” Lyman said. “You and the queen are what?”

“Together, romantically.” She made that same hand gesture again, as though it clarified anything. “We are in love with each other. We do … love … things together.”

…

The princess and the queen were romantically involved. With each other?

…

But they could not be. They were both women. Such relations may happen among the Dornish but they did not happen here.

The Faith held it as a sin.

It was not right.

What did ‘love things’ even mean?

Gods above, they were both married!

Queen Alicent was one of the most pious people he had ever met. How could she possibly be involved in this?

The princess was her step-daughter.

For the queen to commit adultery was an act of high treason. Maegor wiped out the entire house of Queen Alys Harroway for that very crime.

The damage that would be done to Princess Rhaenyra’s reputation if rumour of this spread …

Lyman became aware that he was no longer standing. His hands were pressed into a mossy log on either side of his body and he could feel moisture soaking through his breeches where he sat on it. Ragged breaths escaped his mouth.

They were both women.

The crown princess and the queen of the Seven Kingdoms were committing high treason together.

Princess Rhaenyra remained unmoving in front of him, eyeing him with a look of trepidation. “Are you well? You are not going to faint are you?”

That happened once! Although the princess going into labour was less shocking than whatever this was.

“She is a woman,” he finally choked out. “So are you.” He waved an arm towards her body for emphasis.

The princess raised an eyebrow in response. “We are aware of that,” she said calmly. “It would be quite hard not to notice, all considered.”

Lyman shook his head. “You cannot– I know you and the queen spend a lot of time together and you must have confused your feelings for her.” That was it. Princess Rhaenyra was close to few people her own age that she was not related by blood to. She had simply misinterpreted what she felt for the queen.

The princess frowned at this. “No, I am not confused,” she replied, still in that same even tone. “I have felt this way for a long time. So has Alicent. We are together.”

There was no hesitation in Princess Rhaenyra’s voice, no stumble over her words. For all that the implications of what she was saying were dire, she sounded relaxed. However, there was a foreign tension across her shoulders.

He took a deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts. “Are you out of your mind?” he said, his voice a croak. “After everything you have worked for, everything you have accomplished, you risk throwing it all away for something so base as lust.” Lyman’s voice was strengthening but he had enough awareness to keep it low enough not to be overheard by their guards.

His mind turned to the scandal caused by Princess Saera bedding three different men. The scandal that cost Lyman’s nephew his life. The repercussions of what Princess Rhaenyra was engaging in with the queen would be far worse.

“Lust?” she asked incredulously. “This is not mere lust. I am in love with Alicent. I have been for well over a decade.”

“You cannot be,” he argued. “You are both women.”

Princess Rhaenyra had the gall to look offended at this. “Do you think I am not painfully aware of that fact? Had I been born a boy, Ser Otto would have conspired to have us wedded and bedded as soon as we were able. As it is, we are forced to perform this mummer’s farce.”

This mummer’s farce? Was that how she regarded her and the queen’s lawful marriages, both consecrated by the High Septon?

“Be that as it may, you were not born a boy,” Lyman said. “Instead, you are carrying out an adulterous affair with the queen. Who is, incidentally, your step-mother!”

Not that Targaryens had ever given any weight to such matters.

The princess held up a finger in response. “Actually,” she replied, drawing out the word, “I married Alicent first so, if you want to be exact, my father is the one carrying out an adulterous affair with my wife.”

He just stared at her. If it were not for the expression of utmost seriousness on Princess Rhaenyra’s face, he would think she was making a most distasteful jest. Perhaps her duties had been getting to her more than Lyman knew and she was suffering from some kind of break of the mind.

“Princess, you and the queen cannot be married. It is not possible for two women to marry. No septon would ever perform such a ceremony.” The very idea was ludicrous.

“We did not get married under the Faith,” she replied, far too nonchalantly in his opinion for what they were discussing. “It was the ceremony of the Old Gods. At the heart tree in the keep’s godswood.”

This conversation was getting ridiculous now.

“Neither of you even follow the Old Gods,” Lyman said.

“I wanted a Valyrian ceremony but Ser Harrold would not lend me his dagger.” Princess Rhaenyra thought this over for a few moments. “That was likely for the best. Gods know what damage I would have done to my hand. My dexterity was not the best when I was eight.”

When she was eight?

“Do you mean that you and the queen got married when you were children?” he asked. That made more sense: that this marriage was some childish flight of fancy. “Such a wedding cannot be considered legitimate. From any conceivable angle.”

“Oh no, it was,” she replied confidently. “Gwayne gave Alicent away, then we swore the correct oaths in front of the heart tree. I checked with Rhea, we did everything that was required. My marriage with Alicent is just as valid as Rhea and Harwin’s.”

Lyman could not help but clench his jaw in frustration. He was unsure if the princess was being deliberately obtuse or missing the point.

“Very well then,” he said sarcastically. “Let us suppose that two women being wed by rites neither follow when they are children constitutes a legitimate marriage; what of Ser Laenor?”

Princess Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What about Laenor?”

Did she have so little respect for her husband? The two of them were not a love match but they seemed to get on well besides. He would never have believed her capable of betraying Ser Laenor in such a manner.

“Do you have no regard for your lawful husband?” He had thought better of the princess than that. “For the father of your children?”

The corner of her lip quirked and it looked like she was fighting a grin. “Laenor knows about Alicent and I. He has known since we first discussed getting married. We have an arrangement: we do our duty together and are free to dine as we like otherwise. Laenor has a paramour of his own.”

How much had been going on under Lyman’s nose without him being aware? No rumours of any of these happenings had reached his ear, no suspicions ever crossed his mind. He could think of no woman – outside his family – that Ser Laenor seemed particularly close to. Until today, he still hoped that Princess Rhaenyra and her husband had found love together. That dream was falling into ash now.

However, the princess was not the only person involved in this calamity who was married.

“Ser Laenor aside then, I am sure that King Viserys is unaware of this.”

Her jaw clenched in response.

“For the queen to commit adultery is an act of high treason,” Lyman continued. “Gods above, you could both lose your heads for this!”

“That law is only to prevent illegitimate children being passed off as the king’s,” the princess replied hotly. “Which, in case you were unaware, is not very likely to happen here!”

Not very likely to happen here. Her sarcasm was fraying the last of his nerves. How could she possibly be so glib about all this?

“Just be quiet!” Lyman said, waving an arm wildly in the princess’s direction. “I need to think.”

He took a few deep breaths and tried to slow his heart. Mercifully, Princess Rhaenyra followed his command and remained silent for the moment.

What was he supposed to do now? What could he do?

For the queen to commit adultery was high treason. He had a sworn duty to the crown and King Viserys.

Although the princess had a point: was that edict truly applicable in this case when there was no risk of illegitimate children being presented as the king’s?

It was not right for Princess Rhaenyra to cuckold her own father. Even if Ser Laenor was aware, the queen and king had sworn sacred vows to each other.

What was he going to do, inform the king that his wife and daughter were bedding each other? It was too farcical to be believable. King Viserys would never bring such a matter before the court. And what if he did believe Lyman and took action against the princess and the queen? They were his friends. He had been mentoring Princess Rhaenyra for a decade now. He could not purposefully put them in danger, no matter the crime, the sin, they were committing.

A pounding headache was starting to throb at his left temple.

The princess remained standing before him, a wary expression on her face.

“You need to stop this,” Lyman eventually said, a note of finality in his voice. “This … travesty between you and the queen cannot continue.”

Her face hardened in response. “No,” she replied simply.

“No?” he asked. “What do you mean no? You are disregarding all morals and common decency! Are you truly so blind to the consequences that could befall you for this? Could befall the queen?”

Princess Rhaenyra’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “No, I am not blind to the potential consequences of this,” she spat out. “I would never endanger Alicent or our children. I have Syrax while the king has no dragon of his own. And there is not a dragonrider in the realm who would fly against me.”

While he knew the princess felt little love for her father, the inference that she was prepared to become both kingslayer and kinslayer shocked him. Though even if her dragon could protect them from physical consequences, there were societal ones to consider.

“It would destroy your claim to the throne if word of this ever spread,” Lyman argued. Why could she not see how damaging this could be? How wrong it was. “All the work you have done would be in vain.”

“I need Alicent. When I can feel the weight of the crown, the realm, pressing down on me, it is her I go to for comfort.” Princess Rhaenyra placed a hand over her heart. “I could not do this without her. I cannot even imagine being queen without her by my side.”

The way Rosamund is for me— Lyman quashed the thought before it had fully formed.

“Besides, who is going to spread rumour of this? The Hightowers?” she asked rhetorically. “They could not do so without destroying Alicent and Aemon as well. Why do you think Ser Otto never told anyone?”

“Ser Otto knew about this?”

The princess nodded in response. “I believe he grew suspicious after Alicent and I’s reconciliation in the wake of Aemon’s birth. His wife once walked in on … well, that is unimportant but Ser Otto had reason to think there was more to our relationship.”

Ser Otto had always been a most scrupulous man, careful to govern his household appropriately. Lyman doubted he had reacted well to this revelation.

“Honestly,” the princess continued, “I think he was angriest of all at the fact Alicent was not leveraging what we were doing to push Aemon’s claim. Let it never be said that Ser Otto did not have his priorities in order.”

It dawned on him then. Deviant whore. That exclamation right before Ser Otto’s death had never made sense to him but he could well understand it now. No wonder the former lord Hand was so incensed with the princess if he knew about this clandestine relationship. But, as the princess said, Ser Otto never brought the matter before the king, presumably to preserve his daughter’s standing and reputation.

“Even if the Hightowers and their allies would not risk exposing the two of you, there are still others that could find out,” Lyman argued. “Can you truly not see how foolish and reckless this is? I credited you with more intelligence than you are currently showing.”

Princess Rhaenyra flinched at this insult and Lyman pushed down the instant remorse he felt. He needed to make her understand.

However, she quickly rallied, adjusting her stance and squaring her shoulders. “People do not see what they do not wish to. You yourself have known us for years and had not an inkling, despite all the hints I gave. If you did not notice, who else would?”

He cast his mind back but could recall little over the years that indicated the princess had hinted at this. Although it did put their argument over Prince Daemon and Lady Laena’s marital arrangements in a different light.

“Even if I did not realise the extent of what is happening between you and the queen, that does not mean that others will not. All it would take is one lord, one guard, one servant and you would be ruined. The only solution is for these … activities to cease.”

Princess Rhaenyra snorted. “Nobody blinks at closeness between two women,” she argued. “We could kiss in front of the entire court and they would commend us for being as close as sisters.”

While Lyman could say little to dispute this given that was his own impression before this conversation began, there were limits and the courtiers of King’s Landing were always eager for fresh gossip. The more salacious, the better.

“Besides, we are far more discreet now that we can move through the tunnels between each other’s rooms,” she continued.

The tunnels?

She must have recognised the confusion on his face. “Oh, I never told you about those did I? There are secret tunnels throughout the entire Red Keep. It must have been Maegor’s work. Daemon showed them to me the night we went out into King’s Landing.”

Secret tunnels throughout the entire keep? That would explain how the princess left and then re-entered her rooms with nobody being any the wiser on that particular night. The security risks of such tunnels were deeply concerning. Especially as it sounded like they went through Maegor’s Holdfast to the chambers of the royal family.

“Have you not informed the guards of these tunnels?” he asked.

Princess Rhaenyra shook her head. “They would be far too useful in the event of any danger reaching us in the keep,” she replied. “But we have placed bolts over the entrances in our personal chambers. Nobody would be able to sneak in and catch us unawares.”

That was a relief, at least. However, she had still not conceded any ground to him on the matter of her relationship with the queen.

“It does not matter how careful you are being,” Lyman said with a note of finality. “It does not matter what arguments you are making, both to me and yourself, to justify this. The crux of the matter is that what you are doing with the queen is wrong. It is against the natural order of the world. It is against the gods.”

An expression of desolation passed over the princess’s face before it was wiped clear, an emotionless mask taking its place. “I am exactly as the gods made me,” she replied tonelessly. “As is Alicent. And if they made us this way as some kind of test or jape, then fuck them.”

Oh, for—

“Why tell me this then?” he demanded, rising to his feet. “If you are going to completely disregard my advice and not listen to a word I say, what was the point of this confession?”

“Because I wanted you to know!” Princess Rhaenyra exclaimed. For the first time, her confident facade was starting to crack. “Because I am sick of having to hide it! Alicent and I have to put up a front for the rest of the realm but I cannot stand to do so in private as well. It is exhausting.” Her eyes were wet and it took a great deal of determination for Lyman to resist the urge to reach out to her.

“We plan to have a Valyrian wedding ceremony when we travel to Dragonstone next month,” she continued. “We will be away from court for several moons, plenty of time for the required cuts to heal. A Valyrian wedding does not require a father to give away his daughter but I … you …” Her arms wrapped protectively around her chest. “You have guided me and been there for me and supported me. More than the king ever has. I wanted you to be there at my wedding, to—” The princess’s voice choked off and she bit down on her lower lip, a single tear rolling down her right cheek.

Those beseeching violet eyes sent a lance of pain straight through his heart.

What the princess and the queen were doing was not right. He had a sworn duty—

Ten years of support and friendship and conversations over tea in his office.

The princess’s claim to the throne—

She had done everything she could and accomplished much to prove herself at court and before the realm. Princess Rhaenyra would be a most brilliant queen.

The Faith—

Lyman loved her.

He loved her. He loved her the same way as he loved the children of his blood, as Mathis, Garlon and Meredyth. He felt that same warm glow of affection and pride whenever he regarded her.

He loved her arrogance and her vanity. He loved her stubbornness and her intelligence. He loved the smell of dragon that lingered in her wake. He loved how hard she worked to be a worthy heir. He loved the good, kind heart that was at the core of her.

And this confession did not change that fact.

“You stupid, stupid woman,” Lyman said as he gave in and pulled Princess Rhaenyra into his arms. He continued to hold her as she broke down completely.

Lyman went to bed that night utterly exhausted. He and Princess Rhaenyra had spent hours talking in the kingswood and not returned to the Red Keep until late afternoon. What she was doing did not wholly make sense to him but the way she talked about Queen Alicent made it clear her feelings were true.

All his qualms were not extinguished but the princess had offered to lend him a treatise written by a septon that had preached in Dorne. The septon had been renounced as a heretic by the Starry Sept for writing about men and women in … unconventional relationships but that were dutiful to the Faith of the Seven in every other regard. Apparently, the treatise was of great help to Queen Alicent as she struggled to reconcile her own faith with her and the princess’s involvement.

However, despite his tiredness, Lyman could not find sleep as his conversation with Princess Rhaenyra ran through his mind on a loop.

Turning over for the umpteenth time, he heard a grumble of irritation from the pillow behind him.

“Would you stop squirming about, Lyman,” Rosamund said, sleepiness clear in her voice. “Whatever is the matter will surely keep till morning.”

In that moment, he desperately wished he could discuss what the princess had told him with his wife. Rosamund’s perspective had oft helped him in the past. However, it would be wrong to spread the information without the princess and queen’s agreement. Though in the meantime, perhaps he could talk around the issue.

“Have you ever been attracted to a woman?” he blurted out. “Or known a lady that has?”

There was silence for long seconds. “Did Princess Rhaenyra finally tell you then?” Rosamund asked calmly, sounding far more awake now. “I was starting to wonder if she ever would.”

Lyman sat upright. “You know?" he said, looking down at the dark shadow next to him.

“Oh, honestly, I have known for years,” she said through the darkness. “The way they look at each other and behave together… For all your talk of sisterhood between Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent, I have certainly never regarded my own sister in such a manner.”

“But you never said anything!” he exclaimed.

“It was not my secret to tell. Besides, I was never quite sure how you would react. You have always been so cognisant of tradition and duty.”

“It was certainly not an easy conversation between myself and the princess,” Lyman admitted. “But I … care deeply for her. Even if I do not agree with what she is doing.”

“That is the important thing,” Rosamund replied. “Anything else, we can discuss in the morning.” She reached blindly for his hand and tugged him back down.

Acquiescing, he kept hold of her hand and tried to quieten his mind. His wife was right: his concerns could wait until morning.

When the Valyrian wedding did occur between Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent, there were rather more guests than he expected given its illicit nature. As well as Lyman himself and Rosamund, Lady Laena, Prince Daemon, Ser Laenor, Ser Joffrey, Lady Amanda Arryn, Lady Jeyne Arryn and Lady Jessamyn Redfort – Lady Arryn’s long-time companion – were present on Dragonstone too.

The biggest surprise of all was the attendance of Ser Gwayne Hightower. The queen and her youngest brother had grown close over the last several years, with his position as Princess Helaena’s sworn shield ensuring near-constant proximity. However, Lyman would not have expected the queen to confide this to her brother.

While winter had abated, there was still a chill in the air as the wedding ceremony took place beneath the open sky on one of Dragonstone’s beaches. Prince Daemon was conducting proceedings, an inscrutable expression of his face as his niece and the daughter of his old nemesis stood before him.

Their red and white garments were unfamiliar to Lyman, a far cry from the elaborate gowns and jewellery of the weddings at court. However, the princess and queen did not look at all self-conscious, standing proudly before their friends and family.

Despite the fact he had been warned it was coming, Lyman could not contain a wince as they cut each other’s lips and then their own hands, allowing the blood to drip down when they clasped them together. Princess Rhaenyra had gone over the meaning of the vows they would swear but he could not recall the translation now. The queen must have practised at great length though for she did not falter over the Valyrian words.

It struck Lyman then, as the two women sealed their union with a kiss, that he had never seen either of them so happy, the setting sun bathing them in an orange glow. He did not fight the warm affection that filled his chest at the sight.

Chapter Text

As Lyman rode towards Oldtown, the Hightower dominated the skyline in front of him, white stonework rising towards the heavens. Squinting against the sun, he could just make out the orange-yellow glow of the beacon at its top. That beacon had never glowed green during his lifetime and he prayed it never would. However, the actions of Lord Hightower were making that look increasingly unlikely.

It was only a short wait before he passed through one of the gates and inside the great walls enclosing the city proper. Riding down streets that were familiar from his youth, Lyman could not help but compare Oldtown to King’s Landing. While Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent had done much to improve conditions in the realm’s capital, the contrast with the clean streets and sweet smells of Oldtown was stark.

There was no shortage either of members of the City Watch. His gaze frequently caught the distinctive green cloaks, the men they were attached to oft exchanging passing remarks with the general population.

Lyman did not head straight to the Hightower. Instead, he visited with several prominent merchants in the city that traded his house’s honey. It would not do to appear too harried to the spies that undoubtedly followed him. Eventually, he felt he had dallied long enough and made his way towards the harbour.

Drawing near the water, he paused at a corner where a septon preached to a not insignificant crowd. “The Seven laid down their laws to us in ancient Andalos, laws that we are all charged to follow for the sake of salvation. Those of Andal blood rightfully belong to the Seven, be they peasant or lord, king or queen!” None of the watchmen nearby intervened, allowing the septon to continue unchallenged. Having heard all he needed to, Lyman moved on.

Sitting on an island within the mouth of the Honeywine, the Hightower had long been accessible only by boat. Leaving his horse in the nearby stable, he then procured the services of one of the ferrymen for himself and his retinue with a few coppers. After a short journey, they docked on Battle Island.

Lord Hightower was hearing petitions that morning and it was with ease that Lyman and the household guards with him were granted access. Despite his decades away at court, he had never forgotten the Hightower’s layout and walked confidently to the main audience chamber.

Harking back to the time House Hightower had ruled as kings, the room was not dissimilar to the throne room of the Red Keep. Lord Hobert Hightower sat on a throne upon the dais at the far end of the room, his nephew and the head of his household guard, Ser Bryndon, standing behind him, greatsword in hand. A queue of petitioners reached halfway through the room. Again, Lyman could not help but compare their clothing and cleanliness to the smallfolk that were occasionally granted an audience in the Red Keep.

He stood at the back of the room and observed the rest of the session. Lord Hightower’s pronouncements were strict but fair, with frequent references to The Seven-Pointed Star as he judged disputes. Looking at the other highborn sitting or standing around the room, Lyman recognised several prominent lords from around the southern Reach – Lord Florent of Brightwater Keep chief among them.

As the last of the petitioners left, a page walked up to Lord Hightower and whispered a message in his ear. Even across the room, Lyman could see a frown on Lord Hightower’s face as his gaze fixed on him.

Walking to the dais, Lyman purposefully kept his back straight as he greeted his liege lord. “My lord,” he said, “I come bearing a message from the crown.”

“Of course, Lyman,” Lord Hightower greeted with a smile, though he seemed to stand from his throne with great reluctance. “Come, we can talk in my office.”

They began to walk through the corridors of the Hightower, Ser Bryndon and their household guards following behind. While Lord Hightower was getting on in years, he did not seem to have yet fallen prey to the ravages that came with age, his body hale and gait steady. Although climbing to his chambers at the top of the Hightower each day undoubtedly contributed to his fitness.

“I hear your grandson has wed,” Lord Hightower commented.

“Yes, my lord. It is for Alan’s wedding that I have travelled home for a time.”

“I wish Alan and Lady Samantha well,” his liege replied. While the words were courteous, there was a slight sneer in his tone. Perhaps he recalled that Lyman once turned down a match between Alan and Lord Hightower’s own granddaughter.

“Thank you,” Lyman said. “He grew close with his cousin while squiring at Horn Hill and the Tarlys are a fine house.”

There were other reasons for the match too, of course. Lord Hightower could not have missed the alliances that were forming to the north of Oldtown. The latest had been the betrothal of Lord Tarly’s heir to a maiden of House Tyrell. If the Hightowers ever tried to march an army up the roseroad, they would not find it an easy trip.

Pausing outside the door of what was presumably his office, Lord Hightower turned to regard Lyman properly. “It is good to return to your own lands on occasion,” he said. “That was Otto’s problem: he became too involved in the affairs of King’s Landing and forgot his roots. That festering city is over a thousand miles from here. Otto should have focused his energies on his home, on Oldtown.”

Not giving him the chance to respond, Lord Hightower opened the door and entered. As Lyman expected, the room was dominated by a large desk, a pile of parchment to one side with a quill and pot of ink waiting to be used. Rounding the desk, Lord Hightower lowered himself gracefully into the ornate chair.

“Sit, sit,” he waved at the chair in front of the desk, one of plainer make. Once Lyman had done so, Lord Hightower gestured and a servant who had unobtrusively followed them inside stepped forward and poured two goblets of wine. His task completed, the servant then left the two of them alone.

After taking a large gulp of his wine, Lord Hightower asked, “What is this message from the crown that you have brought me then?”

“In short, my lord,” Lyman replied, ignoring his own goblet, “word has reached King’s Landing of the schism forming in the Faith between the so-called Andalists and those that rightfully preach the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. The crown is asking you to get this Andalist talk to cease.”

“Ah yes, these Andalists.” Lord Hightower sounded amused as he keenly regarded him. “Their point of view is understandable though. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism is based on the fact that House Targaryen comes from Valyria, not Andalos where the laws of the Seven were laid down. That they are subject to different laws than those the rest of the realm keep. But the situation has changed now. All of King Viserys’s children have Andal blood; why should the Doctrine of Exceptionalism apply to them? Why should they too not follow the laws of the Faith?”

It was not the first time Lyman had heard this argument, with even some dissident septons of King’s Landing reported to have preached it. He had a counter though for Lord Hightower.

“You are neglecting to mention the other basis of the doctrine,” he argued. “That it is not just their roots in Valyria but their ability to ride dragons that sets Targaryens apart from other men.”

Lord Hightower’s lip curled upwards in a smirk. “An ability that is no longer unique to House Targaryen. We already have dragonriding Velaryons, one day there will be a dragonriding Lord Arryn. Marriages outside the royal family could give dragonriding blood to half a dozen more houses within just the current generation. I can understand why parts of the Faith no longer support the Doctrine of Exceptionalism.” He smiled genially, as though it was not him that was likely at the root of such talk.

“Even so,” Lyman replied, “the Doctrine of Exceptionalism was agreed between the crown and the Faith. It has allowed the royal family to form legitimate marriages between brother and sister, marriages through which the throne has passed down. To speak against it is treason.” His voice hardened in response to the nonplussed expression on Lord Hightower’s face. “Oldtown has been the origin of much of this Andalist talk. The crown is asking that you fulfil your duties and get your city under control.”

While the Doctrine of Exceptionalism allowed the Targaryens their incestuous marriage practices, Lyman was far more concerned with the addition that Princess Rhaenyra had agreed with the High Septon. The addition that saw the Faith support the crown in breaking Andal succession law and allowing the firstborn child, no matter their sex, to inherit the throne. The addition that saw the Faith support Princess Rhaenyra inheriting over Prince Aemon.

“Should you not be having this conversation at the Starry Sept with the High Septon?” Lord Hightower replied, gesturing in the building’s direction. “Matters of the Faith are not under my purview.”

“I will be going there shortly. But, as you are no doubt aware, the High Septon is ill and it is believed that there are Andalists among the Most Devout.” He eyed Lord Hightower shrewdly. “You have an uncle among the Most Devout, do you not?”

Lord Hightower feigned a look of contemplation before widening his eyes in seeming realisation. “Oh, Uncle Talbert? I have not given him much thought recently, we have not spoken in years. As you know, septons give up all house ties when they are ordained.”

“According to rumour, he is popular among the Most Devout and would be a likely candidate for the next High Septon,” Lyman replied.

“You are better informed than I in that case. As I said, my uncle and I have not spoken in years.” He leant forward across the desk. “But if Uncle Talbert is so well-connected, he can perhaps aid you with this Andalist issue.”

“You are a servant of the crown.” Lyman caught the way Lord Hightower twitched at the word servant. “You must address treason within the lands under your control, be it by lord, peasant or septon.”

Part of him balked at ordering his liege lord around in such a fashion but the words needed to be said. The Faith’s support and the updated Doctrine of Exceptionalism had done much to bolster Princess Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne. Work they could not see undone.

Lord Hightower frowned. “The people of Oldtown would not react well if I started pulling ordained septons off the streets over mere rhetoric. We are the most pious city in the realm.” His eyes alighted on the altar to the Seven which occupied part of his office. “Many, including myself, believe it is not for men to meddle in the affairs of the gods.”

“King Jaehaerys dissolved the courts of the Faith,” Lyman replied. “They are as subject to the king’s law as any common man.”

It was a scoff that greeted this comment. “Such might be the way of things in King’s Landing but we are more respectful of tradition here. More respectful of the Faith.” A glint entered Lord Hightower’s eye as he regarded him. “Not even kings are above the law of the gods. After all, your nephew had a trial by combat against King Jaehaerys himself, so that the gods might rule him innocent of despoiling Princess Saera. It did not quite work out in his favour though.”

This casual mention of Braxton’s death rankled Lyman. While his nephew had been guilty of bedding the princess, the way he met his end at King Jaehaerys’s blade was not something he wished to dwell on.

“I am not here to debate matters of faith with you, merely pass on instruction from the crown,” Lyman replied, handing over a scroll held closed by the king’s seal. “Address this dissent among the Faith or the crown may start to question your loyalty.”

Far from looking threatened, Lord Hightower leant back in his chair with a sardonic grin. “The crown? From what we have been hearing from court, the king does little of his own ruling these days. Instead, most decisions are made by the lord Hand or Princess Rhaenyra. Tell me, does this instruction come from King Viserys or one of them?”

It would rather prove his point if Lyman pointed out that Queen Alicent too was now a central figure in the ruling of the realm so he held his tongue on that thought.

“Those words were written by the king’s own hand, affixed with the king’s own seal.” He gestured at the scroll which Lord Hightower had still not opened. “They are a directive from King Viserys and should be regarded as such.”

“But the idea was not his,” his liege lord said confidently, catching what Lyman was not saying. He then finally broke the seal, gave the words written on the parchment the barest of glances before putting it to one side on his desk. “Has the king given any more thought to my offer to foster one of the royal princes?”

That request had been so thoroughly gainsaid by Princess Rhaenyra and the queen that King Viserys’s ears were likely still ringing from their vehemence.

“I would not know, my lord,” Lyman replied. “Matters of the royal household are not under my domain.”

“I am sure,” Lord Hightower replied tartly. Then he clapped his hands together and rose from his chair. “Very well, is that all? I have several other matters that require my attention.”

Lyman again looked at the king’s scroll, abandoned on the desk. However, his task had been to place the scroll in Lord Hightower’s hand, an instruction he had fulfilled.

He stood and preceded his liege lord out of his office.

It took near a moon for Lyman and Rosamund to make their way back to King’s Landing. While they were travelling in a wheelhouse and making frequent stops, it was an arduous journey and he frequently went to bed with an aching body. He was getting too old for such trips. Even so, he did not regret turning down Princess Rhaenyra’s offer for her and Ser Laenor to fly them on dragonback. That would have finished him off entirely.

They arrived back at the Red Keep late one evening. Wishing only for the comfort of his own bed, Lyman sent a message to Princess Rhaenyra that they would meet in the morn to discuss his trip and soon retired.

After a good night’s rest, he walked to the princess’s solar first thing in the morning. Aware of his coming, she, Ser Laenor and Queen Alicent were seated around a table and making idle conversation. Once the greetings and congratulations for Alan’s wedding were out the way, they turned their attention to the Lord of Oldtown.

“I passed on the king’s instructions but Lord Hightower did not give the subject much attention,” Lyman said, taking the cup of tea the princess offered him.

“That is hardly unexpected,” the queen replied. “We know my uncle is likely a key instigator of this Andalist movement.” She took a sip of her own tea. “What excuse did he offer?”

“That matters of the Faith were no business of his.” Lyman’s eyes caught on the seven-pointed star around Queen Alicent’s neck. “And that the people of Oldtown would not stand for him charging septons with talk of treason. I pointed out his duties to the crown but …” He gave a shrug of his shoulders, remembering his liege lord’s nonchalance.

“What of the talk that Lord Hightower has developed a rival court in Oldtown?” Ser Laenor asked.

“There were several lords from the southern Reach at the Hightower,” Lyman commented, thinking back to the faces and sigils he recognised. “Mathis too has heard talk from our neighbours. There are many that still resent that Oldtown was not made the realm’s capital by the Conqueror. King’s Landing sees much trade that would have once flowed into the Reach. I know of multiple houses that have seen their incomes diminish over the last century. Lord Hightower is rumoured to have spoken of a brighter future for Oldtown.”

“I do not understand what Lord Hightower is attempting to do here,” Princess Rhaenyra said, the frustration clear in her voice. “Perhaps he can get his uncle elected as the next High Septon. Perhaps the Andalists gain even more momentum and the Faith turns against my claim. That would not be enough to push Aemon as heir. We have dragons.” Her hand smacked onto the table for emphasis. “All his plots will burn to ash easily enough.”

Queen Alicent reached over and clasped her hand. “Yes, we have the dragons but we should do all we can to prevent potential rebellion from developing that far in the first place.”

The princess exhaled sharply and nodded her head in response.

“We have given Lord Hightower the king’s directive,” Ser Laenor said. “If he does not act to get the Andalists under control, there would be grounds for his removal as Lord of Oldtown.”

Removing Lord Hightower for not following the king’s instructions would be the extreme option. From what Lyman had observed during his visit, his liege lord was not without his supporters and allies.

“That might make matters worse,” the queen replied, clearly thinking along the same lines. “Besides, my cousin Ormund would be next in line and I do not think his views differ overmuch from his father’s.”

“Is there a way that we can perhaps appease the Faith instead?” Ser Laenor asked hopefully. “What can Lord Hightower offer these dissenters that we cannot?”

Lyman frowned. “Based on various conversations I had in Oldtown and at the Starry Sept itself, there are those that wish for a return of the privileges the Faith lost under King Jaehaerys. For the Faith Militant and the Faith’s courts to be re-established.”

Princess Rhaenyra snorted. “I do not think giving arms to those speaking out against us is the best idea.” She idly swirled the cup of tea in her hand. “I value the support I have received from the Faith but we cannot cede too much ground to it without appearing weak.”

That was true enough but it would be a major blow if they lost the Faith to House Hightower.

“If Uncle Hobert has brokered some kind of deal with members of the Most Devout for their support in return for the later removal of King Jaehaerys’s restrictions, we cannot offer anything better,” Queen Alicent said.

“He could never make such promises except on the assumption that Aemon would become king and Lord Hightower then influence him,” the princess argued. “If someone would admit to hearing him say such, we would have him!”

The queen was already shaking her head. “My uncle would never be so foolish as to talk of treason out loud except with those he fully trusted.”

“What about Larys’s spies in Oldtown?” Ser Laenor asked. “There is one in Lord Hightower’s household is there not? Perhaps he could find something incriminating.”

“She,” the queen corrected with a frown. “And, as I said, my uncle is careful. He would never be so loose-lipped around a servant or commit anything to paper.”

Princess Rhaenyra set her tea cup down with a decisive thud. “Laenor and I could always take Seasmoke and Syrax down to Oldtown. Remind Lord Hightower exactly who he is dealing with.”

Years ago, Lyman would have balked at such a suggestion but he realised now that sometimes a show of strength was necessary to ensure future peace. “We can perhaps hold that option in reserve for if the situation escalates further,” he said. “It might not be a bad idea to send a dragonrider to Oldtown if the High Septon dies though. To represent the crown’s interests.” And to make sure nothing underhanded took place during the election of his successor.

The other three nodded in agreement.

“I will suggest it to the king,” Princess Rhaenyra said. “If he feels up to the conversation.” She looked uncharacteristically sombre.

“Is there something wrong with the king?” Lyman asked concernedly.

There were furtive looks between Princess Rhaenyra, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor.

“He developed a cough last moon,” the queen finally said. “The Grand Maester hoped it would soon pass but it has gone into his chest. King Viserys has been confined to his chambers these last weeks.”

“We could not trust word of it to a raven,” Ser Laenor added. “The Small Council is trying to keep news of the illness quiet for the moment but it will surely spread.”

The king had not been hale for at least a decade, with nothing the Grand Maester suggested having much of an impact. However, he still largely continued to perform his duties. Those he had not passed off to his Hand, the princess or the queen anyway.

Lyman looked to Princess Rhaenyra to see if she had anything to say on her father’s health but her eyes were fixed on the table, seemingly lost in thought.

“That is most troubling news,” he said. “I will keep the king in my prayers.” There was little else he could offer, knowing that the best maesters in the realm would be tending to King Viserys’s condition.

While the princess had been heir to the throne for a decade and a half, Lyman hoped that she had more time to prepare for becoming queen. He also hoped that her accession did not happen amidst the ongoing turmoil in Oldtown.

“Has anything else of note happened at court during my absence?” he asked.

Ravens from Larys Strong had kept him up to date on the crown’s finances but there were always plots afoot in the Red Keep.

“The usual competing for position among the courtiers and salacious rumours,” Queen Alicent replied. “Apart from that, the most … interesting development has been the arrival of Ser Tyland’s niece.”

Princess Rhaenyra scoffed. “Lady Tyshara is a sweet child but if Ser Tyland stops me after one more Small Council meeting to ask if she may spend time with Jace or Aemon, I am going to scream at him.”

Oh dear. Lord Jason Lannister had written to the crown several times over the years extolling the virtues of his eldest daughter and how she would make a most suitable consort to one of the princes. At the urging of the queen and princess, the king had continuously rebuffed him. However, it sounded that Lord Lannister was still pushing hard for a royal marriage.

“We have managed to respectfully turn down Ser Tyland’s requests thus far but he has been persistent,” the queen added. “Lady Tyshara herself does not seem too invested in her family’s schemes from what we have heard from her servants.”

“The girl is nine,” Princess Rhaenyra said with a grimace. “I have half a mind to send her back to her mother and Ser Tyland with her.”

Lyman shook his head in response. “That would just cause House Lannister greater offence. While you handled it as gracefully as you could, I believe Lord Lannister is still smarting over your rejection of him as a suitor.”

Even though the princess had firmly turned down Lord Lannister at the hunt for Prince Aemon’s second name day, the lord had remained unmarried until after she wed Ser Laenor. Lord Lannister had also continued to send flowery correspondence up until that point. When he had attended court since, his manner to Princess Rhaenyra was noticeably cool.

She ran a hand over her face in frustration and slumped in her chair. “Gods, spare me from the pride of men.”

Indeed.

Ser Laenor let out a chuckle. “The pride of lions,” he added with a grin when his wife turned to him questioningly.

The princess let out a groan but the queen did not react to the pun.

“I believe we should arrange a betrothal for Aemon as soon as possible,” Queen Alicent said, a serious look on her face. “He is only a few years from his majority and it is dangerous to leave him unattached for any longer. Too many lords have shown interest in him for their daughters, lords that may be moved to support his claim.”

“Yes, but with who?” Ser Laenor asked tiredly, his earlier humour gone. “We have been over this before; it would need to be a Targaryen or we risk another house leveraging his claim.”

“I believe you are still considering her for Prince Jacaerys anyway but I would not recommend betrothing Prince Aemon to Princess Helaena,” Lyman cautioned. “With the Andalist movement against the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, marrying brother to sister would lead to further unrest.”

The queen nodded in response. “It would need to be one of Prince Daemon and Laena’s daughters then,” she said before her gaze moved to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor. “Visenya is far too young—”

“Yes,” Ser Laenor agreed, clasping his wife’s hand. “Visenya is but three name days old, the age difference between her and Aemon is too great. The six years between Aemon and Baela and Rhaena is difficult enough.”

Prince Aemon was near enough a man now and Lyman too could not imagine betrothing him to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s thirdborn child. Princess Visenya had been mastering going up and down stairs unassisted when he left for the Reach.

“Have you not raised the possibility of a betrothal between Prince Aemon and Lady Baela before?” Lyman asked. “If I recall, Prince Daemon was opposed to the idea.”

“I believe his exact words were ‘one of my daughters will marry a Hightower spawn when my body has been burned to ash’,” the princess said, making no attempt to hide the roll of her eyes at her uncle’s dramatics.

“He speaks as though the ‘Hightower spawn’ in question is not his own nephew!” Queen Alicent exclaimed, clearly angry at the insult to her son. “Baela and Aemon would not even marry for years and the betrothal could be called off if either of them truly objected. In the meantime though, it may stop the lords trying to use their unmarried daughters to catch Aemon’s eye.”

Lady Tyshara Lannister may be the latest but she was hardly the first lady to be sent to court to try and make a match with one of the princes.

Ser Laenor raised his hand in a gesture for peace. “I will talk with Laena, she might be able to persuade Daemon. I will make it clear that Baela can break the betrothal later if she so desires without insult being taken. I know they have had their own issues with men seeking Baela’s hand, the Prince of Pentos among them.”

With Prince Daemon and Lady Laena only having two daughters, it was Lady Baela that was the current heir to the Stepstones and a much desired prospect. Although Lyman knew from his closeness to the royal family that the prince wished for a son to carry on his line.

“Could you also pass word that they need to decrease their tolls on ships from Myr, Lys and Tyrosh travelling through the Stepstones?” the queen asked. “We have had several recent envoys from the High Council of the Triarchy; they are well aware that Prince Daemon is singling out their ships.”

While the war in the Stepstones had ended ten years ago, there remained ill feeling over the crown’s control of the region. Ill feeling that was exacerbated every so often by Prince Daemon burning a Triarchy ship that attempted to sneak between the islands without paying the required toll.

After Ser Laenor agreed to discuss a possible betrothal and the Triarchy situation with Lady Laena, the four of them rose and headed out to begin their duties for the day.

When Lyman opened the door to his office, his eye was caught by the dragonfly perched on his bare desk. Between its iridescent blue shell and the fact that it was half the size of his hand, the creature was hard to miss.

Having long ago learned that it was better to be cautious, he asked out loud, “That is not one of the poisonous ones is it?”

“If she was poisonous, you would become ill from eating her,” an airy voice replied. “You are not planning on eating her, are you?”

Turning, Lyman looked to where Princess Helaena sat at a small desk in the corner of his office. “I had not planned on eating her, no. Is she venomous?” he asked, remembering the distinction between the two words now.

Princess Helaena shook her head. “She is preparing,” she said with a great deal of gravitas. “It is nearly time for her to spread her wings.”

He only prayed the dragonfly did not decide to take flight towards his face.

“Would it be possible that she prepare somewhere other than on my desk?” Lyman asked. “I need to make use of it.” He raised the papers that demanded his attention.

Princess Helaena rose, walked over and gently scooped the dragonfly into her hands. He heard her muttering to it as she returned to her seat. Hopefully the princess was able to keep track of the insect; Rosamund still shuddered at any mention of the millipede incident.

Checking the position of the sun in the sky, Lyman confirmed it was fairly early in the morning. “Should you not be in your lessons, princess?” he asked.

Her shoulders moved in a shrug but she did not verbally respond.

It was then that there was a knock on the office door.

“Enter!” he called, anticipating who it was.

Sure enough, Ser Gwayne Hightower entered the room, peering quickly around. He let out a sigh of relief when his eyes alighted on the silver-haired figure in the corner.

“Lord Beesbury,” he greeted with a nod before moving to kneel next to his charge, careful not to touch her. “Helaena, we have talked about this,” Ser Gwayne said, his tone chiding. “I do not particularly care if you walk out of your lessons every day but you need to let me know.” He turned to Lyman, eyes wide. “Please do not tell Alicent I said that.”

Having heard from Princess Rhaenyra the tongue-lashings the queen was capable of when incensed, he merely nodded in response.

“Sorry, Uncle Gwayne,” Princess Helaena replied placidly. “I grew bored.”

“Very well, at least I know where to find you when you wander off,” Ser Gwayne said, standing to his full height again. He then looked around Lyman’s office. “Why is it here you always come?”

“It is quiet,” she said simply. “Mother and Muña’s offices are always so busy with people coming and going. Lyman has less visitors.”

That was true enough. Few people in the keep were interested in matters of coin, so long as it kept flowing.

“I hope your grandson’s wedding went well, Lord Lyman,” Ser Gwayne said, moving away from his niece. “How did Uncle Hobert react to the king’s missive?”

“—tower shall be wreathed in green light—”

Lyman barely caught the sudden utterance from Princess Helaena. He looked over at her but she was focused on her dragonfly and the papers in front of her, seemingly paying no attention to their conversation.

There was then another knock at his door. Despite the fact his office was meant to be quiet, he certainly had a lot of visitors this morning.

Without waiting for leave, the door opened and Princess Rhaenyra entered while looking over a scroll in her hands. “Lyman, I forgot to say …” she trailed off as she spotted the other guests in his office. Dismay then appeared on her face as she stared at Princess Helaena. “Oh no, not you too,” the princess groaned.

Ser Gwayne’s lips quirked upwards in a grin. “I take it this means Helaena is not the only one to have fled her lessons this morn?”

Before she could answer, Lyman heard a dragon’s roar from outside. Looking out the window, he saw the bright, golden form of Sunfyre flying over King’s Landing, the pink membrane of his wings seeming to almost glow as sunlight passed through.

“Well, at least I know where Aemon is,” Princess Rhaenyra said ruefully, also gazing out the window. “Luke and Daeron have probably run off to the training yard.”

“And Rhaemond and Prince Jacaerys?” Ser Gwayne asked.

“Dutifully attending their lessons.”

That was no surprise; the two princes had always been the best behaved out of the royal children.

Soon after, Ser Gwayne ushered Princess Helaena out of his office – Lyman making sure that she took the dragonfly with her – leaving him and Princess Rhaenyra to talk.

The princess stared at the door wistfully after their departure. “It will be strange when Luke and Helaena leave. I will miss them dearly.”

“It is decided then?” he asked. “That Princess Helaena will join Prince Lucas when he fosters at the Eyrie?”

She nodded in response. “Helaena is still struggling here at court. Alicent and I hoped the situation would improve but, if anything, I think it might be getting worse.” Princess Rhaenyra reached over and began pouring them goblets of water from the jug that sat on the side of his desk. “There was an incident while you were away. A group of young squires mocked her and crushed one of her insects.”

Children could be little beasts at times. Especially to those that were a bit different.

“We sent the squires away from court,” she continued. “Although not before the boys trounced them in a brawl on their sister’s behalf. For which they were punished, of course.” Despite this last, the proud grin was clear on her face. “We then offered Helaena the option of joining Luke in the Vale. My grandmother got on well there, hopefully Helaena too will flourish.”

Princess Helaena had never reacted well to the scrutiny and unspoken rules of the Red Keep. Lyman knew there were whispers that she was simple but that was not the case. She just had no time nor attention for topics that were of little interest to her.

“Do you still wish for her to be Prince Jacaerys’s queen then?” he asked.

“Yes,” the princess replied. “I will admit, part of it is the sentiment of joining Alicent and I’s bloodlines but the two of them do get on well together.” A frown furrowed her forehead, tugging on the old scar through her eyebrow. “It is just a question of whether Helaena would be suited to the position.”

While it was the tradition of House Targaryen to marry within the family, Lyman could not help but lament the political loss of marrying the prince to his aunt.

“You realise you will be losing the opportunity to make a strong marriage alliance through Prince Jacaerys if you go this route,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, drumming her fingers on the surface of his desk. “But my position means I must think more long term than the next few years. If our blood becomes too diluted, we may lose the ability to control the dragons. The consequences of that could be dire, not just for House Targaryen but for the whole realm.”

He bowed his head in acquiescence. Ultimately, it was up to the crown princess to chart the best course forward for the royal family.

“I will miss the prince and princess when they leave,” Lyman said. “They have been bright presences in the keep.”

Prince Lucas’s cheeky grin never failed to elicit a smile from him and Princess Helaena had been a silent companion in his office for many a year.

A pained smile crossed Princess Rhaenyra’s face. “Gods, I cannot believe Luke is already eight. Where have the years gone?”

“Indeed,” he replied. “It seems like only yesterday he was taking his first steps.”

“I always knew Luke would leave to foster with Jeyne eventually,” she said. “He cannot become the true heir of the Vale unless he is familiar with its lands and its people, and that they are familiar with him. We named him after Jeyne’s father for a reason, a strong Arryn name. Despite the fact that he and Helaena will be less than a day’s flight away, the separation will be painful.”

Lyman himself remembered when his oldest son had left Honeyholt to move to Oldtown and join the City Watch. Even though Mathis had been a young man by then, it was still an adjustment. Beyond that, the princess had always had a strong bond with her secondborn son.

“At least Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena will have each other,” he said, reaching over to place a hand atop Princess Rhaenyra’s. “As well as Ser Gwayne, I presume, and your family in the Vale. As you say, this is important for him, for them both.”

She turned her hand over so that it clasped his own and gave it a gentle shake. “As ever, Lyman, your advice is much appreciated.” The smile she gave him was heartfelt.

Squeezing the princess’s hand, he then withdrew to his own side of the desk. “When are they leaving then?” he asked.

“In about a moon. Most of the arrangements are now in place. A few of the dragonkeepers will be travelling to the Vale too, to tend to Arrax.”

At least Prince’s Lucas’s dragon was still rather small. Especially compared to the behemoth that Syrax had grown into.

“Speaking of dragons, has Prince Rhaemond made any progress?” Lyman asked.

Princess Rhaenyra shook her head. “Not yet. I am taking him to Dragonstone in several days for another attempt at Grey Ghost.”

“You are not optimistic though?” he commented, taking in her mood.

“I think if Rhaemond was meant for Grey Ghost, he would not be so persistent in evading us,” she said, letting out a sharp exhale. “But Rhaemond has already failed to claim Dreamfyre, Vermithor, Silverwing and Sheepstealer. He is becoming despondent, despite all my talk of how old Laena, Daemon and my father were when they claimed their own dragons.”

She too looked pained by her brother’s difficulties.

“It would be easier if he did not have Alicent’s eyes,” the princess groused. “Whenever he gets upset and turns those big, wet brown eyes on me, it is like an arrow through my heart.”

Lyman had seen first hand the effect Queen Alicent’s eyes had on her several times over the years. He was sure the queen knew and did it on purpose.

“There is another wild dragon, is there not?” he asked. “The big black one?”

Her eyes widened. “The Cannibal?” Princess Rhaenyra said, a note of unease in her voice. “Absolutely not. No man has gotten anywhere near him and lived. Alicent would kill me if I took Rhaemond within a mile of him.” She gave a shake of her head. “No, if Rhaemond fails to claim Grey Ghost, I will give him another egg from Syrax’s latest clutch.”

Family affairs dealt with, they then turned their attention to the matter that had brought the princess to Lyman’s office in the first place.

Chapter Text

“Very well, let us get started,” Lord Lyonel said, calling that morning's Small Council meeting to order.

While King Viserys remained confined to his chambers with his ill health, it was the lord Hand that officially ruled in his stead. However, Lord Lyonel had not taken up the king’s seat at the head of the table – in contrast to Ser Otto when he had governed as King Jaehaerys declined. Instead, Lord Lyonel still occupied his usual seat to the left of the head of the table, directly opposite Princess Rhaenyra.

“How did you get on in Oldtown, Lord Lyman?” Lord Lyonel continued, leaning forward in his chair to see him past Grand Maester Alester.

Lyman let out a sharp exhale before beginning his report. “The situation in Oldtown is much as we have heard. I observed a septon preaching unchallenged in the streets that those of Andal blood should follow the rules of the Andal faith. He did not explicitly mention the Doctrine of Exceptionalism but his meaning was clear.”

A carafe suddenly appeared in the periphery of his vision. Barely containing his start of surprise, Lyman moved the empty goblet in front of him so it was more accessible.

Across the table, Princess Rhaenys frowned. “Were there those that could have challenged him?” she asked.

As wine began to fill his goblet, Lyman took a brief pause before responding to regard the Small Council’s cupbearer, Prince Jacaerys, his lips pursed as he focused on not spilling a drop of liquid. Alan’s wedding had caused Lyman to miss the prince’s tenth name day, which was a shame. He would swear that Prince Jacaerys looked older, some of the baby fat having melted from his cheeks in the previous moons. His silver locs – an emulation of the way his father styled his own hair – had grown longer too.

Turning his attention back to Princess Rhaenys, Lyman replied, “There were several members of the City Watch within earshot but they did nothing. My son has contacts from his time as a watchman and apparently, the officers have ordered that the City Watchmen not interfere with those of the Faith.”

“Even if what they preach borders on treason?” Princess Rhaenys asked sharply.

Lyman inclined his head. “It was not stated outright but no septons have been arrested thus far.”

There was a scoff from Princess Rhaenys at this. “I may reach out to the commanders of Oldtown’s City Watch myself,” she mused. “Remind them that they are meant to uphold the king’s law, not their lord’s.”

Hopefully the City Watch would heed such a reminder from the crown’s Mistress of Laws.

“What of Lord Hightower himself?” Lord Lyonel asked, writing down a few notes on the parchment in front of him. “How did he react to the crown’s missive?”

“With a great deal of nonchalance,” Lyman replied, thinking back to the languid way in which Lord Hightower had responded to his instructions. “He argued that he did not believe it was for him to arrest and punish those of the Faith. Lord Hightower did not seem overly concerned about attracting the crown’s ire either.”

“Yet he did not admit to being behind the Andalists?” Lord Lyonel asked.

“No. But I spoke with many of the Most Devout at the Starry Sept. Lord Hightower’s uncle, Septon Talbert, is among them and has formed a sect that argues against the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. The High Septon is waning and does not have the strength to stamp them out.”

It had been all too briefly that Lyman spoke with the High Septon. However, it was clear that the wizened man was not altogether there any more. During their short conversation, the High Septon had to be reminded several times of what they were even discussing.

“Given his popularity, there is a risk that it will be Septon Talbert elected as the next High Septon,” Lyman continued. “An outcome I fear will damage the crown’s relations with the Faith.”

Lord Lyonel placed down his quill and clasped his hands together. “It would not do to have the Faith of the Seven at odds with us,” he said severely. “We need only look to the reigns of King Aenys and Maegor to see the damage such discord can cause.”

“I have reached out to many of my own contacts within the Faith,” Queen Alicent said. “The rank and file, the ordinary septons, septas, brothers and sisters are not overly concerned with this sect preaching against the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. To them, it matters little as they work to improve the lives of the smallfolk and bring them to salvation.” She turned to her left to favour Princess Rhaenyra with a brief but warm look. “They care far more about the charity work by the Faith that the princess has sponsored than any rhetoric coming out of Oldtown.”

Words are wind but actions are stone. And the princess’s actions had helped a great many people.

“Even so,” Princess Rhaenyra said, giving a nod and a smile to her son as he poured her wine, “the High Septon wields a great deal of influence.” She paused for a couple of seconds in contemplation. “I believe it would be remiss of us not to present an alternative candidate that can begin to gather support. Archsepton Warrick has served as the head of the Faith in King’s Landing for approaching two decades and he is well respected. He has also been acting as the liaison between the Starry Sept and the court. I propose that we ask if he would be willing to put himself forward.”

Archsepton Warrick was also the person that Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent coordinated with the most for their charitable activities in King’s Landing. Lyman had gone over his share of budgets with the archsepton and the high regard in which he held the princess and queen was clear.

“The High Septon is normally elected from among the Most Devout though,” Lord Lyonel said, a frown creasing his forehead. “The archsepton is not among their number.”

“Normally, yes,” Queen Alicent replied. “But I can think of at least half a dozen High Septons over the last centuries that were not of the Most Devout and the archsepton is a high-ranking member of the Faith besides.”

“In that case, I will leave it to the two of you to approach Archsepton Warrick, Your Grace, Crown Princess,” the lord Hand replied.

Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra gave nods of acknowledgement.

“These arguments against the Doctrine of Exceptionalism are one thing,” the Grand Maester said, “but what if the Andalists go further and denounce the crown princess as heir?”

The princess’s jaw clenched and, from the sudden tension in her arm, Lyman suspected her hand had curled into a fist under the table. “Then they are guilty of treason and must be dealt with in the harshest possible terms.”

Lord Lyonel nodded. “If the Andalists did speak thusly against the king’s chosen heir, the crown would demand that they be sentenced accordingly. We would have no other choice.”

While Lyman would never say so out loud – and even in his own head he cringed away from the thought – he could not help but be glad it was Lord Lyonel managing the kingdom at present. If such a matter had been brought before King Viserys, Lyman suspected he would have hesitated to put those of the Faith to death, even though the law was clear.

“On that note,” Princess Rhaenys interjected, “there is a brother being held in the dungeons. The blue cloaks arrested him for preaching against Princess Rhaenyra’s position and Ser Harwin brought the matter to me.” The Mistress of Laws frowned as she read over one of her papers. “I believe the man may be quite mad. Beyond decrying that the crown princess is not the true heir, all he repeats is that the Seven put him on this earth to shepherd people into their light.”

Queen Alicent straightened in her seat. “I have heard of this brother too,” she said. “Archsepton Warrick made mention of him to me. The archsepton is aware the brother will likely be executed and has made it clear we will have his full support in doing so. He is willing to issue a proclamation to that effect and attend the execution.”

The rest of the council turned to the lord Hand to see what judgement he would render.

“Let this brother be an example that the crown will not allow anyone to speak against the king’s declared successor,” Lord Lyonel said decisively. “Have him hung and his remains displayed above the city gates as a warning to others.”

Such an act now would hopefully deter any others among the Faith in King’s Landing that had Andalist leanings.

“Returning to the situation in Oldtown,” the Grand Maester said, “what are we to do if the High Septon passes and Lord Hightower’s uncle is selected as his replacement?”

“That is undoubtedly what Uncle Hobert is hoping for,” the queen added. “The High Septon would be a powerful ally if he sought to press Aemon’s claim.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but how can we be sure of your uncle’s intentions?” Ser Tyland had been silent during the meeting thus far but seemed ready to say his piece. “It is a large leap from Lord Hightower being unwilling to subject those of the Faith to the king’s justice to him repudiating the succession. Where is the evidence?”

“My liege lord explicitly told me Prince Aemon should one day sit the throne at his second name day hunt,” Lyman replied. “Half the court heard him refer to the prince as the first of his name!”

Perhaps if King Viserys had taken harsher action against Lord Hightower then, they would not find themselves in this situation now.

Ser Tyland did not look appeased by this though. “That was over a decade ago,” he argued. “Lord Hightower was not alone then in thinking the king would change the succession since he had a son. Prince Aemon’s second name day was before the king introduced the law that the throne would always pass to the ruler’s firstborn child.”

“He wore green to my wedding,” Princess Rhaenyra said, idly fiddling with her orb of office upon the table. “If you were unaware, Ser Tyland, that is the colour the Hightower’s beacon glows to call Oldtown’s banners.”

“So we are now suspecting lords of treason based on the colour of their clothing?” Ser Tyland asked, his brow furrowed in displeasure. “I do not deny Lord Hightower probably hoped his great-nephew would inherit the throne; what man would not? But there is no proof he plans to go against the king’s will on the matter.”

“What of reports of the other happenings around Oldtown?” Princess Rhaenys asked. “That Lord Hightower is consolidating power in the southern Reach. That he has invested in the Redwyne fleet.”

News had reached them that the Arbor’s shipyards were hard at work launching new vessels. As Lord Hightower’s heir, Ser Ormund, was married to Lord Redwyne’s granddaughter, that alliance now had a great many ships to call on between the Arbor’s and Oldtown’s own.

“Such is his prerogative as the Lord of Oldtown,” Ser Tyland argued. “Why should he not invest in the ships of his good-daughter’s family?”

“I must confess,” the Grand Maester said, “even if we assume he wishes to do so, I do not see any credible way Lord Hightower might contest the succession. Oldtown is over a thousand miles from here.” He gestured roughly in the direction of the ancient city, far to the south-west. “He has no real presence at court. What could he feasibly do?”

Ser Tyland was nodding along. “Marching an army up the roseroad would take moons and he would have to face the Tyrells besides. The sea route would require going through the Stepstones, which the crown control. That is not even factoring in the dragons.”

That had been weighing on Lyman’s mind too. While he did not doubt that his liege lord still supported Prince Aemon’s claim, there would be great difficulty leveraging it. As far as they were aware, Lord Hightower lacked powerful allies in King’s Landing and his only strong link was to Ser Myles – another of the queen’s brothers, who had a manse in the city but did not frequent the Red Keep itself.

“For now, all we can do is remain appraised of the situation in Oldtown,” Lord Lyonel said, bringing order back to the meeting as he made eye contact with each of his fellow councillors. “With any luck, Lord Hightower will have the sense to heed the crown’s instructions and root out these Andalists among the Most Devout. If not … we will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

There were nods and murmurs of agreement from around the table. Although neither of the princesses nor the queen looked satisfied.

“Now, what other business is there?” Lord Lyonel continued.

“I received a petition from Lord Blackwood asserting that the Brackens have secretly moved the boundary stones between their lands in the dead of night,” Princess Rhaenys said, retrieving the relevant letter from the pile before her. “If there are no objections, I will advise him to bring the matter to his lord paramount.”

The neighbouring Brackens and Blackwoods had been feuding for thousands of years and showed no sign of stopping any time soon. However, as Princess Rhaenys said, this was a matter for House Tully to settle rather than the Small Council.

Lord Lyonel nodded. “That will be for the best,” he said. “Lord Grover Tully has reportedly grown too feeble to handle much of the Riverlands’ affairs but his grandson can rule on the matter.”

That issue dealt with, Princess Rhaenyra leant forward in her chair. “We need to address the latest developments with the Triarchy,” she said gravely. “Word was received yesterday that it has formed an alliance of mutual protection with Dorne.”

This was new information to Lyman. “I thought we were hopeful our negotiations with Sunspear would bear fruit?” he asked.

After a series of bloody skirmishes in the Dornish Marches, an envoy had been sent to treat with the Martells. It was hoped that an agreement could be reached on the exact boundary between the realm and Dorne, thereby decreasing such conflict in the future.

“To trust a Martell is to be disappointed,” Ser Tyland commented.

“Prince Qoren would not enter into proper discussions unless we committed to withdrawing from the Stepstones,” Queen Alicent said. “He said we had encroached too near to Dorne.”

“I believe he fears we plan to use the Stepstones as a staging ground for an attack on Sunspear,” Princess Rhaenyra added. “Our envoy refused the request, of course. We cannot just give the Stepstones up.”

Oh, for pity’s sake. If King Viserys had shown anything over the years, it was that he was hardly a warmonger. There had not been a serious attempt to conquer Dorne since the realm had first been formed well over a century ago. They certainly had no such designs now.

“So they have turned to the Triarchy for aid?” the Grand Maester asked.

“Apparently,” the lord Hand said, looking exasperated. “We are unsure of the exact wording of the agreement, only what our contacts have passed on to us. However, it is primarily a promise to aid each other if either the Triarchy or Dorne are attacked.”

“This is all most troubling,” Queen Alicent said. “We need to assure Dorne we do not have any designs on its sovereignty. Elsewise we will see further issues along the border.”

Lord Lyonel nodded. “I would suggest sending one of the princesses but, all history considered, a dragonrider would be an unwelcome sight in the skies above Dorne.”

If Prince Qoren already expected an invasion, he would surely regard an arriving dragon as proof of its beginning.

“I will bring this up to the king,” Princess Rhaenyra said. “He is still well enough to write to Dorne directly and assuage their concerns.”

A path forward with Dorne decided upon, the Small Council moved on to discussing the king’s health.

“And then Alicent said that Aemon running off to the Dragonpit all the time was my fault and that I should be the one to punish him for it!” Princess Rhaenyra declared. “It is hardly my fault that riding a dragon is more interesting to a boy of four-and-ten than listening to a maester all morning.”

Lyman leant back into the settee cushions behind him, a chuckle escaping his lips.

The two of them were taking a rare break from their respective duties that evening to converse in his chambers. With a carafe of good Dornish wine on hand, he and the princess were passing time together most pleasantly.

“How did talking with the prince go then?” he enquired.

She rolled her eyes. “After some arguing and cajoling we came to an agreement. As long as he attends his lessons, Aemon can ride Sunfyre whenever he wants in his free time. But he needs to catch up on the work he missed first.”

“That seems equitable,” Lyman said. He would probably have advised something similar given the circumstances.

“Thank you,” the princess replied. “It is perfectly reasonable! Even so, Aemon burst into histrionics about how I was depriving him of his ‘beautiful golden boy’.” Despite Princess Rhaenyra’s tone being one of exasperation, she was unable to disguise the pure affection on her face.

He laughed. “For all that Prince Aemon’s looks are a near mirror of the queen’s, he is by far the child that takes after you the most.”

The princess gave him an affronted look in response. “I am sure I was never that bad in my youth.”

Thinking back over her childhood, Lyman just raised an eyebrow.

“Shush!” she said.

“I said nothing!” he protested.

Her eyes narrowed. “I can hear you thinking.”

Their conversation paused as they took sips of their wine. Princess Rhaenyra then placed her goblet on the table next to her and when she turned back to face him, her expression had grown serious.

“Do you truly believe Lord Hightower means to press Aemon’s claim?” she asked, her hands moving to twist her rings.

Lyman thought it over for a few moments while he formulated a response. “The Hightowers still deeply resent no longer being kings in the Reach,” he finally said. “They came close to getting their blood on the Iron Throne when Lady Ceryse Hightower married Maegor but that union did not bear any children. This is the best opportunity they have had, will likely have for generations at least.”

“It was perhaps naive of me but I hoped Otto’s death would put such plots to rest.”

“There are always men that will reach for more power than is rightfully theirs,” he commented. There would be far less discord throughout the realm if all people were satisfied with their lots.

“Lord Hightower has not even seen Aemon for more than a decade, he has no understanding of him.” The anger was clear on the princess’s face. “Even if Aemon had a desire for the throne, which I am sure he does not, he would never betray me, betray our family in such a manner.”

Prince Aemon had several virtues: he was kind, he was funny and he was a good brother to all his younger siblings. However, no one would ever say that he was fond of duty or toil, especially of the sort that would be required if he ever did become king. Besides that, the love and regard he held for Princess Rhaenyra was clear in their every interaction.

“As you say, Lord Hightower has not seen Prince Aemon for a decade,” Lyman said. “It is likely he is unaware of how close the two of you are. Perhaps he assumes that the prince covets your position, that he can manipulate him.”

“If Lord Hightower keeps pushing, it will likely only end one way: with Fire and Blood,” she said. “I do not relish the thought of unleashing dragonfire on my wife’s kin.”

“Hopefully it will not come to that,” Lyman said comfortingly. “Lord Hightower will surely see reason.” He had never been a foolish man, he had to. If the crown ever did need to send forces to Oldtown, House Beesbury’s lands were among the closest. Mathis and Alan would end up right in the thick of the situation.

Princess Rhaenyra did not look appeased though. “What if he does not?” she pressed. “Men can be blinded by ambition.”

Then Lord Hightower would need to be removed as Lord of Oldtown, one way or another. For the sake of the stability of the realm.

“There is little point dwelling on this now,” he replied instead. “Focus your energies where they can be useful.”

The princess leant forward, her elbows resting on her knees, head bowed. “I cannot stop these worries playing out in my head.” She sounded tired. “When I was younger, it all sounded so glorious. My uncle used to tell me tales of the Conquest and I would imagine being Queen Visenya and riding into battle. The uprising in the Vale showed me how foolish I had been. That there is no glory in bathing men in gouts of flame.”

Lyman reached over and placed a hand on her back. “The men of the Reach still remember the Field of Fire. A battle House Hightower remained well away from for good reason. Lord Hightower knows it would be folly to light the Hightower’s beacon green and call his banners to war.”

While her head remained lowered, Lyman felt Princess Rhaenyra press ever so slightly into his hand. “If we do seek to remove Lord Hightower from his position it will lead to conflict. A siege on Oldtown would be inefficient, we would probably take our dragons to burn the Hightower itself. At least what happened in the Vale was on a battlefield, the men I killed attacking Redfort and Runestone. This would be burning men, women and children in their home, in their beds.”

He barely stopped himself from flinching. These were dark thoughts. The situation with Lord Hightower had not escalated nearly far enough that such actions needed to be considered.

“Why are you thinking on such matters?” Lyman asked.

The princess finally raised her head just enough to make eye contact with him, turmoil clear in her violet eyes. “It all seems so real now,” she said. “I knew that one day I would be queen, gods willing, but with the state of my father’s health, it is staring me right in the face.”

“You might have years yet. The Grand Maester has many learned men providing advice and assistance. He has even summoned a healer from Essos.”

She scoffed. “Even if he recovers from this bout of illness, they are no closer to curing whatever rot has taken hold of him. I am sure they will amputate his arm soon. He has already lost his hand, several toes, his ear, his … well, you do not need to know about that. My queenship draws ever closer and I find myself wondering what kind of queen I will be.”

Abruptly, Princess Rhaenyra rose and began to pace back and forth across the room. “I cannot waver, I cannot appear weak before the lords of the realm. I do not want to become my father, ignoring any threat or problem. But I do not want to become Maegor either, burning anyone that speaks against me to ash.” She paused near the fireplace, a heavy expression on her face.

“You are not Maegor,” he assured, thinking on all the misery and destruction the usurper had wrought. “You could never be Maegor. There was something … wrong with him. But you are not King Viserys either. There can be a balance, a middle ground between weakness and tyranny.”

“Yes, but where is the line?” she asked, her hand rising to run through her hair – freed from its customary braids given the lateness of the hour. “I need to hold the realm together but I do not wish to become a monster either.” The princess stared at him as if he had the answers that she sought.

Lyman exhaled. He had never been a reader of philosophy and questions such as this were beyond his ken. “I cannot give you a firm answer, Rhaenyra,” he finally said. “I wish I could but I cannot. All I can say is that I have faith you would know yourself before doing something beyond the pale. And, if your judgement ever did lapse, there are those that would pull you back from the brink: Queen Alicent, Ser Laenor, myself.”

Princess Rhaenyra looked into his eyes for a long moment before nodding, her shoulders dropping as the tension across her frame loosened. “Very well,” she replied. “Very well.”

Chapter Text

As the time drew near for Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena to depart for the Eyrie, Lady Jeyne Arryn came herself to retrieve them. Lady Arryn had changed little in the years since Lyman had last seen her. Perhaps her face was slightly more lined and her dark brown hair starting to grey at the temples but that was all.

As was custom, a small feast was held to officially welcome Lady Arryn to court. The king’s absence would surely be noted but there was little they could do now to stop the rumours circulating about his ill health.

With the eyes of the court upon them, the royal children were, for once, on their best behaviour. Joining them at the high table, Lyman was rather amused by the difference between how they were acting and their norm. Prince Lucas especially was the very picture of courtly manners as he asked after the health of his great-aunt Amanda.

Against the predictions of maesters, Lady Amanda Arryn continued to live, though she was no longer well enough to leave the Eyrie regularly. Princess Rhaenyra had confided to Lyman that she suspected her aunt was attempting to outlive the king out of sheer spite.

She would likely succeed if King Viserys’s health issues continued.

Turning his mind from such matters, Lyman focused back on the conversation happening around him.

“The two of you will not lack for companions your own age,” Lady Arryn said to Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena. “Lady Rhea’s son, Triston, will also be fostering with me. I believe you will get on well with him, Luke.”

It would be fortuitous if Prince Lucas forged a strong bond with the heir of Runestone. Such connections between liege lord and vassal were what the realm was based upon.

“Does that mean Ser Harwin will be returning to court soon?” Princess Rhaenyra asked, turning to where Lord Lyonel sat a few chairs down. “While we have visited each other and written, I have missed his friendship these last years.”

Lord Lyonel nodded. “Now that his children are well on their way to adulthood, it is time Harwin returned from Runestone and resumed his duties. I plan to have him spend several moons with me in King’s Landing before sending him to Harrenhal to rule in my stead.”

Not long after marrying Lady Rhea, Ser Harwin had resigned his post within the City Watch and joined his wife at Runestone. Despite the fact that Lady Rhea’s position as a ruling lady made such a move necessary, Lyman knew that Lord Lyonel held a kernel of resentment at having lost his son and heir for so long.

Once they had all finished eating, minstrels that had been hired for the evening struck up a jaunty tune.

Ser Laenor rose to his feet and turned to his wife next to him with a grin. “A dance, princess?” he asked, extending his hand and bowing over it.

Princess Rhaenyra took his hand and stood from her chair. “Of course, husband.”

They then moved onto the floor together, soon dancing and twirling around to the rhythm of the lute and drums.

It was interesting to watch the two of them. While Lyman knew there were no romantic feelings there, the words and laughter exchanged between Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor were filled with genuine affection. It was more than enough to keep the court and the rest of the realm fooled. Indeed, Lyman had heard several songs about the great love between the beautiful crown princess and her dashing consort.

There was not a shred of resentment on Queen Alicent’s face as she too watched them but her expression was almost wistful. Lyman wondered if she wished that she could dance with Princess Rhaenyra openly in such a fashion.

His musings were interrupted as Prince Aemon rose and approached Lady Arryn. “If you would honour me with a dance, my lady,” he said, extending his hand in a near-perfect copy of Ser Laenor’s gesture. The effect was somewhat ruined though by the deep red blush that was growing up the prince’s cheeks.

Hiding any amusement she felt well, Lady Arryn gracefully accepted and they joined the royal couple on the floor. While Prince Aemon was not a bad dancer, he lacked Ser Laenor’s calm confidence and Lyman was sure he could see his lips moving as he counted their steps.

With that, more and more couples took to the floor. Prince Jacaerys soon asked Princess Helaena to dance, although they were more bouncing around each other than any dance Lyman recognised. Perhaps knowing that no other man could in the king’s absence, Prince Rhaemond invited Queen Alicent to dance. Whatever grace his older brother lacked, Prince Rhaemond had inherited as he and his mother confidently turned around each other.

Lyman himself was forced to wait until a slower tune to dance with Rosamund. Even that effort left him near breathless but he was not old enough yet to turn down the opportunity to dance with his wife. When Lord Lyonel asked if he might have a turn dancing with Rosamund, Lyman was quick to agree and went to sit down for a rest.

Returning to the high table, it was now near empty. Princess Visenya had been taken to bed by a maid once the food was finished and almost everyone else was still dancing. The exceptions were Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Arryn as they spoke to each other quietly.

The princess tilted her head in the direction of the chair on her other side as Lyman approached, an invitation for him to join them.

“If your accession is near, you know I and the Vale stand with you,” Lady Arryn said, clasping Princess Rhaenyra’s hand.

“I know, Cousin,” she replied. “The question is whether the rest of the realm will fall into line so easily.”

“You have doubts?” Lady Arryn asked with a frown.

The princess turned her head this way and that but there was no one else nearby that might overhear her. “The Starks have never forgotten an oath and I hold no concern over the rest of the North either. The Crownlands are loyal to me, as are much of the Riverlands and the Reach. But the rest … they may have reservations about bending the knee to a woman.”

In the Stormlands, Lord Borros Baratheon may lack the fortitude of his late father but he was a proud man besides. His eldest daughter had been offered a place in Princess Rhaenyra’s household once she was a few years older but Princess Rhaenys believed what her cousin truly desired was a royal match. Lord Borros had also made several comments about the state of his own succession over the years – having four daughters but no sons – that implied he thought a male heir far preferable to a female.

Despite his brother, Ser Tyland, having a place on the Small Council, Lord Jason Lannister maintained a grudge against Princess Rhaenyra for her rejection of his suit. A rejection caused, at least in part, by Lord Lannister’s expectation that the princess would lose her place as heir and join him at Casterly Rock.

In the Riverlands, Lord Grover Tully had never approved of the princess being heir. While his advanced age meant much of the ruling of the region had now fallen to his grandson, Lord Tully’s continuance as the lord paramount remained a problem.

Gods knew what the Iron Islands thought about the succession. And the less said about what was happening in Oldtown, the better.

“They may have reservations about bending the knee to a woman, to a queen, but bend they will,” Lady Arryn said with a harsh smile that showed too many teeth. “When it comes down to it, few men are willing to lose their heads for their beliefs.” She paused to take a sip of wine. “After I reached my majority and started ruling the Vale in earnest, I had my own share of lords that tested my limits. Be strict, do not hesitate to punish any transgressions and they will come to know their folly.”

Princess Rhaenyra listened with rapt attention to her cousin’s words, a fiery glimmer entering her eyes.

“Above all, Cousin,” Lady Arryn continued, “remember that every lord in this realm owes you their fealty. You were born for this.”

The day before Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena were due to leave for the Eyrie, the royal family had gathered together in the keep’s yard. Ostensibly, they were training but really it was more of an opportunity for them all to spend time together before their number decreased by two.

Lyman had been invited to join them, although he was taking advantage of the favourable weather to look over some ledgers while he did so. It was pleasant to not worry about politics for a time and instead focus on his actual role; never had tallying taxes from Lannisport been more enjoyable. Not that he could get much work done with all the japes and taunts the princes were good-naturedly calling out to each other as they practised their sword skills and sparred together.

Ser Laenor and Ser Joffrey had been effective instructors over the years, a fact reflected by the ease with which the princes carried out the drills they were assigned. However, after about an hour, it was clear their attentions were beginning to wane. Prince Daeron – who had always favoured the bow over the sword – had wandered off to practice archery with Princess Rhaenyra at the far end of the yard. Then Prince Lucas had walked over to where Lyman himself, Queen Alicent and Princess Visenya were sitting and began excitedly regaling them with tales of all he would see in the Vale.

Prince Aemon continued to strike the straw man in front of him but there was little intent behind his movements. It was only Princes Rhaemond and Jacaerys that were giving Ser Laenor and Ser Joffrey their full attention. Normally, the two knights would have been stricter with the princes; after all, developing martial skills was an important part of their education. However, presumably in deference to the fact that this would be the family’s last day together for some time, they were letting them get away with it this once.

“Darling, leave that alone,” Queen Alicent gently chided Princess Visenya as the latter lifted Prince Lucas’s abandoned training sword off the ground.

“No, I can do it!” the little princess replied, her brow furrowed as she struggled to keep the tip of the wooden sword up.

“It’s too big for you, Vis,” Prince Lucas said laughing. “Here.” He reached over for the sword but his sister, clearly unwilling to give up her prize, tried to swing it at his hand.

However, the sword’s weight already had her off balance and she nearly toppled over instead. “No, mine!” Princess Visenya declared.

The queen let out a sigh. “This is what happens when you raise your child on tales of her warrior namesake,” she muttered under her breath. “Visenya, we do not hit our brothers, apologise.”

The little princess stamped her foot in frustration. “No, Luke tried to steal my sword!”

“It’s my sword, you can’t even lift it!” Prince Lucas gestured to where the sword tip now rested on the ground again.

Princess Visenya glared at her brother mutinously. Well, as mutinously as a three-year-old child could look anyway. However, she was then swept upwards into Princess Rhaenyra’s arms – sword and all – as her mother came up behind her.

“Now, sweet girl, you will never become a warrior with an unsuitable weapon.” She bopped her daughter on the nose, provoking a giggle, before gently tugging the sword away from her and handing it back to Prince Lucas. “This is more your size.” Princess Rhaenyra pulled from her belt a debarked stick that had presumably been meant to be whittled into arrows. She then handed it to her daughter.

Princess Visenya looked from the raw wood to Prince Lucas’s expertly carved and balanced training sword and back again. Lyman could see the protest about to leave her lips before her mother started speaking again.

“Just for the meantime,” Princess Rhaenyra assured. “I will have a proper training sword commissioned for you. Based on Dark Sister’s design.”

The little princess thought it over for a few moments and then gave a solemn nod. “Very well,” she said, before beginning to wriggle in her mother’s arms.

Acquiescing to her daughter’s unspoken request, Princess Rhaenyra lowered Princess Visenya to the ground, who promptly began trying to strike Prince Lucas with her stick. Taking up his sister’s challenge, the two of them moved out into the training yard proper to continue their mock duel.

Queen Alicent gave Princess Rhaenyra a look.

“What?” she asked in return, shrugging her shoulders.

“A training sword?” the queen said, raising her eyebrow. “Really. Visenya has not even counted four name days yet.”

The princess slumped into the chair next to Lyman. “She will just keep stealing her brothers’ swords,” she argued. “We may as well get her one of her own, one the right size for her.”

“And the fact that a royal princess should not be wielding a sword to begin with?” The exasperation in Queen Alicent’s voice was clear.

Princess Rhaenyra let out a weary sigh. “Try telling Vis that. Besides, I know Daemon is teaching Baela swordplay. My own grandmother too terrorised squires in the training yard in her youth.”

Princess Alyssa had been well known throughout the realm for her less-than-ladylike proclivities.

Across the yard, Princess Visenya had grown tired of trying to strike her brother and was mimicking the latest drill Ser Joffrey was demonstrating. With limited success.

“I swear that girl is divine punishment for how I behaved in my youth,” Princess Rhaenyra said, though her words were belied by the softness with which she regarded her daughter.

“Laenor’s blood is certainly not at fault,” the queen commented with a wry grin.

“It is funny the way these matters work out,” Lyman said to the princess. “In spite of the fact that Princess Visenya is Ser Laenor’s heir, she takes more after her Targaryen heritage than her Velaryon.”

Queen Alicent chuckled but Princess Rhaenyra let out a groan. “Gods, do not mention Vis being the future heir of Driftmark.” She rubbed a hand over her forehead in frustration. “We received another raven from my good-father a few days ago. He is driving me mad!”

“Was there anything accompanying it this time?” the queen asked curiously.

The princess nodded. “Lord Corlys is sending a tea from Asshai that will guarantee the conception of a boy.” She rolled her eyes.

From what Lyman had intuited over the years, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor were happy to have the three heirs they required and were not trying for any more children. However, despite being advised to the contrary several times, Lord Corlys still hoped for Driftmark to eventually pass to a grandson. After the Sea Snake’s hinting and cajoling had failed, he had now apparently taken his attempts a step further.

“Honestly,” the princess continued, “he would be as well sending the tea to Joffrey for all the good it would do!”

Lyman choked on his spit.

The queen reached over and whacked the princess on the arm. “Rhaenyra,” she scolded, “do not make such insinuations in front of Lyman.”

As he recovered, Prince Daeron began waving an arm from where he was practising his archery. “Mother, I can get inside the second ring now!” he called. “Come see!”

Queen Alicent rose to her feet and walked over to join him, one hand holding her skirts up to stop them trailing on the muddy ground.

“Was the king not well enough to join us?” Lyman asked. “You said he wished to say goodbye to Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena.”

The princess scoffed. “Luke more than Helaena,” she said quietly but with clear anger in her voice. “I am not even sure he cares that she is going to the Vale too.”

Over the past decade, it had been painful at times viewing the difference between how the king interacted with his younger children and with his grandchildren. His happiness upon Prince Jacaerys’s birth had been plain to see, a happiness that was barely present after each of his children with Queen Alicent was born.

Princess Rhaenyra had intervened and persuaded her father to spend time with his younger children but there had been no real warmth, no connection. One by one, the three princes and Princess Helaena had given up on having a meaningful relationship with the man that sired them. While the children had plenty of other figures in their lives that loved and supported them, Lyman had heard Princess Rhaenyra express her fury over the situation many a time.

“But no,” the princess continued, “Father is virtually bedridden now. Even rising costs him too much energy.”

“Beebs, save me!” A shout from the training yard interrupted their conversation.

Looking over, Lyman saw Prince Aemon lying on the ground, dramatically acting out his death throes as Princess Visenya continued to hit his torso with her stick.

“Apologies, Prince Aemon, I dare not face so mighty a warrior!” he called back.

“Betrayal!” the prince replied, throwing his hand over his heart in feigned anguish. “Rhaemond, Jace, avenge me. I go to meet the gods!”

His brothers did not even look over from their sparring.

“What am I going to do with that boy?” Princess Rhaenyra said, shaking her head with fond exasperation.

“If all else fails, I believe he may have a promising future as a mummer,” Lyman quipped.

She chuckled but quickly grew serious again. “I never thought I would empathise so much with my father’s struggles to find a place for Daemon. I want to find a fulfilling role for Aemon, something that makes him happy.” Her eyes were sad as she regarded her younger brother, her brother who was more her son in truth.

“You will find something he is suited to. Prince Aemon is hardly as restless as your uncle.” He patted the princess’s arm. “Let him enjoy his childhood while he still can. He will become a man soon enough, with all the burdens that come with that.”

The princess had seen her own youth abruptly end at four-and-ten when she was made the heir to the throne. Despite the fact that she had maintained a certain irreverence in the years that followed, the weight of her new responsibilities had changed her.

A silver-haired figure approaching out of the corner of his eye caught Lyman’s attention. While her siblings rough-housed and practised in the training yard, Princess Helaena had been content to sit off to one side with Ser Gwayne, her attention diverted by some insect or another. However, she now walked calmly over to stand in front of them.

“What is it, little love?” Princess Rhaenyra asked.

“I would like to claim my dragon,” she replied.

The elder princess looked at her in confusion. “You would like to claim your dragon?” she repeated.

Princess Helaena nodded. “The king said I could claim a dragon before going to the Vale. We are ready now.”

That was an odd way to put it. Prince Rhaemond had been trying to claim a dragon for many moons and not succeeded, with Grey Ghost proving as elusive as ever.

“Helaena, it might not be quite as simple as that,” Princess Rhaenyra cautioned.

She did not look at all daunted. “Do not worry Muña, she is waiting for me.”

As it turned out, Princess Helaena had the right of it.

They all travelled to the Dragonpit and waited in the main arena as Dreamfyre was brought out by the dragonkeepers. With the air of greeting an old friend, Princess Helaena did not even hesitate as she walked straight towards the dragon. All it took was a hand on Dreamfyre’s snout and a few low words before Princess Helaena turned back to them with a triumphant grin.

Queen Alicent’s death grip on Lyman’s arm relaxed for a moment but tensed again as her daughter moved towards the dragon’s saddle. Having spent years as a passenger on Syrax and Seasmoke, Princess Halaena had soon mounted her light blue dragon and was plainly eager to take to the skies.

Princess Rhaenyra moved slowly towards them, Princess Helaena soothing Dreamfyre when the great beast shifted in agitation. After checking that the old straps were still sturdy, Princess Rhaenyra secured them around her sister’s legs. With a few words, the elder princess then withdrew to where her own dragon waited.

Ser Laenor and Prince Aemon were already in place on Seasmoke and Sunfyre respectively, both for safety during Princess Helaena’s first flight and to share in the experience.

Once Princess Rhaenyra had mounted Syrax, she called across to her sister, “Ready when you are, Helaena!”

All it took was a command in High Valyrian for Dreamfyre to take flight, the other dragons large enough to be ridden following shortly after.

There was a great cheer from the remaining royal children but Lyman did not turn, too enraptured by the four dragons gliding through the air together.

The farewell dinner that had been scheduled for that evening took on a celebratory mood as the whole family congratulated Princess Helaena on her feat. Well, the whole family excepting King Viserys – who remained confined to his bedchamber.

Lyman found himself sitting between Rosamund and Princess Rhaenys. While they were not meant to be discussing politics that evening, the situation in Oldtown had become their topic of conversation.

“Lord Tyrell has written that he is ready to carry out the will of the crown,” Princess Rhaenys said. “I believe he would relish the opportunity to put Lord Hobert in his place.”

Rosamund reached over the table for a carafe of wine to top up their goblets. “I am not surprised,” she said. “Lord Hightower has long made his disdain for the Tyrells known. He did not even attend Ser Willas’s wedding.”

Lyman shook his head as his wife proffered the carafe in his direction. “If we do send Tyrell men to Oldtown to deal with these dissidents of the Faith, they would be welcome to camp on Beesbury land.”

“I will bear that in mind,” Princess Rhaenys said with an incline of her head. “At least we have received word that Archsepton Warrick has finally arrived in Oldtown.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a loud exclamation from further down the table. “I am not saying that Dreamfyre is not beautiful!” Prince Aemon declared. “Just that Sunfyre is the prettiest dragon.”

At least half a dozen heads turned in the prince’s direction. If there was a guaranteed way to begin an argument among the royal family, it was to start comparing their dragons.

Prince Jacaerys scoffed. “Sunfyre may be pretty in a showy sort of way but he is so vain. He refused to fly last week until you cleaned a bit of mud off him!”

“He is not pretty in a showy way, he is pretty in every way,” Prince Aemon replied loftily. “And there is nothing wrong with taking pride in your appearance.”

“What would you know about that?” Prince Lucas asked with a smirk. “You did not even brush your hair before dinner.”

Prince Aemon’s auburn hair did indeed look rather unkempt tonight. He and Prince Rhaemond had both inherited their mother’s curls but the elder prince was far less fastidious in taking care of them.

“Shut up,” Prince Aemon said, reaching over to ruffle the youngster’s hair. Prince Lucas moved to block him and before long, the princes were slapping at each other’s hands.

“Boys.” Though Queen Alicent did not raise her voice, the sound carried down the table.

The princes ceased their play-fighting and straightened in their chairs. “Sorry, Mother,” they chorused.

“My dragon will be the prettiest,” Princess Visenya chirped up. “My egg is so pretty.”

As with the other royal children, the king had allowed for an egg to be placed in Princess Visenya’s cradle. It was a deep purple colour, darkening to near black in places, and the little princess was very attached to it. Indeed, the only reason it had likely not been brought to dinner was because of the special occasion.

“Assuming your egg hatches,” Prince Rhaemond muttered, not looking up as he stabbed his fork down into his pork.

Princess Visenya’s face fell. “My egg is warm,” she said, turning to her mother. “It will hatch, right Muña?”

Princess Rhaenyra smiled as she reached over and stroked a hand over her daughter’s corkscrew curls. “If that is the dragon meant for you, it will hatch.” Her head then turned so Prince Rhaemond was within her gaze too. “But if your egg does not hatch, I am sure your dragon waits for you elsewhere.”

The prince did not meet her eye. Lyman saw that his plate was still mostly full, despite containing many of his favourite foods.

“Don’t be a moody twat, Rhaemond,” Prince Aemon called across the table. “We are celebrating! There is a dragon stupid enough to put up with you somewhere.”

“So Sunfyre must be the stupidest dragon then, to put up with you,” Prince Rhaemond replied, a definite bite to his words.

The children all burst into laughter at the mortally offended look on Prince Aemon’s face.

As they became distracted heckling him further, Princess Helaena leant over and rested one finger on her brother’s hand. “Do not fret, Rhaemond,” she said. “Blood will again flow from uncle to nephew.”

The prince gave a tremulous smile in response, though it did not look like he understood the sentiment. Lyman could not say that he did either.

King Viserys’s condition did not improve in the following weeks, it grew worse. Before long he was insensate from a combination of his illness and the medicines he was being given.

While the Small Council tried to keep the news contained, with the king’s absence from court obvious and all the guards and servants that had access to Maegor’s Holdfast, rumour soon spread. It was not long before ravens began arriving from worried and curious lords asking after his health.

Tensions rose in the Red Keep as the court waited to see if the king would be claimed by the Stranger. Even at the best of times, there was always upheaval when the crown passed from one ruler to the next. Given the uniqueness of the crown princess’s position, Lord Lyonel spent a Small Council session discussing how they might ensure a peaceful transition when the time came. What went unspoken was how soon that time might be.

It was therefore understandable why Lyman was so afeared when he was summoned to an emergency meeting of the Small Council one moon after Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena left for the Vale. Standing from where he had barely started breaking his fast, he exchanged a concerned look with Rosamund before leaving their chambers.

He moved as quickly through the corridors as his age and decorum allowed. On the way, he passed Princess Rhaenys … who was walking in the opposite direction to the Small Council chamber, wearing her dragonriding leathers. Lyman bowed in greeting but the princess did not even seem to see him, distractedly adjusting a satchel that was slung over her shoulder.

The unease that he was already feeling grew. What important business could their Mistress of Laws have at this hour of the day that meant she could not attend an emergency session of the Small Council?

Finally reaching the chamber, he was admitted by Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon, both wearing inscrutable expressions. Taking in the room, the first thing he noticed was that he was the last to arrive – discounting Princess Rhaenys. The second thing was that, gods above, Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent were both dressed in black. Was this it? Had King Viserys succumbed to whatever disease ailed him? Did the realm have its first ruling queen?

But no, that could not be right. If Princess Rhaenyra had become Queen Rhaenyra, then surely she would be occupying the ruler’s seat at the head of the table. Instead, she was sitting in her usual chair at its right side. Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was also conspicuously absent from proceedings.

Once Lyman had taken his seat, it was Ser Tyland who spoke first. “What is it that could not have waited an hour? Has Dorne invaded?” he jested.

Nobody even cracked a smile.

“There was an attack by the Triarchy on the Stepstones,” Princess Rhaenyra said. It sounded as though she was struggling to force the words out. “Prince Daemon is dead.”

Chapter Text

We Light the Way

When the Andals arrived on Westeros’s shores, the Hightowers were among the first lords to welcome them. While other houses resisted and clung to their heathen First Man customs, the Lord Hightower at the time took an Andal bride. His grandson, Lord Damon the Devout, recognised the true faith, the Faith of the Seven.

It was the Hightowers that raised the Starry Sept. It was the Hightowers that gave the High Septon his crystal crown. Behind Oldtown’s walls and under the Hightower’s protection, the Faith grew and flourished for thousands of years.

The beacon on top of the Hightower had long guided ships through the Whispering Sound and safely into Oldtown’s port. We Light the Way. Now their house words took on a second meaning as the Hightowers became the moral centre of the Andal kingdoms. They were the ones that lit the way, that shone the light of the Seven across the continent.

This was the legacy that Hobert Hightower inherited when he became Lord of Oldtown. It was a legacy that he took with the utmost seriousness. But it was a legacy that was now at risk from a threat his ancestors could never have foreseen: House Targaryen.

During the Conquest, the High Septon was shown a vision by the Crone: that to oppose Aegon and his sisters would see Oldtown destroyed by dragonfire. Lord Manfred Hightower heeded this warning and surrendered the city without a fight. It was then, within the Starry Sept of Oldtown, that Aegon of House Targaryen was anointed with the seven holy oils by the High Septon and declared king.

This was the coronation that mattered. This was the date that Aegon’s reign officially began. When the Faith of the Seven acknowledged him as the realm’s rightful king.

Many of the Most Devout argued against this, citing Aegon’s two incestuous marriages. However, the High Septon had seen the danger of openly opposing the dragons. Instead, it was hoped that King Aegon’s descendants would conform to the values of the Faith, to the Andal customs of the land. That the newly formed realm would be governed by godly rulers who would ensure that the Faith of the Seven remained strong for thousands more years.

This was not to be.

Maegor setting aside his true and lawful wife, Lady Ceryse Hightower, to marry another had been the first blow. However, it was Prince Aegon marrying his own sister, Princess Rhaena, that saw the Faith rise up against King Aenys. Such an obscenity could not be allowed to pass. The High Septon decried him and the Faith Militant Uprising began.

What right had the Targaryens to rule the realm when they spat on the laws of the gods? When they planned for the throne to pass to abominations born of incest? How could pious, faithful men allow such to occur without damning themselves? So the Warrior’s Sons and the Poor Fellows fought.

However, for all that the Faith Militant’s cause was righteous, their arms strong, their faith unquestionable, the Targaryens had an insurmountable advantage: their dragons. And when King Maegor and Dowager Queen Visenya rode Balerion and Vhagar for Oldtown, the realm waited for its greatest city to burn.

During that long night – the city cast in a sickly green glow from the Hightower’s beacon – Lord Martyn Hightower found himself facing a most terrible choice. It was the High Septon that the Targaryens wanted. The High Septon’s condemnations that had brought the crown’s wrath upon Oldtown. The High Septon that was guarded by Lord Martyn’s brother, Ser Morgan Hightower, the commander of the Warrior’s Sons in Oldtown.

If Oldtown burned, if the High Septon, the Most Devout, the Starry Sept and House Hightower were all lost, what would become of the Faith of the Seven in Westeros? Who would ensure that the realm remained on the correct path? Who would be the beacon in the dark? If the High Septon was not so caught up in his own furore, surely he would understand. What was one man, even if he was the voice of the gods on earth, against the salvation of an entire continent? The High Septon’s sacrifice would allow the Faith of the Seven to survive.

Come dawn, the High Septon was dead and Oldtown opened its gates to the dragons.

However, even with the High Septon dead and replaced with one that recognised Maegor as king, even with every Warrior’s Son in Oldtown sent to the wall or executed (apart from Ser Morgan), the uprising went on. More and more lords turned against the crown, driven away by Maegor’s cruelty and his rising taxes.

When Maegor’s nephew, Prince Jaehaerys, put forward his own claim for the throne, the lords of the realm rallied around him. Abandoned by most of his remaining allies, Maegor had already all but lost when he was found dead on the Iron Throne.

Jaehaerys was crowned king by the High Septon and the realm knew peace once more.

But the Faith Uprising was not without its consequences. The Faith Militant was dissolved, the duty of protecting the faithful now held by the Iron Throne. A throne whose holders cared not a whit for following the Faith’s fundamental laws. It was a farce. A farce exemplified by the Doctrine of Exceptionalism.

While King Jaehaerys was an improvement on Maegor, he had fallen prey to his accursed lusts for his own sister. And then the king took advantage of a realm weary of war, of a High Septon unwilling to speak against him, to marry Princess Alysanne and present a most heretical justification: that the Targaryens and them alone were not subject to the will of the gods.

Whatever the wording of the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, that was the meaning at its core. It spoke of an arrogance, a hubris that Hobert could scarcely imagine.

The gods should have struck down King Jaehaerys where he stood. The pious should have risen again in outrage. Instead, fear of the dragons saw the realm remain silent.

Those three sisters of the Faith that tended Jonquil’s Pool, that tried to kill Queen Alysanne and the abomination she carried in her belly before they could taint those holy waters, had shown as much courage and fortitude as the finest members of the Faith Militant of old. When it was safe to do so, Hobert would see Sisters Alla, Celia and Tanda venerated as martyrs.

Several years later, the Doctrine of Exceptionalism became an official tenet of the Faith of the Seven when Lord Donnel Hightower struck a bargain with the king. It almost made Hobert curl up in shame to consider it; that his great-grandfather had been so weak-willed, so obsessed with his house’s standing that he would betray his faith. That Lord Donnel turned his back on the Seven’s teachings just for the power of his brother becoming High Septon.

However, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne were not left untouched by their hubris, by their sins. What more proof to show the Seven’s displeasure could be asked for than what had befallen their children? Prince Aegon lived but a few days. Princess Daenerys died of the Shivers – proving the Doctrine of Exceptionalism false as the Targaryens were just as susceptible to illness as any common man. Then Prince Gaemon passed. And so on and so on until all that remained of thirteen children were the maester and the whore.

House Targaryen needed to be brought into the Faith’s light. To abandon their incestuous practices once and for all and to lead the realm in the worship of the Seven. For the sake of their own souls as well.

Hobert held such high hopes when Otto became Hand of the King after the most fortuitous death of Prince Baelon.

And was that not another sign that they had the gods’ favour? That Prince Baelon – both an abomination born of incest and guilty of committing it himself – should be struck down, allowing Otto to take his place.

After King Jaehaerys died, Hobert hoped that Otto would turn the young King Viserys to a godly path, to impart the teachings of the Faith upon him. Otto had been raised with the same values as Hobert: that the Hightowers’ sacred duty was to be a beacon of morality shining in the dark. However, Otto had lost sight of that. He had become caught up in the power games of the court, obsessed only with improving his own station.

After Queen Aemma died in childbirth, Otto came to Hobert with his plan. Prince Daemon could not remain the heir to the throne. He was a second Maegor in the making, a slave to his own lusts and vices. It was doubtful that there was a more ungodly man in all the realm. Instead, pious Alicent would become queen and she would ensure that the princes she birthed would be raised in the light of the Seven. A Hightower king that would return the Faith to its proper place in society.

A Hightower king as there had been in the days of old. The Gardeners had never conquered the Hightowers, they had been brought into the Kingdom of the Reach by mutual marriage alliances. And now, with the Gardeners wiped out, the Hightowers had to pay obeisance to those fucking stewards. Damn the Tyrells, the Hightowers should be Lords Paramount of the Mander, Wardens of the South. One day, Highgarden would burn.

Hobert was not blind to how this plan benefited Otto. That it would be his daughter as queen, his grandson as king. However, Hobert had no daughters of his own so it had to be Alicent. He believed that Otto was loyal to him, to their house. That he was ultimately thinking of their holy mission rather than his own ambitions.

Firstly though, they needed a new heir temporarily to stop Prince Daemon from interfering with their plans: Princess Rhaenyra.

It seemed so simple when Otto laid it out. Princess Rhaenyra would be named the official heir to the Iron Throne, blocking Prince Daemon entirely. Then once Alicent had a son, he would become the new heir. It never crossed Hobert’s mind that the king would keep Princess Rhaenyra as heir once Prince Aemon was born.

Otto had been an utter fool. He had been at the king’s side for well over a decade, his closest confidant. How could he have misjudged how King Viserys would act so badly? Hobert had trusted his brother’s judgement but he now saw that judgement had been flawed. Princess Rhaenyra was supposed to be an irreverent child with no ambition and no political acumen to speak of. Instead, she blocked Otto at every turn, making allies of lords and ladies across the realm and turning the Faith in King’s Landing to her side.

It could not be allowed to stand.

If they had just known that King Viserys was set on his daughter remaining heir, Otto could have persuaded him not to remarry at all. Princess Rhaenyra could have been wed to Hobert’s eldest son, Ormund. All of this could have been avoided.

Again, the Targaryens were showing their disregard for the sacred laws of the Faith. A man’s property was to be passed to his eldest son. It was men that carried on the names and traditions of their families. It was men that were responsible for maintaining their households in good order. Daughters married into other houses but it was sons that carried the family line. Sisters owed obedience to their brothers, to help them secure alliances by marriages. They were not to supersede them. Beyond the Faith, that was the law of the land, the law that not even the king should be above.

Hobert was ashamed to admit it but his faith had wavered when he heard of Princess Rhaenyra’s encounter with the white hart. That was supposed to be Prince Aemon’s portent, divine proof that the gods supported his right to one day rule. Instead, it had been glimpsed by the crown princess. Hobert had returned to Oldtown in a dark mood indeed, confused over what path the gods meant for him to follow. However, it did not take him long to discern the truth: the white hart had been a fake.

Despite the fact that Prince Aemon’s name day celebration was a hunt, the mythical animal had not been brought down. Surely if the white hart had been real, Princess Rhaenyra would have had it slain to display before the court, irrefutable proof of the gods’ favour. Instead, the animal had been left free, despite the princess being accompanied by lords experienced in hunting.

It could not have been real, likely a common stag painted white or covered in chalk for the occasion and then loosed in the princess’s path. Hobert would have admired the cunningness of the plan, the temerity, if it did not make a mockery of the Seven.

Princess Rhaenyra was far cleverer than Otto’s tales had led Hobert to believe. She had already turned one of the Hightowers’ vassals against them. Hobert would never have expected such from meek Lyman Beesbury but here they were. Where was the man’s loyalty to his liege lord, his respect? It was a disgrace. Hobert would see the Beesburys removed before all was said and done. Honeyholt and its lands would go to a house that was more deserving, that had not turned its cloak.

The princess’s decisive actions to end the Vale uprising had won her acclaim for defending the realm. But really, how hard was it to win battles when one had a dragon?

Otto continued to send assurances from King’s Landing. He had the situation in hand. He would make the king see reason. Alicent would realise that Prince Aemon needed to be named heir for his own safety. That was yet another failure on Otto’s part: that Alicent had chosen Princess Rhaenyra over her own family. How could Otto have lost control of his own household so thoroughly? Hobert’s own sons had always been quick to follow his teachings and obey him. But no, Alicent and the crown princess were said to be as close as could be, with his niece even accompanying her to visit Oldtown on dragonback.

Then Otto had died. Then Princess Rhaenyra had him murdered. In the end, Otto had been a selfish, power-obsessed fool but he had still been Hobert’s brother, a Hightower. And the princess had ordered him killed by her kingsguard. It was masterful: goad Otto into publicly insulting her and have her white-cloaked knight leap to her defence. The Dornish were known for their high passions, who would question Ser Criston losing control and beating Otto to death?

Hobert saw. Princess Rhaenyra may have tried to cover up her actions with a trial but the killer of the queen’s father, the king’s closest friend, should have been tortured and put to death. The Wall was far too light a punishment. Hobert had kept an eye on Ser Criston and the man had even risen to become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. It was an insult.

He would burn too. To avenge the Hightowers’ family honour.

The High Septon had proved himself to be a weak traitor, expanding the Doctrine of Exceptionalism to support the firstborn inheriting the crown. Once again claiming that the Targaryens were above the laws of the Seven. And for what, a seven-year break from the Faith paying taxes? Taxes it should not be paying to begin with. That coin may have fed the smallfolk’s bellies but what about their souls? How could the realm be led in venerating the Seven by a man so fickle?

Hobert would see the doctrine torn from the scripture. No man or woman was above the gods. As the Seven had decreed, it would be Prince Aemon that followed King Viserys onto the throne.

Though Hobert had taken to heart the lessons of his forefathers: you could not oppose the dragons directly. Lighting the beacon green and calling his banners would result in his destruction by Princess Rhaenyra, who had already demonstrated her ruthlessness. No, he would take a more careful route.

The High Septon would have to be replaced. He was under the princess’s thrall and Hobert needed a High Septon that would rally the realm in decrying the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. In declaring that Prince Aemon was the rightful heir. Uncle Talbert was a Hightower and knew his duty to the gods, he would be perfect. Of course, the current High Septon had to die first. Even though the man had betrayed the Faith he was meant to lead, Hobert took no pleasure in giving the order. However, so many exotic poisons could be procured from the Citadel for the right price and they had several loyal men that could get close enough to the High Septon to administer it. It was only a waiting game now.

Hobert needed allies too. The crown princess had much of the realm hoodwinked but there were those that had not been taken in. Jason Lannister and Borros Baratheon were the most powerful of them. Both men had daughters and while Prince Aemon remained unmarried, he could dangle a future queenship in front of them, a future grandson as king. It did rankle, to rely on support from men that were acting out of hurt pride and ambition rather than righteousness. However, the two lords were cautious, though they would never admit it. Until a path to victory was clear, they would not come out against Princess Rhaenyra’s position publicly. Cravens.

Other allies were further afield. Prince Daemon had made his share of enemies over the years, the Triarchy chief among them. With the prince ruling the Stepstones in the crown’s name, anger had steadily grown among the Three Daughters. Anger that was ready to be unleashed. If the Triarchy could get rid of both Prince Daemon and Laena Velaryon, that would be two of Princess Rhaenyra’s chief allies dead. Two of her dragonriders. A treaty with Dorne should give the Triarchy the assurance it needed to act.

Of course, none of this would come to fruition unless Hobert could get Prince Aemon on his side. In another smart move, Princess Rhaenyra was ensuring the boy was not raised as a proper prince. Hobert’s nephew, Myles, reported that Prince Aemon was seen flying near every day, time that should have been spent learning how to rule. He was also said to have clear love and loyalty for the crown princess.

Deep down though, Hobert was sure Prince Aemon resented what the princess had stolen from him, that he longed for a restoration of the natural order of inheritance.

No, Hobert needed to get Prince Aemon away from the princess, away from King’s Landing. The Silent Sisters had methods for crushing the disobedience out of wilful women given to their order: depriving them of food and sleep, caning them. Those same methods could be used on the prince to break any affection he held for the princess and any resistance. Then Hobert could forge him into the king the realm needed, the king the Faith needed.

All the realm now rotated around King’s Landing but what use did Hobert have for that stinking, festering city? For an ugly metal chair that half the realm resented? If he had Prince Aemon in Oldtown at the right moment, had him crowned by the High Septon in the greatest city of the realm, as King Aegon had been … Oldtown should always have been the realm’s capital. It had the Starry Sept, the centre of the Faith. It had the Citadel, the centre of learning and discovery. It had long been a hub of trade and commerce.

And the Hightower looked down upon it all.

That still left Princess Rhaenyra in his way. Her and the other adult dragonriders loyal to her. But what was the expression Hobert had once heard from Essos: sometimes you had to fight fire with fire.

For all that it would help their cause, for all that Hobert had hinted and suggested, Borros was not even brave enough to make an attempt. There were other options though.

As was often the way of things, the moment to act arrived sooner than Hobert expected. With the king’s health deteriorating, with it just a matter of time before he was claimed by the Stranger, Hobert put his plans into motion. He had hoped that Uncle Talbert would be installed as High Septon by now but they had run out of time.

Hobert could finally fulfil the mission of his ancestors. With a dragonriding king, he could root the Old Gods out of the North. He could burn the Drowned God from the Iron Islands. Dorne could be conquered and brought fully under the Faith. From the Wall all the way to the Summer Sea, the light of the Seven would beam out from the whole continent.

Beware Our Sting

Rosamund had not been pleased about her betrothal to Ser Lyman Beesbury.

The youngest daughter of Lord Rickard Rowan, the Lord of Goldengrove, she had expected to be married to a minor lordling at least. Her eldest sister, Janna, had been betrothed to the heir of Horn Hill and Rosamund had always dreamed of a similar match, of becoming the lady of a great castle or keep.

It was a foolish mistake on her part that caused it. One too many goblets of wine at a feast led to her kissing a squire in a dark corner. Word reached her father and he was quick to arrange a betrothal with the first man of semi-decent standing he could find.

Ser Lyman had been a second son with no inheritance of his own and no particular drive to improve his position in life. However, with her only other option being to join the Faith, Rosamund had set aside her ambitions and gone along with the match.

Their short courtship did little to change her opinion of the awkward young man as he stuttered and stumbled during their conversations. While he had been knighted, Ser Lyman was far from the sort of dashing knight that maidens dreamed about.

He was kind though, bringing a flower to each of their chaperoned meetings and listening attentively to her words. Funny too, in a dry sort of way.

Before long, Lady Rosamund Rowan shed her maiden’s cloak and became Lady Rosamund Beesbury.

Looking back, she was unable to pinpoint exactly when she had fallen in love with her husband. One day, as he ranted about something foolish his brother had done, as she took in Lyman’s slightly too broad forehead, the cleft in his chin, the indignation on his face, Rosamund recognised the warmth in her chest for what it was.

Mathis was born, Garlon and then Meredyth following after. While Rosamund had adjusted to her life at Honeyholt – to the fact that it was her good-sister, Florence, that was the lady of the keep – she could not help but resent that her children would inherit nothing. Rosamund wanted better for them. Her children deserved better.

Later, she wondered if the tragedies that had befallen House Beesbury were as a result of that fervent wish. If the gods heard her pleas and responded in a most cruel fashion.

Time passed. Mathis went to Oldtown and joined the City Watch. Garlon too went to Oldtown but his destination was the Citadel. Though she missed them, Rosamund was proud of her smart, dutiful sons and contented herself with still having Meredyth. Lyman too had grown, now officially steward but managing Honeyholt in all but name as his lordly brother neglected his responsibilities. It had been enough. Almost enough.

Then it began.

Rosamund’s oldest nephew, Braxton, was the first, dead at King Jaehaerys’s hand for despoiling Princess Saera. Then her youngest nephew was killed in a tourney accident. Then her only remaining nephew and good-brother were dead of redspots. Before Rosamund knew it, Lyman and she were Lord and Lady Beesbury.

Seeing Florence, utterly destroyed by the deaths of all her children and her husband, Rosamund took no pleasure in her new station.

The moons that followed were a struggle. Lyman had not been unaffected by all the death and he felt like an interloper, occupying a position that had never been meant for him. Minding the Beesbury lands in his brother’s stead was one thing, ruling over them was something else entirely. Rosamund was by his side though, guiding Lyman with all the knowledge she had gleaned from her father. She would not allow her husband, her house, to fall.

Honeyholt recovered and then it began to thrive. Precise, diligent Lyman had a talent for coin, a talent for knowing which investments would see the greatest return. The apiaries at Honeyholt increased and so did their coffers.

The friends and acquaintances of Rosamund’s youth were soon reaching out again, eager to capitalise on her reversal of fortunes. Though she remembered and marked those ladies that had cut off correspondence after her lowly marriage. On the other hand, her sister, Janna, had never abandoned her and she took advantage of that to strengthen their ties to House Tarly.

Rosamund had thought that becoming the lady of a minor lordship would be the peak of her ascendency; she had not expected Lyman’s efforts to have attracted the crown’s attention. When Martyn Tyrell wished to vacate his position as Master of Coin, it was her husband that was invited to the Red Keep to be his replacement. Eager to wash away the stain Braxton had left on House Beesbury’s reputation, Lyman had accepted.

While he was a fine Master of Coin, Lyman was woefully unsuited to the games that went on at court. Many thought they could manipulate the naive new lord that now found himself with a place on the Small Council. However, Rosamund had never forgotten the lessons of her youth, when it had been expected that she would marry far higher. Those that thought they could use Lyman for their own ends soon found themselves shamed as long-buried secrets emerged and rumours swirled. Her husband remained oblivious though, blind to much beyond balancing his ledgers.

It was therefore totally unforeseen by Rosamund that Lyman would find himself at the centre of a dispute over the succession.

In truth, the issue was a long time coming. While the king and his lords awaited Queen Aemma delivering a healthy prince, the ladies of the court knew differently. The toll each pregnancy took on the queen was great, draining all vitality from her and leaving her lifeless and wan. It was never spoken aloud but in some matters, a woman just knows; the queen would not successfully bear another child.

Rosamund had been fond of Queen Aemma. There had been a quiet strength to her, an ability to endure that she had not seen in any other. Before multiple failed pregnancies wore her down, the queen had enjoyed shocking visiting nobles with some of the more scandalous tapestries around the keep. She used to go hawking in the kingswood, often returning with game. Queen Aemma had also shared her daughter’s sweet tooth, indulging in a lemon cake or two at feasts.

As Princess Rhaenyra was named heir, as she and Lyman grew ever closer, as the vultures of the court began circling the widowed king, Rosamund saw the conflict that may lie ahead. A conflict that drew nearer when it was Ser Otto’s daughter that the king took to wife.

When Lyman confided that King Viserys had no intention of replacing the princess as heir, even if the new queen bore a healthy son, their path was set. Lines would be drawn, sides chosen and, through his naivety and honourableness, Lyman had already committed to the crown princess’s faction.

Very well then.

Rosamund knew her own duty. She would support her husband in this, would support the king’s chosen heir. Even though Lyman had now put them on a collision course with their liege lords, the Hightowers.

As she came to know Princess Rhaenyra, she would see her suitability and worthiness to one day inherit the throne. However, in those early days, Rosamund rather wished Lyman had stayed far away.

Sure enough, after her husband rebuffed Lord Hobert’s offer of a marriage alliance, their lord had Garlon expelled from the maesters. All the work her son had put in, the years of study, all the links he had forged, gone in the blink of an eye. It was the crown princess that found a new role for him, arranging for Garlon to treat the sick at a motherhouse of the Faith.

With that, Rosamund’s own position in this conflict was assured.

She would be of no use on an actual battlefield but, on the battlefields of women, Rosamund was a seasoned warrior. So she wrote and she built connections with other houses in the Reach, taking advantage of family ties and long-held grudges. One by one, she won houses over to Princess Rhaenyra’s side, including two of the Hightowers’ other four vassal houses: the Mullendores and the Costaynes.

House Beesbury might not be the largest house but, thanks to Rosamund’s work, it was capable of dealing a most fearsome sting.

Fire and Blood

Ever since she came screaming into the world, everyone said Laena was more Targaryen than Velaryon.

Passionate, loud and quick to anger, she took far more after her mother’s heritage than her father’s.

Despite that though, it was her brother’s dragon egg that had hatched, not hers.

It was clear to Laena early in her life what her father expected of her. As a daughter, her place was to make an advantageous match to further House Velaryon’s interests, the lot of most highborn women. In her childhood, she tried to push such thoughts out of her head but they were always there, hanging over her like a sword.

What Laena wanted was the power and freedom of her cousin and her mother, the power Laenor took for granted, the power of a dragon. Not just any dragon, the last of the conquerors’, the largest left, Vhagar. Let some lordling try and bend her to his will then.

Although it turned out that it was not some lordling she needed to worry about. After Queen Aemma passed, her father started talking about a royal match, of finally remedying the injustice done to her mother at the Great Council. Her father’s ambitions would be fulfilled by marrying Laena to the king; all for the mere sacrifice of her happiness and body. That King Viserys would wait until she was four-and-ten for the actual consummation was of little comfort.

When that plot fell to pieces, as her father raged against the king and Ser Otto, Laena thanked the gods for her reprieve.

Laena missed Rhaenyra when House Velaryon left court. The two of them and Laenor had gotten up to such mischief in their shared youth, her cousin often dragging along Alicent Hightower too. Alicent whose betrothal to the king had devastated Rhaenyra, already reeling from both her mother’s death and being named heir. Laena made sure to write and cajoled her mother into agreeing for them to attend her cousin’s sixteenth name day.

She did wonder about the extent of the former relationship between Rhaenyra and Alicent. Having long known about Laenor’s preferences, the idea was not foreign to Laena. What did it truly matter if someone had a fancy for men or women; she could see the appeal of both. There had always been something … untouchable about Alicent and Rhaenyra’s bond.

With Laenor fighting in the Stepstones alongside their father, Laena spent her days travelling Driftmark and shadowing her mother as she ruled the island in her husband’s absence.

The talk she had heard was correct: from Spicetown she could hear Vhagar’s haunting song across the sea. It called to her. Laena paid fishermen to follow it several times but their boats were never quick enough.

Her father and brother returned victorious from war but before long, talk had once again turned to betrothals. Except now her father planned to sell her not for a throne but for a better trading agreement with Braavos. The Sealord of Braavos was not even a hereditary position. By marrying his son, Laena would have no security, just a drunken fool for a husband. And all for a few more golden dragons in Driftmark’s coffers.

She could hear the singing at High Tide now. Freedom awaited her just over the horizon. She only had to seize it.

Seasmoke was large enough to carry them both and Laenor had never been able to resist Laena for long. They followed the song and the tugging that she could feel in her chest. It led them to a cave on the mainland’s coast. She left Laenor at the threshold along with any fears or unease. There could only be boldness now.

It was sweltering inside and so dark Laena could barely see her hand in front of her face. She had not thought to bring a candle. But then the sad song began again, so close it thrummed through her body. Acting purely on instinct, Laena began to sing a song of her own, a Valyrian lullaby. Continuing forward, she became aware of hot, rancid breath on her face. As the last notes of her lullaby echoed around them, she reached forward and felt her hand make contact with leathery scales.

The connection was immediate and disorienting. For a moment, Laena had two heartbeats. Had another body outside of herself. Felt a bone-deep loneliness, an almost insatiable hunger in her stomach. She was the mightiest being on this earth, none could threaten her. She wanted fire. She wanted blood.

They took to the skies they ruled over as one.

The night prior to the attack had been a normal one.

Baela had tired herself out in the training yard and retired early. Rhaena was still rather melancholy that Princess Helaena had claimed Dreamfyre, leaving just herself, Prince Rhaemond and little Visenya without dragons. With it being Queen Rhaena that had ridden Dreamfyre originally, Rhaena had hoped that the dragon was destined for her. But it was not to be. Instead, Rhaena remained dragonless and without her father’s attention. Attention that he lavished on Baela.

Laena was unsure what more she could say to her daughter. Daemon had been exactly what she wanted in a husband in her youth: handsome, strong, a dragonrider and with no inclination to keep her caged. However, he was rather lacking as a father to the daughter that had not taken after himself. Laena had talked to him about it but Daemon replied that he simply had no idea what to do with Rhaena.

Footsteps woke her just before dawn the next morning. Pulling on a robe and leaving her chambers, she saw Daemon walking down the corridor in his dragonriding leathers. Apparently, another Triarchy ship had been spotted trying to sneak between their islands without paying the toll. A familiar smirk curled her husband’s lips as he announced that he would show them the error of their ways.

It was hardly the first time this had happened so Laena went back to bed.

She had not even told Daemon goodbye.

Caraxes’s roar was what woke her next. Despite the whistling tone, the anguish was clear. Vhagar called out in response and Laena simply knew. Her husband was no more.

Their guards were shouting, panicked. The rising sun had revealed the ships approaching Bloodstone from the north and south. Fighting had started on the shoreline. There was no time to think, no time for hesitation, Laena had to act.

Baela and Rhaena emerged from their rooms, peering around in confusion at all the uproar. Laena pressed quick kisses to their foreheads, told them she loved them and took off. Every guard she passed, she sent to her daughters. Vhagar waited for her outside, as close to the keep as her bulk allowed. Ignoring the fact that she was just wearing a nightgown and a robe, Laena ascended to the saddle.

These men had killed her husband, the father of her children. They were attacking her home. Her home where her daughters were.

They took to the skies.

An anger, a hatred, that she had never felt before flowed through her, coalescing as a burning heat at the base of her throat.

Burn and tear and rip and rend and break and kill and feed—

Laena could hear nothing over the blood pounding in her ears as she bathed the ships in fire.

Chapter Text

It did not take long for the Small Council meeting to devolve into an argument over what to do about the Triarchy.

In truth, Lyman was struggling to remain focused. Prince Daemon had always been larger than life, full of vitality. It was unthinkable to him yesterday that sickly King Viserys would outlive his younger brother. Yet here they were. With a Triarchy ship used to bait him and his dragon and other ships waiting in ambush nearby with scorpions, the Rogue Prince was no more. If nothing else, it was a fitting end for Prince Daemon, to be killed atop his dragon. Lyman could not imagine that he had wanted to waste away in a bed, as his brother was doing.

He could not say he had ever been fond of Prince Daemon. Between the prince’s often outrageous behaviour, his plan to ensnare Princess Rhaenyra into an unwanted marriage and the mess he had made during his short stint as Master of Coin, Lyman would go so far to say he had loathed him. However – for the moment – Prince Daemon had been loyal to the crown princess and a powerful ally. Beyond that, for all his faults, Princess Rhaenyra had loved her uncle and this would be a blow personally as well as politically.

Across the table, the princess looked outwardly composed, the mask that she wore in front of the court in place. Any grieving would need to be done in private, away from prying eyes. However, Lyman knew her well enough to see the cracks in the veneer. To see the way the corner of her lip quirked down when her attention wandered. To see the redness surrounding her eyes.

At least Lady Laena’s actions had seen that the Stepstones remained under the control of the crown. After a great many of the attacking Triarchy ships had been burned by Vhagar, those that were left saw fit to retreat. Lady Laena had not pursued, wanting to return to her daughters and ensure that they were unharmed. Physically, that was. An assault on their home that had cost their father his life would undoubtedly leave mental scars.

Pulling himself from his thoughts, Lyman turned his attention back to the discussion.

“We cannot let such an attack go unanswered,” Princess Rhaenyra declared. “The Triarchy has attacked our lands and killed the king’s brother.”

“The attack did not go unanswered,” Ser Tyland argued. “Lady Laena destroyed dozens of ships. There will be bodies washing up on the coast for moons! We are in no position to launch a full campaign against the Triarchy."

Because of the Triarchy’s actions, war now loomed on the horizon. The Three Daughters had not been pleased with the realm’s control over the Stepstones, nor the tolls Prince Daemon exacted for their ships to sail through the islands. However, Lyman would never have predicted that the Triarchy would strike back in such a fashion. If the plan had been to capture the Stepstones, even if it had succeeded for a time the crown would have fought back.

All the trouble and discord the Stepstones had caused over the years, for all that most of them were barren rocks … It would be better if the islands simply sank beneath the waves.

“We cannot do nothing,” the princess fired back. “Every enemy of the crown will crawl out of the woodwork if they think we are weak.”

“If we attack Essos, all the Free Cities might turn against us!” Ser Tyland said. “It could turn into a full-scale war.”

The perceived strength of the crown depended on how it acted to demonstrate that strength. If it was shown that the throne could be acted against with impunity, it would not be long before others took advantage of that fact. However, if the realm attacked the Triarchy and the nine Free Cities united in common purpose against them, a war between their two continents would be devastating.

“The other Free Cities are hardly friends of the Triarchy,” Queen Alicent said. “I am more concerned about how Dorne might react.”

Dorne, that now had a treaty of mutual protection with the Triarchy. Dorne, that had a very tenuous relationship with the realm. The last thing they needed was to attack the Triarchy and then face an invasion through the Marches. Gods, no option was a good one. Prince Daemon’s death could not go unavenged but Lyman did not want to see the realm go to war either.

“Prince Daemon was killed with a scorpion bolt,” the Grand Maester said. “The same weapon that the Dornish used to bring down Meraxes and Queen Rhaenys.”

From the limited account they had of events in the Stepstones, it sounded as though the weapon that killed Prince Daemon was a scorpion bolt, fired as he flew past on his dragon. Lyman suspected it had been a most lucky shot (or unlucky one), merely scoring Caraxes’s flank before continuing on to take the prince through the chest.

The princess turned to the Grand Maester. “I do not think the Dornish were party to this,” she replied. “They were unhappy about our presence in the Stepstones but I do not believe Prince Qoren would risk provoking war with us. A scorpion is not that hard to construct once you are aware of the basic idea. It is essentially a giant crossbow.”

That was true enough. The presence of scorpions was not absolute proof that Dorne had been involved in the attack.

“Even if Dorne was unaware of the attack, the treaty may compel it to take the Triarchy’s side if we take action,” the queen responded. “We would face war on two fronts.”

“It would be devastating to the crown’s coffers and our people if we become embroiled in war with both the Triarchy and Dorne,” Lyman said. “I do not disagree that we need to respond but I caution against acting too hastily.”

Princess Rhaenyra levelled a glare in his direction. “Acting too hastily? My uncle is dead. My good-sister and nieces could have been killed too. We have lost scores of men. It is not us that has sought war, it is the Triarchy!” Her hand slammed down onto the table, rattling her orb in its holder.

“To what end?” Ser Tyland asked. “Do you plan to conquer the Three Daughters?”

“No, but their leadership must be destroyed, those that planned this,” she replied. “We must cripple their ability to launch such an attack again. Break up the Triarchy if possible.”

Seven hells. That option would ensure the realm’s security going forward but at what cost?

“But how would we go about this?” Queen Alicent asked, unease clear on her face. “Unleash dragonfire on Myr, Tyrosh and Lys?”

The princess scoffed. “I doubt it would come to that if they saw Vhagar coming. Laena must have destroyed most of their naval power. If the royal fleet and the Velaryons—”

“No.” The word came from Lyman’s right, up the table. Lord Lyonel had been quiet thus far but he was now staring across at Princess Rhaenyra, a resolute expression on his face. “We will not launch an attack on the Triarchy,” he continued. “Ships and men can be sent to reinforce the Stepstones but we need more information before doing anything further.”

There was silence for a few moments as the princess looked back in surprise before she gathered herself. “So you propose we sit and twiddle our thumbs while the Triarchy faces no reprisals for attacking us?” she asked incredulously. “What kind of message will that send to our enemies? To our allies?”

The lord Hand was unmoved by her ire. “There are too many unknowns,” he replied. “Dorne. The other Free Cities. We cannot rush headlong into war.”

“At the cost of inviting further attacks,” the princess said, gesturing with her arm.

“We can send ravens or envoys to Dorne and the Free Cities,” Lord Lyonel said. “Get a more complete view of what happened and what kind of resistance we might face.”

This was a rather … measured path to take. Lyman agreed that they should not plunge the realm into total war but to send envoys in response to an attack that killed a prince of the blood? It was hardly a proportional response.

Princess Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched. “Prince Daemon is dead,” she said through gritted teeth, “and you think we should send ravens?”

“It is not about what I think,” Lord Lyonel replied, starting to sound frustrated himself. “The king selected me to be Hand, to rule in his stead when he is unable to do so. I do not think it would be King Viserys’s wish that the realm goes to war.”

“I do not think my father would have us do nothing when his brother is dead!”

Lyman exchanged a worried glance with Queen Alicent as the lord Hand and the crown princess continued to argue across the table, the king’s empty chair between them.

“During our original conflict in the Stepstones, King Viserys said he did not wish for war with the Free Cities,” Lord Lyonel replied. “He held back our forces for years, even when Prince Daemon’s life was in danger. This council serves at the pleasure of the king, we are honour-bound to carry out his will.”

“Yes, but that was when my uncle was taking part in an unsanctioned war,” the princess retorted. “Here, he lost his life defending lands he holds for the crown.” She leant forward in her chair. “Your position as Hand means the king trusts your judgement. That he trusts you to make decisions such as this when he is indisposed.”

“I cannot in good conscience make any decision that I do not think the king would make himself,” Lord Lyonel said decisively. “Despite the fact he is ill, King Viserys is still the ruler of this realm.”

This was a somewhat tangled situation. Looking back, Lyman did not think Ser Otto had cared overmuch about what King Jaehaerys’s wishes might be when he ruled in his stead. However, Ser Otto had not been faced with the possibility of the realm going to war. A war, Lyman agreed, that King Viserys would be hesitant to start. On the other hand, doing nothing put the realm’s security at risk. He was thankful that he was not responsible for deciding on such matters himself.

“It is precisely because the king is ill that they have chosen now to attack; they think we are weak.” It looked like Princess Rhaenyra was exerting a great deal of effort to remain calm. “Unless the Triarchy is dealt with, it will continue to be a threat. We have a duty to the people of the realm as well, to those that depend on us for protection.”

“I am sorry, princess, but that is my final word on the matter,” Lord Lyonel replied. “Now, what is the latest news from our envoy in Dorne?”

It was another two hours before the meeting ended, although little was actually decided. Over half the royal fleet was to be sent south, both to reinforce the Stepstones and to be in place if needed. Further instructions were to be sent to their envoy in Dorne so that they might sound out Prince Qoren’s position in all this. Hopefully Lord Hayford would be up to the task. Those at court with contacts and informants within the Triarchy and other Free Cities would be tasked with seeing what information they could gather.

The king would be informed of his brother’s death but they were unsure if he was cognisant enough to understand what had happened. The maesters attending him reported that King Viserys was barely lucid enough to be given food, drink and medicine, let alone process that Prince Daemon had died. However, Lord Lyonel did not believe that the news should be kept from him.

The Small Council had also formally recognised that Lady Baela now held the title Lady of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea – assuming it did not transpire that Lady Laena carried a son of the prince’s. Given the fact that Lady Baela had seen but eight name days, Lady Laena would act as regent of the Stepstones until her eldest daughter reached her majority.

With the wider conflict unresolved, Lady Laena no longer thought that her daughters were safe on the Stepstones. They had therefore decided to fly back to court, Prince Daemon’s body following by boat for the funeral. Princess Rhaenys had flown south, both to provide comfort to her daughter and to then hold the Stepstones while she was away.

At the end of the meeting, Lord Lyonel held Princess Rhaenyra back while the rest of the Small Council left. Reaching the corridor outside, Lyman saw that Ser Laenor lingered there, Ser Joffrey at his side. He and the queen drew to a stop next to them, allowing the Grand Maester and Ser Tyland to continue on. Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon also waited nearby but they respectfully remained out of hearing range.

“Well, what news?” Ser Laenor asked. The agitation was clear on his face and he bounced ever so slightly on the balls of his feet.

Queen Alicent glanced around to confirm there was no one else nearby before speaking. “The royal fleet will be sent to reinforce the Stepstones, to secure them against any further attacks. We are also reaching out to contacts overseas to find out more about what happened.”

Ser Laenor stared at the queen expectantly, as though waiting for more information. However, when it became clear that none was forthcoming, his brow furrowed in a frown. “That is it? An unprovoked attack that has killed Prince Daemon, my good-brother, and we are doing nothing!” His voice had started out low but rose to near a shout by the end of the sentence. This was a side of the normally easy-going, mild-mannered man that Lyman had not seen before.

The queen quickly shushed him. “Not here.” She then went on to explain the rationale behind Lord Lyonel’s actions.

By the end, Ser Laenor did not seem any more appeased. “So because the king abandoned us to fight for several years on the Stepstones without royal support, because the king abandoned his own brother, the lord Hand will not act against the Triarchy?” he said, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Lord Lyonel does not intend to take no action against the Triarchy,” Lyman replied. “Just that we cannot rush headlong into a war with potentially both Dorne and the Free Cities too.”

Ser Laenor scoffed. “I fought beside Daemon for years, he deserves better,” he said. “Laena, Baela and Rhaena deserve better after being attacked in their very home, a home they hold to protect the realm’s shipping.”

Ser Joffrey made an aborted gesture, as if he wished to grasp Ser Laenor’s arm but then thought better of it given that they were in public.

“I do not think that is what Lord Lyonel has in mind,” Queen Alicent replied, a thoughtful look upon her face. “Quite frankly, I am not sure if the Hand has the authority to declare war.”

That was a point. If Lord Lyonel called the crown’s banners, were they oath-bound to answer? The Hand was meant to speak with the king’s voice when he was indisposed but the precise extent of the Hand’s powers had never been codified. Lyman was unsure if Lord Lyonel could legally go to war in the king’s stead, even if he was willing. Perhaps they should have consulted Princess Rhaenys, their Mistress of Laws, on the matter before she had left for the Stepstones. Although she surely had more pressing matters on her mind.

“My father will not take this insult lightly,” Ser Laenor warned. “House Velaryon fought and bled to capture the Stepstones and it is his daughter and granddaughters that were at risk. He will want revenge against the Triarchy.”

The doors to the Small Council chamber flew open then and Princess Rhaenyra emerged. The tension was clear in her frame as she stalked over to the four of them. “Lord Lyonel has asked that I not leave the city,” she spat out. “Assuming the funeral is on Dragonstone, he has given me his leave to attend but otherwise I am to remain in King’s Landing.”

“On what grounds?” the queen asked.

“He says he cannot risk me being too far away if the king dies,” Princess Rhaenyra replied, rubbing her forehead in frustration. “That my place is at court, even with the situation in the Stepstones.”

“Lord Lyonel is not wrong, princess,” Lyman said. “With the king’s health, this is a perilous time. It is better that you are here to assume the throne if needed.”

“Aemon will not grab the crown if I am away,” she retorted. “He would fly away on Sunfyre at the mere suggestion.”

That did not mean there were not those that may try to crown Prince Aemon in Princess Rhaenyra’s absence. It was always an uncertain time when the crown passed from one ruler to another. An uncertainty that would be exacerbated if the rightful heir was away from King’s Landing. It would be better if such tumult was avoided entirely.

“Gods, it is mid-morning and I am already sick of this day,” the princess continued. She then turned to look out a nearby window, taking in the overcast but dry weather. “I am going flying.”

The queen raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

“I will not go far, Alicent, I promise,” Princess Rhaenyra said, reaching over to clasp her wife’s hand. “I need to see Syrax. Daemon was the one that taught me how to fly, it seems fitting. I could do with burning away some of these feelings as well.”

“I will join you,” Ser Laenor added. His earlier anger had dissipated but tension remained visible across his shoulders. “Seasmoke could do with being put through his paces.”

“You do not need to remain here, Laenor,” she replied. “I know you had thoughts to follow your mother, to see to Laena and the girls.”

He shook his head. “I would not leave you and Syrax alone in King’s Landing, without any backup apart from the children. My place is here.”

The princess gave him a brief smile and a nod. “Come then, let’s fly. We will have to tell the children when we return. They should be finished with their lessons by then.”

Between Prince Daemon being the king’s brother and being married to Ser Laenor’s sister, the royal children had all lost an uncle as well. Lyman did not think any of them had been close to the prince but losing a family member was never easy. He considered offering the princess his condolences but she was still noticeably agitated. Later then, in private.

With that, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor departed to change into their dragonriding leathers – Ser Joffrey following behind – leaving just Lyman himself and Queen Alicent.

“I am sure you have work to do but I had thought to go to the sept for a time if you wished to join me,” the queen said.

She was right that he had plenty of work that required his attention, even ignoring the fact he ought to start budgeting for a potential war. However, the events of the morning thus far had thrown Lyman and he could see the appeal of some quiet contemplation. Of some prayer.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace,” he replied, offering Queen Alicent his arm.

With her acceptance of the gesture, they began to walk towards the keep’s sept.

It was the Stranger that he offered a prayer to first, wishing Prince Daemon safe passage to the other side. For him to finally know peace. Lyman then moved to the Smith, praying that the fractures across the realm would heal. He hoped it would not soon be the Warrior he was offering prayers to.

When it was time for him to rise from kneeling, Lyman found that his joints protested the movement; his knees were not what they used to be. The queen, presumably seeing his struggle as she finished her own prayers, moved to assist. With her help, Lyman was able to leverage himself to his feet.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said.

“It is no trouble, Lyman,” she replied, moving to sit on a nearby pew. “In truth, I am glad of your company. Daemon’s death has left me a bit out of sorts.”

Walking over to join her, he felt his brow scrunch up in confusion. While Prince Daemon and the queen were connected by multiple family ties, they had never been close. In fact, Lyman rather suspected they had hated each other.

Taking in his expression, Queen Alicent looked over him assessingly. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell Rhaenyra?” she asked, an air of desperation on her face. “It is all well and good confessing before the gods but they do not provide a response.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied. “I will hold anything you tell me in the strictest confidence.”

“I was relieved when I heard Daemon was dead.” The words were spoken in a rush, as though the queen could not wait to get them off her chest. “Rhaenyra thought she could keep him under control but I never fully trusted in that. If Aemon, Rhaemond and Daeron were in danger from anyone following the king’s death, it would have been Daemon.” Her fingers moved to pick at her cuticles, an action Lyman had not seen her perform for many years.

While Prince Daemon was their uncle, he had never demonstrated any fondness for the sons Queen Alicent had given the king. Lyman had not known if it was because of the threat they presented to Princess Rhaenyra’s position as heir or their mother’s Hightower blood but the prince’s disdain for them had been clear.

He was unsure if Prince Daemon would have gone so far as to have his nephews killed but he could not say with certainty that the prince would not have either. The Rogue Prince had demonstrated that he had few scruples; kinslaying may not have been beyond him.

“I can understand where such worries arose from,” Lyman finally said. “There is no shame in wanting your children safe.”

Queen Alicent shook her head at his words. “But that is the point,” she replied. “I am not ashamed of it. Rhaenyra has been hit hard by his death and the realm may go to war but, and the Father may judge me for this, I am thankful. At least I do not have to worry about Daemon hurting my children anymore.” There was an unfamiliar hardness in her brown eyes.

“I do not think the gods would judge you for feeling as such,” he said comfortingly, resting a hand on the queen’s elbow to try and stop her self-mutilation. “You did not cause the Triarchy’s attack on the Stepstones. Beyond that, it is a mother’s duty to protect her children.” He gestured at the statue of the Mother on the dais in front of them.

“I never liked him, if I am to be honest,” the queen said. “It was always the same. He would turn up, lavish Rhaenyra in gifts and attention for a few weeks and then disappear again or be banished to the Vale. By the time of Queen Aemma’s death, the way he looked at Rhaenyra was downright indecent.”

Lyman could not say he had been blind to such looks himself, having noticed the way Prince Daemon’s eyes followed the princess at the Small Council meetings he had bothered to attend back then.

“I am confident in Rhaenyra's feelings for me,” the queen continued. “But I know Daemon caught her attention for a time and I do wonder if, in another life … Well, I suppose it makes no matter now.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Lyman replied. “There is no point dwelling on such now.”

With that, the two of them sat together in silence for a time, the candles burning down around them.

With the morning lost, Lyman worked hard through the afternoon to catch up. He knew his mind was not as sharp as it had once been, that he could not perform his duties with as much vigour. Over recent years, he had delegated several of his more minor responsibilities to Larys Strong. After he had performed well in his role as Warden of the King’s Mint, Lyman had promoted Larys to King’s Counter, overseeing the taxation of the realm.

When Lyman did leave his position as Master of Coin, or if the crown requested he do so, he planned to recommend Larys as his replacement.

Thinking of which, his ears then caught the tap-tap-tap of Larys’s cane in the corridor outside. When the knock on the door came, Lyman was ready and bid the man entry straight away. After they had greeted each other, Larys sat down heavily in the chair across his desk.

“I have a summary of the latest taxes from the Riverlands,” he said, handing over a sheaf of parchment.

Taking it from him, Lyman glanced over the figures. “These are better than you projected, are they not?” he asked, thinking back to the amount of coin they had expected. “Harrenhal especially.”

Larys inclined his head in response. “Say what you will about my father, he is not cheating the throne on his taxes.”

“About your father?” Lyman questioned, not understanding what the other man was alluding to.

An awkward expression crossed Larys’s face and he hesitated a moment before speaking. “It is only, I was speaking to the queen earlier and she mentioned what happened at this morning’s Small Council meeting.”

Ah. Queen Alicent had long been friends with Larys and it did not surprise Lyman that she had discussed events with him.

“I believe Lord Lyonel’s honour would not allow him to act in any other manner,” he replied. “That he feels duty-bound to act as the king would have.”

Larys’s lip curled up but Lyman would not have called his expression a smile. “My father always has been so attached to his precious honour,” he sneered.

His tone rather discomfiting Lyman, he decided to move the conversation along. “What else were you and the queen discussing?” he asked. “Has there been any news from Oldtown?”

Beyond the work Larys did as the King’s Counter, he had also cultivated a network of informants that he used to gather information for Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra. One of these informants was a member of Lord Hightower’s household.

“Nothing in particular. Although the timing of all this is curious. That the Triarchy has attacked when Lord Hightower is making his own moves.”

“You think they are connected?” Lyman asked. “That Lord Hightower has allied himself with the Triarchy?” House Hightower and the Triarchy were hardly natural allies. Myr, Tyrosh and Lys were ruled by wealth and trade rather than blood, practised slavery and had a reputation in Westeros for debauchery. This was all opposed to the piety of House Hightower.

“I would not discount the possibility,” Larys replied mildly. Too mildly for what they were discussing. “There have been stranger bedfellows.”

If Lord Hightower had sanctioned an attack on the Stepstones, an attack on the realm, that had seen a prince dead, it meant he was willing to take greater risks than Lyman would have considered to see Prince Aemon on the throne.

“Tell your informant in the Hightower to keep her ears open,” he ordered. “If there is any truth to this, the crown needs to know.”

“My informant is the Hightowers’ wet nurse.” Larys gave a sardonic smile. “They would hardly invite her to meetings to conspire against the crown princess.”

Their wet nurse? Lyman could not help the feeling of revulsion that rose up in him. A wet nurse occupied a trusted position within any highborn household, tending to vulnerable babes. He could still remember how carefully Rosamund had looked into their own wet nurses before hiring them. That the woman feeding Lord Hightower’s grandson – Martyn, if Lyman recalled, the second son of the heir to Oldtown – was working against him … it did not sit right with him.

“Could you not have found an informant in a different position?” he asked. “One not so personal.”

Larys shrugged his shoulders. “It is rare that a position becomes vacant in the Hightower at all. They pay their servants well at least. It was only an unfortunate accident that saw the role of wet nurse become available.” His eyes focused intently on Lyman’s own. “Is it not more important that we have someone in place? To report if Lord Hightower is involved in plots against the realm.”

Did it have to be a wet nurse though? This did not seem like an honourable path to tread. Although Larys spoke true: what was Lyman’s discomfort in the face of a lord potentially having conspired to kill Prince Daemon? If Lord Hightower was taking such extreme action, they needed to know. For the sake of the crown and for the realm.

“Very well,” he acquiesced. “But tell your woman to move to a different role if one does become available. The Hightowers will not need a wet nurse forever after all.” And Lyman would feel less conflicted.

Larys dipped his head in acknowledgement.

Chapter Text

Late in the afternoon on the same day that the news reached King’s Landing, the court was summoned for the announcement of Prince Daemon’s death.

Standing among the assembled courtiers with Rosamund, Lyman listened as anxious gossip passed from one noble to another. The emergency session of the Small Council that morning had not passed unnoticed, nor had the black clothing Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent had donned for the occasion. For those that had not heard, the queen stood now at the front of the room still in that same black clothing. However, the rest of the royal family were conspicuous in their absence.

“It was only a matter of time,” Lord Hogg muttered to his wife. “The king has been ill for weeks.”

“­—flight this morning to remind us that the princess and her consort command dragons,” Lyman heard from behind him. “Not that we need reminding.”

It was clear the court expected an announcement that King Viserys had died. There were therefore confused murmurings by many as it was Lord Lyonel, flanked by Ser Harwin and several of his household guard, that strode down the centre of the room towards the dais, not Princess Rhaenyra. Ascending the steps up to the Iron Throne but not actually sitting on it, the lord Hand turned to address the room.

“My lords and ladies, it is with great regret and sadness that I must announce the death of Prince Daemon, Lord of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea,” Lord Lyonel boomed out. “He died bravely, defending his lands from an attack by the Triarchy.”

Lord Lyonel had barely finished speaking before the mutters began anew.

“Prince Daemon dead, who would have believed—”

“—those bloody pirates, should have wiped them out—”

“—the king’s brother. There will be war—”

At a gesture from his father, Ser Harwin called for silence. The courtiers were slow to obey but eventually it was quiet again.

“The prince’s body is being sailed to Dragonstone where we will be able to pay our respects at his funeral,” Lord Lyonel continued. “I would also ask that any of you with connections to the Free Cities make yourselves known to me. Thank you.”

With that he descended from the dais and walked out of the room, ignoring calls for more information and what the realm would be doing in response.

Lyman then had a difficult time getting out of the throne room himself. While the Rogue Prince had been a divisive figure, there were no shortage of lords saying that the crown should go to war with the Triarchy. As the most senior members of court in the room, these concerns were directed at the queen and the other members of the Small Council.

Where was Princess Rhaenyra? She should be here.

Eventually Queen Alicent announced that the Small Council had the situation in hand and ordered everyone to return to their duties. Lyman was happy enough for this reprieve, having no answers that would satisfy those baying for blood.

The sun had dipped below the horizon some time ago but Lyman continued to work away at his desk. No matter how many papers he read, yet more appeared that demanded his attention.

If the crown did go to war with the Triarchy, they would need food, weapons, ships. With the problems with Lord Hightower and Oldtown, that was the largest port in the Reach out of the equation and probably the Redwyne fleet as well. He could pay for food to be shipped from elsewhere in the Reach but with Dorne’s status unclear, the ships might be sunk in the Summer Sea. Perhaps he could reach out to Lady Arryn and see what food might be available in the Vale?

Putting down a missive from Ser Tyland advising how much coin would be needed for each week that the royal fleet guarded the Stepstones, Lyman stretched out his back with a groan. It was only then that he realised how dark it had grown around him. A maid had lit candles to keep the gloom at bay but he could feel an ache behind his eyes from where they had been straining.

Lyman thought longingly of his warm bed, of finally ending this wretched day, but he could not ignore the teetering pile of parchment on his desk. Just a few more, he thought to himself. Somewhere in there was a report on the expenditure of the latest project by Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra to feed the people of the city. That seemed a better note to end his evening on than plans for a potential war. He really should write to Mathis too, make sure everything was well at Honeyholt.

Just then a knock rang out from his office door. “The crown princess to see you, Lord Beesbury,” Ser Bryan called out.

At this hour? “Admit her,” he called back.

The door opened and Princess Rhaenyra entered, still wearing her dragonriding leathers after her flight earlier. It made for an imposing sight, the black outfit with red detailing reinforced to almost resemble armour in places. Perhaps she needed the strength that her outfit conveyed at the moment. There were dark shadows under her eyes that powder did little to disguise and her hair was starting to unravel from its customary braids. How early that morning had the princess been woken to inform her of Prince Daemon’s death?

Lyman rose from his desk to greet her, ignoring the pungent odour of dragon that he was all too familiar with. “Good evening,” he said, though it was probably more apt to say night given the lateness of the hour.

She apparently had no wish to stand on ceremony, merely giving him a distracted nod before moving to gaze out his window into the blackness beyond. “I told my father of Daemon’s death. Or tried to. He thought I was my mother and did not even seem to hear what I said.” Princess Rhaenyra’s voice was flat, emotionless.

That the king was so unwell he could not even comprehend his brother’s death was sorrowful but it may be for the best. He would not be able to travel for Prince Daemon’s funeral and, beyond that, maesters had found that people could die from heart sickness. This news might have pushed King Viserys over whatever edge he currently teetered on.

“I am sorry, Rhaenyra,” Lyman consoled, retaking his seat. “That must have been hard to bear.” Especially when her own grief at Prince Daemon’s death was so raw.

The princess let out a mirthless laugh. “You know what the worst part is? I am furious at him.” She wheeled around to face him then. “I hoped my father would see that we need to act against the Triarchy. That he would rescind Lord Lyonel’s orders and give me the authority to do what needs to be done.”

As though she could no longer contain herself, Princess Rhaenyra began to stalk from one end of his office to the other. “My uncle is dead and I am stuck having to play politics rather than mourn or avenge him.” Her hands were impotently clenching and unclenching at her sides. “Because Lord Lyonel does not believe war is what the king would want.”

Lyman was unsure what he could say to calm her. “Lord Lyonel has always been a moral and upstanding man,” he offered.

She scoffed. “I had considered that an advantage when he was first made Hand,” she said, not pausing her movements. “Lord Lyonel is certainly an improvement on Ser Otto, with all his plotting against me. However, he is too inflexible. My father’s indecisiveness is not a standard to which we should hold ourselves.” Her riding coat flapped a little too close to one of the candelabras on his desk, causing the flames to flicker.

“You can hardly blame the former Master of Laws for being rigid,” he replied, moving the candelabra to a safer place. Of all the positions on the Small Council, it was the Master of Laws that was mired in recorded words and precedent. A role that had suited Lord Lyonel.

The princess finally stopped her pacing and leant her hands on the back of the chair in front of his desk. “At times though, an alternative path is best.” She tilted her head to one side and fixed him with an assessing look. “Did you ever hear about how Daemon won the war for the Stepstones in the first place?”

Thinking back, no, Lyman could not recall being told the exact circumstances. The war in the Stepstones had ended around the time of Ser Arnold Arryn’s uprising in the Vale and there were other matters occupying his attention.

He shook his head in response to her question.

“It was with a ruse,” she revealed. “Daemon walked straight into their territory waving a white flag of surrender and pretended to offer up Dark Sister. Then, when they came to relieve him of it, he carved through their men.”

Gods be good. A white flag had long been a symbol of a pause in hostilities, of a call for negotiation or of surrender. If such a symbol could not be trusted, it left few ways for a battle to end without a rout or a massacre.

Lyman reached over and began pouring them goblets of wine, feeling that they were needed for this conversation. “There is no honour in such a victory,” he said, making no effort to hide his disgust.

“I would say honour ceased to have bearing when our men started to be fed to crabs,” Princess Rhaenyra retorted. “Alive.”

That particular aspect of the original Stepstones conflict still made him shudder. He could scarcely imagine a worse end and had not been able to stomach crab since. However, just because their enemies adopted such reprehensible tactics it did not mean they had to meet them in the mud.

“I believe it is important that we hold to honour,” Lyman replied. “That there are some traditions and customs that must remain sacrosanct. Guest right, for instance. If a man cannot trust that he is safe beneath another’s roof, where would that leave us?”

He took a sip from his own goblet and pushed the other across the table. The princess finally moved to take a seat, though tension remained coiled in her body.

“There can be benefit in not holding too rigidly to honour,” she retorted. “For all that the realm mocks so-called ‘Dornish courage’, Dorne is the only kingdom that retained its independence.”

Through refusal to meet the Conqueror in the field and striking in quick assaults before fleeing, Dorne had never been defeated. While the king styled himself as King of the Seven Kingdoms, in reality only six had bent the knee. Though that fact did not mean that honour should be abandoned entirely.

“So the ends justify the means?” Lyman asked. “Without honour, we would be no better off than common brigands.”

Princess Rhaenyra swirled the goblet in her hand. “I would say that you reach a point where the ends have to justify the means,” she replied. “I do not see how I can rule the realm without having to make compromises.”

That made him think of his conversation with Larys earlier that day, where it was revealed that their informant within Lord Hightower’s household was a wet nurse. While Lyman was still discomforted by this, it was not the most alarming thing Larys had said.

“Larys suspects Lord Hightower may have conspired with the Triarchy,” he revealed, not seeing any easier way to break the news. “That he may be party to Prince Daemon’s death.”

Her eyes widened and she fumbled her goblet, nearly spilling the wine inside before placing it down. “Has his spy reported something?” Fury sparked in the princess’s eyes, all earlier traces of calmness gone. “Does Larys have any evidence? If this is true, I will have Lord Hightower scorched from the face of this earth.”

Lyman shook his head. “It is more a feeling that Larys has,” he replied, hoping to placate her resurged anger. “That the timing is suspect with this occurring when Lord Hightower is making his own moves to see his uncle installed as High Septon, to turn the Faith against you.”

Princess Rhaenyra let out a sharp exhale. “The timing alone is not proof enough for the court. With my father’s ill health, it makes sense that old enemies would choose now to rear their heads.” She paused then, staring into space. “On the other hand, many suspect that he does not have long to live. If Lord Hightower means to act to secure the crown for Aemon, he will do so now.”

She continued to speak, though it was more of a mutter of half-formed thoughts. “If we could get the Triarchy to admit that Lord Hightower was involved– they might have correspondence, something written is his hand– the accusation alone– just something to show to the lords of the realm, to justify …” the princess trailed off before her gaze fixed on his own. “Though none of that will be possible if Lord Lyonel does not allow us to go to war, to press the Triarchy. They will not reveal such plots otherwise.” Her jaw clenched.

So they were back to Lord Lyonel.

“I know you see him as an obstacle, princess, but I do rather admire Lord Lyonel's fortitude, his certainty in knowing right from wrong,” Lyman confessed.

“I would admire him more if it did not threaten the security of the realm,” she said bitterly.

“There is sense in what he is doing,” Lyman replied. “In seeing where the other Free Cities and Dorne stand before acting against the Triarchy.”

The princess frowned. “There is sense as long as we act before others get it into their heads that they can act against the crown with impunity. Who knows how long it will be until we get clear answers from Dorne and the Free Cities.”

Whether the path Lord Lyonel had chosen was the correct one or not, Lyman could understand his point. The Small Council – and the Hand of the King in particular – was there to carry out the king’s will. They could advise the king but they had no power to gainsay his commands. It did not seem right that Lord Lyonel should rule with no thought of King Viserys’s wishes.

“You wish Lord Lyonel to act against the will of the king he has sworn to serve?” Lyman asked. What would that mean for the authority of the ruler?

“No, I wish that Lord Lyonel was not in this position to begin with,” she replied firmly. “I am the heir to the throne. I will wear the crown when my father passes. If I was in charge there would be none of this uncertainty, none of this dithering. We could strike back” – her hand smacked his desk – “against the Triarchy.”

“I understand your frustration,” he said gently, “but you are not in charge, Lord Lyonel is.”

“Yes, but why?” She gestured angrily with her left arm. “Because when King Jaehaerys was sick, it was Ser Otto that ruled and not my father, the then crown prince? Tell me, how was it decided that the lord Hand would rule? You were there after all.”

He thought back to the Small Council meetings he had attended as King Jaehaerys sickened. To the first meeting that Ser Otto led in his stead.

“I do not remember it ever being decided, as such,” Lyman said slowly, feeling his brow furrow into a frown. “One meeting, I arrived and Ser Otto was sitting at the head of the table in the king’s place.” He could recall the air of smug contentment that had surrounded Ser Otto. How comfortable he had looked in the chair. “He said that, as Hand, he would be in charge while the king was ill. Your father was not on the Small Council and did not have much of a presence at court. Nobody even suggested that Prince Viserys might rule instead.”

“So Ser Otto effectively seized power because nobody thought to question it,” Princess Rhaenyra said, followed by a bitter scoff. “That sounds about right.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “But now the precedent is set. Because my father could not be bothered to assert himself and Ser Otto was power-hungry, Lord Lyonel thinks he can command me, the crown princess and heir to the Iron Throne. That he can command the realm over me.”

Lyman had never held the position of Master of Laws but he knew past precedent held nearly as much weight as written laws. It was not about what Lord Lyonel thought in this case exactly. He was merely acting in the position the king had given him with the same degree of power that Ser Otto had when King Jaehaerys was ill.

“Lord Lyonel is not doing this to slight you or out of ambition,” he replied. “He is acting as Hand in the manner he feels obligated to.”

“Yes, but he is making the wrong decision,” the princess argued. “We cannot let the Triarchy’s crimes go unanswered. Especially if, as Larys suspects, this is part of Lord Hightower’s plots too.” She took a large gulp of wine, draining what must have been half the goblet. “Lord Lyonel has no real authority. It is not as though my father called the court together and formally declared that the lord Hand would rule when he was sick.”

“As you say though, Ser Otto set a precedent and it is Lord Lyonel that has been ruling up to this point,” Lyman said. “Perhaps if something different had been decided when the king first sickened—”

“I couldn’t have predicted anything like this would fucking happen!” Princess Rhaenyra made a particularly violent gesture of her arm that nearly knocked over his pile of paperwork. “Lord Lyonel will not see reason. We need to do something.”

Do something? Lyman was not sure he liked the sound of where this was going.

“I could try appealing to Lord Lyonel but—” he began.

“Nothing like that,” she interrupted. “Lord Corlys was a great friend of Daemon’s and it was his daughter and granddaughters that were under threat. Then there is Laena and Princess Rhaenys too. Laenor thinks it likely that his family will go to war, Lord Lyonel’s orders or not.”

It would not be the first time House Velaryon went to war over the Stepstones without the crown’s leave. After all, that was how Lord Velaryon and Prince Daemon won the islands in the first place. While Lyman could well understand the Lord of the Tides wishing to defend his family, such an act by House Velaryon would demonstrate the realm’s disunity and undermine Lord Lyonel’s authority. The situation was fragile enough with the king’s ill health without giving further signs of weakness. Gods above, it was too late at night for this conversation.

“If they do, I mean to stand with them,” the princess continued. “To call our banners to war.”

Call the banners to war herself? It was unclear if the lord Hand could declare war, never mind the crown princess. Although it did not sound as though Princess Rhaenyra cared whether she had the legal right.

From the atmosphere at court that afternoon, there were plenty of lords that thought the realm should go to war. If the princess asked the Crownlands to muster, her lady cousin in the Vale, the Stormlands which bordered Dorne and faced the Triarchy across the Narrow Sea, they might answer.

Where would that leave them? The realm divided between the lord Hand and the crown princess?

“You cannot just ignore the will of the crown,” Lyman replied. “Even if it is Lord Lyonel acting in the king’s stead.”

The princess rose to her feet again, her eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring. “I am the crown! I am the blood of the Conqueror. I have a dragon.” The candlelight of his office lent an orange glow to her normally violet eyes. Combined with the way her lips were pulled back from her teeth in an almost snarl, it was a rather unsettling image. “What is Lord Lyonel in comparison? Everything he has, he has it because my family granted it to him. We gave House Strong Harrenhal, we made him Hand.”

It was a matter of perception. The lord Hand was a representative of King Viserys’s will. It could be argued that by going against him, the princess was acting against the king. A fact Lord Hightower would be quick to exploit if he was indeed rallying support for Prince Aemon, as they suspected.

“Rhaenyra, you cannot act in such a manner,” he implored. “You would be giving a great boon to your enemies by going against the man the king has selected to rule in his stead. Your position was granted by King Viserys as well. You hold the title crown princess because he gave it to you. If you believe the word and will of the king are meaningless, where does that leave your own heirship? You would undermine your own claim to the throne.”

“I have a duty to the realm,” she replied. “To my family. What would you have me do?”

Lyman rose to his own feet, matching her. “I agree, you do have a duty to the realm. A duty not to plunge us into a devastating war. I know your uncle is dead and I am truly sorry for your loss but this is not the correct path. Be patient. Once we have more information on what the Free Cities and Dorne may do—”

“I cannot sit around and wait until Lord Lyonel deems it appropriate.”

“Yes you can!” Lyman snapped. “If you have ever valued my counsel, the years I have spent advising you, you will. Prince Daemon’s death is clouding your judgement. You are thinking like a bereaved niece, not like the Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The princess recoiled from him as if struck. “That is not …” Her words trailed off.

Lyman hardened his heart to the hurt expression on her face. While he had mentored Princess Rhaenyra over the years, he had a higher duty to the crown and the realm.

“If you proceed with this, you will not have my support in doing so,” he warned.

For a second the princess looked like she was in pain. Then all emotions were wiped from her face as she adopted her courtly mask.

“We must both act in the manner we see fit,” she said, turning away and walking towards his office door.

“You must be better than this, Rhaenyra,” Lyman called.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Chapter Text

The morning after his disagreement – argument – with Princess Rhaenyra, Lyman found it a struggle to open his eyes. Despite the fact he had hoped for a restful sleep, much of the night had been spent tossing and turning. While he stood by his words from the night before, he felt a lump in his chest when he considered being at odds with the princess. Especially at such a fraught time, with her uncle’s death and the king’s ill health.

Lyman could only hope that Princess Rhaenyra’s temper had cooled in the light of a new day. That she was willing to see reason and would not do anything rash over the Triarchy. That the two of them might be able to mend matters between themselves.

Dragging himself from the covers, Lyman moved across his bedchamber to where a basin of water waited by the fire. Feeling marginally more awake once he had washed and dressed, he entered the outer chamber of his rooms. Rosamund was idly nibbling on a piece of bread slathered in jam, most of her attention occupied by the letter she was reading. As he sat down at the table, his wife put down the parchment and focused her attention on him.

“You returned late last night,” she said.

Not meeting her eyes, Lyman reached for some bread and cheese. “I had much work to do,” he replied. “Allocating coin for the royal fleet, beginning provision for a possible war—” His stomach gave a grumble. It occurred to him then that he had not eaten dinner the night before. “Lily, if you could send to the kitchens for a cut of ham and a few fried eggs,” he called across to their maid, who was lighting the room’s fire.

“At once, my lord,” she replied, rising from her kneeling position and leaving.

Buttering a chunk of bread before taking a bite, Lyman chanced another glance in Rosamund’s direction.

She was still staring at him, her eyes roving assessingly around his face. “You slammed the door,” she said, “and you look like you have barely slept a wink.”

He chewed slowly, trying to settle on an answer before deciding there was little point in subterfuge. “Princess Rhaenyra and I had an argument,” he said, pouring a cup of tea from the pot.

This news did not seem to surprise Rosamund. “I assume it was regarding Lord Lyonel’s position on the Stepstones?” she asked.

His wife had always been intuitive. Lyman nodded in response before briefly going over what had been said the prior night. “I do not think I was wrong,” he concluded. “But I may have spoken to the princess too harshly, especially given the circumstances.” Looking back, he had never even been able to offer his condolences for Prince Daemon’s death.

Rosamund took a sip of her own tea, mulling over the situation before responding. “By the sounds of it, harsh words may have been required to knock the princess out of whatever mood she was in,” she replied. “You know how tenacious she can be once an idea is in her head.”

Indeed. The moons she had spent overseeing the expansion of farming on Dragonstone came to mind. Lyman had grown sick of discussing crop yields by the time Princess Rhaenyra was content.

“I only hope she takes my advice to heart,” he replied. “And does not do anything foolish regarding the Triarchy.”

“Grief can have strange effects on the mind.” Rosamund’s gaze was unfocused. “I knew a stableboy who never uttered a word again after his wife passed. With luck, the princess will have had a better night’s sleep than you and her emotions will have calmed. I do not believe she would truly want to plunge the realm into war.” Her lips pursed. “Although further intervention may be required, just to be on the safe side.”

Lyman considered asking his wife to elaborate on what she meant but she had that secretive smile on her face which indicated he was better off not knowing. “I hope that she is not overly cross with me either,” he said instead.

Rosamund’s expression softened. “The princess knows that while you are her mentor and friend, you have a duty to the crown. I doubt she will hold any heated words against you.”

Would that his wife proved correct on this. Princess Rhaenyra’s temper was not as fearsome as it had been in her youth but she was not without teeth. Nor was she slow to forget a grudge.

“Now,” his wife continued, “Larys’s theory that Lord Hightower is involved in this is worrying. I will send a raven to Honeyholt, see if Mathis has heard any gossip from Oldtown. And write to our other allies in the south.”

That was another task Lyman had put off: writing to Mathis. He felt like a juggler at times, trying to keep too many balls aloft at once. One would fall eventually. With the recent enmity between their houses, it was essential they kept Mathis updated of any developments with House Hightower. Their eldest son had his instructions: should the worst come to pass, should the Hightower beacon glow green, he would send the women and children to Horn Hill. Lyman would not see tragedy befall his line.

“Thank you,” he replied. “I fear I have not given sufficient consideration to our children as of late.” Gods, he did not think he had written to Meredyth since they saw her at Alan’s wedding. He should invite Garlon up to the keep for a meal as well, give him some respite from tending to the ills of the smallfolk.

A rueful smile crossed Rosamund’s face. “We all knew what we were getting into when you were named Master of Coin. The realm is the priority.”

There was something in the matter-of-fact way his wife said this which caused Lyman to frown. While serving the realm had taken up much of his attention in the past decades, he did not believe this had come at the expense of their family. Or, at least, he had not intended it to.

“I admit I could write to our children more but I would not say I have neglected them,” he replied. “They have always been able to come to me for support and guidance.”

When Mathis had ever had uncertainties about ruling Honeyholt in his stead, it was Lyman he had come to for advice. When Garlon had lost his maester’s chain, it was Lyman he had come to for help. When Meredyth had struggled to find a knight willing to take her second son to squire, it was Lyman that intervened.

“Just remember that there are things more important than the Iron Throne,” Rosamund said. Not giving him the chance to respond, she rose from her seat and swept around the table to his side. “I should be off.” She planted a light peck on his lips. “There is much to do.”

With that his wife left, Lyman waiting for the rest of his food.

Not wanting the events of the previous night to hang over him, he decided his first task that day would be to seek out Princess Rhaenyra, both to clear the air and to discern her current temperament on the Triarchy. Given the earliness of the hour, he hoped she would be in her chambers and so made his way to Maegor’s Holdfast.

As Lyman approached the drawbridge that spanned the dry moat surrounding the holdfast, he swore he saw Rosamund leaving in the opposite direction towards the gardens. Passing Ser Willis Fell – whose white kingsguard armour glinted in the rising sun – he entered the holdfast proper.

The household guards and maids gave him nods as he ascended to the floor where the princess’s chambers lay. Unsure as to the reception he would receive, Lyman’s pace was slow as he began walking down the final corridor. His eyes had just spotted both Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon outside Princess Rhaenyra’s rooms when his attention was diverted by two women walking towards him. Lady Elinda Massey and Lady Florys Tyrell, two of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting, looked rather harried as they reached him.

“Now is not a good time, Lord Beesbury,” Lady Florys said, gently taking his arm and steering him in an about-turn. “The princess and the queen have requested some privacy.”

Some privacy? What could—

“Are you out of your mind!” Queen Alicent’s voice rang out from the princess’s chambers, the words clear even through the closed door. “Flying off to attack the Triarchy? Jace is but ten. What do you think would happen if you and Laenor both perished right now?”

Oh dear. By the sounds of it, the queen had caught wind of Princess Rhaenyra’s ill-advised plans. And was none too pleased. That was an argument that Lyman wanted no part in. Giving in to his self-preservation instincts, he allowed Ladies Florys and Elinda to guide him back the way he had come. He could always talk to the princess later.

Over the next few days Lyman got the impression that Princess Rhaenyra was avoiding him, his various attempts to speak to her all being thwarted. The next occasion he tried found that the princess had resumed her old practice of hitting things in the training yard with Ser Harwin. At least whatever disagreement she was having with Lord Lyonel had not affected her friendship with his oldest son. Hopefully it would also help her work through her feelings.

The next time he went to the princess’s chambers, Lyman was told she was out in King’s Landing for a meeting. On one occasion, he went to her office and was told that she was elsewhere. While her sworn shield, Ser Lorent, guarded the door.

Despite this avoidance, he took heart from the fact that Princess Rhaenyra had made no move against the Triarchy in that time. Instead, she seemed to be following Lord Lyonel’s plan that they wait for more information before acting. Information they did not expect to receive for some time as ravens flew south and across the Narrow Sea.

However, the relative peace at court was shattered when a bellowing roar announced the arrival of Ladies Laena, Baela and Rhaena in King’s Landing. To say that Lady Laena was displeased with Lord Lyonel over his inaction was a gross understatement. Lyman was not present for the explosive meeting between Prince Daemon’s widow and the lord Hand but the keep’s gossip network saw word reach Rosamund’s ear soon enough. Apparently, Lady Laena had made reference to the dragonfire that scorched Harrenhal during the Conquest and that she and Vhagar would be happy to re-enact it.

Lyman did not see much of Lady Laena and her two daughters as Prince Daemon’s funeral approached; they kept largely to the chambers they had been given. The royal children – excluding Princess Helaena and Prince Lucas who were in the Vale – made effort to reach out to their cousins but the two young ladies were withdrawn. Which was understandable given the recent loss of their father. The few times he did see Lady Laena, she was often accompanied by Ser Laenor, on one occasion the two exchanging heated words in High Valyrian in the gardens. Deciding his condolences could wait, Lyman had been quick to take his leave.

Determined to finally put their argument to rest, Lyman once again walked to Princess Rhaenyra’s rooms, resolved that he would remain until the two of them talked. He could only hope that she would not go so far in her avoidance as to take to the secret tunnels of the keep to dodge him.

Ser Lorent’s presence outside was a positive indication but as he grew close, the door opened and Ser Harrold emerged. Lyman could not help the frisson of worry that went through him at the sight of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It was rare to see Ser Harrold away from his post outside the king’s chambers during daylight hours and there were limited reasons that he might visit with the crown princess. The most serious of which would be if King Viserys had passed away. However, while Ser Harrold wore a frown, there was nothing in his expression that implied something truly serious was amiss.

“Lord Commander,” Lyman greeted with a nod as they passed each other.

“Lord Beesbury,” Ser Harrold returned.

Reaching the remaining kingsguard, he took a deep breath to gather himself before speaking. “Ser Lorent, I would like to see the princess, if she is available.”

“Of course, Lord Beesbury,” Ser Lorent said. He then turned and gave a few knocks to the door.

“Yes?” Princess Rhaenyra called back. To Lyman’s ear, she sounded rather distracted.

“Lord Beesbury to see you, princess,” Ser Lorent replied.

There were long seconds of silence and he wondered if he would be turned away.

“Thank you, Ser Lorent, let him in.”

Lyman let out a sigh of relief as Ser Lorent opened the door. Entering the outer chamber of Princess Rhaenyra’s rooms, he found her sitting at the desk staring into space, her brow furrowed, fingers drumming on the wooden surface. Concern overtook any uncertainty he had about their current standing with each other as he wondered if Ser Harrold had passed on more dire tidings than he had assumed.

“Is everything all right?” Lyman asked. “Only I saw Ser Harrold leave and …” he trailed off as the princess gave a shake of her head.

“What we spoke of did not concern the king,” she replied. Which did not entirely answer his question as she still looked agitated. “Just another problem to add to the mounting pile.”

There was a pause as Princess Rhaenyra’s eyes flitted about the room, settling everywhere but upon Lyman himself.

“I never properly—”

“Lyman, I owe—”

They broke off, having spoken at the same time.

He nodded for the princess to speak first.

She stood and moved to sit down on the settee, gesturing for Lyman to join her. When he had, the princess began speaking again. “I owe you an apology for my behaviour the other night,” she said contritely, looking down at where her hands fiddled with her rings. “You were right that I cannot go tearing off to war, despite my feelings on Daemon’s death. There is too much at stake.”

“I presume the queen was able to talk some sense into you in that case,” he replied, thinking back to the argument he had overheard a few mornings ago.

Princess Rhaenyra did not meet his eyes but a blush suffused her cheeks. “It was … pointed out to me that Laenor and I both putting ourselves in danger with the king’s ailing health was not the wisest course of action. Especially as vultures are already circling. We would be leaving Jace and the other children far too exposed.”

If, gods forbid, the princess died before her father, Prince Jacaerys would become Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne. A situation which would make what they already thought might be a contested succession even worse. Even if Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor remained unharmed, she being away from court held danger in and of itself.

“You were right too about Lord Lyonel,” she continued. “I cannot be seen to act against him. Not now. I have a duty to keep the realm united. That must come before all else.”

There was a heavy gravitas to these last words. Lyman was reminded that for all that men quarrelled and fought over the Iron Throne, it was a heavy burden to those that sat it.

“No apology is needed, Rhaenyra. Your uncle had just died. I do not begrudge your response given the circumstances.” He reached over to give a squeeze to her hand. “I did not have the opportunity to say so before but you have my condolences for your loss.”

The princess finally met his gaze at this, giving a nod of acknowledgement in response to the sentiment. Lyman took in her face, the lines around her mouth and eyes that he would swear had deepened over recent days.

“How have you been coping?” he asked. “Have you been able to take time for yourself?”

She let out a scoff but there was no humour in it. “I have not had time to grieve. There has been too much on my mind, too much work to do. I can hardly break down in front of the court.”

The courtiers of the Red Keep were always focused on the royal family. There was no room for the princess to falter; no quarter would be given, despite the circumstances. Any sign otherwise would invite rumour questioning her strength.

“I would hope you would know by now that you can always come to me,” Lyman said. “I gather you have been avoiding me in recent days” – the princess looked away guiltily – “but I would never judge you any shows of emotion.”

Princess Rhaenyra hesitated a moment before speaking. “It is complicated,” she revealed. “I have been preparing myself mentally for my father’s death. What it would mean for me, all the change it would represent.” She paused. “It was the same with my mother. While her death was devastating, part of me expected it. Daemon … Daemon dying I did not see coming.”

“That can often be the way of it,” he replied, thinking of his own losses over the years. “You are not always able to make your peace before someone passes.”

She thought on his words, idly twisting one of her rings. “It feels unfinished between us. When my father lamented his lack of a son, when my mother was too tired to offer much attention, it was my uncle that was there. He was the one that taught me how to ride Syrax. He never saw me as lesser for being born a girl.” The princess wiped at her now wet eyes.

“I know he was far from perfect,” she continued. “I could have wrung his neck for that stunt he pulled with the brothel, trying to force me into a marriage with him. But he cared about me. He supported me. I had hoped that my uncle would be the one to crown me as queen.”

For a moment, watching the way her lower lip trembled, Lyman thought the princess was about to break down in tears. However, she took a shuddering breath and straightened her back. “Daemon would not have wanted me to wallow like this,” she said, shaking her head. “He never had time for self-pity.”

Pulling a handkerchief from his tunic pocket, he offered it to her.

Taking it, Princess Rhaenyra dabbed at her eyes before blowing her nose.

Giving her some time to gather herself, Lyman cast his eyes to the tapestries around the room.

“Anyway,” she eventually said, the strength having returned to her voice, “there are some matters we should discuss. I talked it over with Alicent and Laenor and we have agreed that our best path forward is to get the information Lord Lyonel requires so that the Triarchy can be handled with his assent.”

He felt relief flow through him at that. Being at odds with the princess had not been enjoyable but he could not endorse the actions she had planned to take.

“I am happy to hear that, princess.”

She let out a sigh before leaning back in her seat. “Do not be happy just yet. Laenor is trying to convince Laena to hold off for now, for our sakes, and gods know Lord Corlys is going to be a problem. He is already mustering his fleet on Driftmark.”

“I was unaware of that,” Lyman replied, though the news was hardly surprising.

“Going by the letter he sent to Laenor, he is furious. We are going to speak with him at– at Daemon’s funeral.” The princess tripped over the words as she spoke. “The Prince of Pentos will be there too and we had thought to talk with him as well. Determine where Pentos stands on all this.”

Lying to the north of the Triarchy and across the Narrow Sea from the Seven Kingdoms, Pentos would be a problem if it took the side of the Three Daughters in a conflict. However, the Prince of Pentos had been a friend of Prince Daemon’s and the city had no great ties to the Triarchy that Lyman was aware of. Indeed, the last he remembered, the city’s ruling families were worried about the ambitions of their southerly neighbours.

“That seems like a good place to start with the Free Cities,” he said. “I fear I will not be much help in this regard. Honeyholt has never traded outside the realm and I do not have any contacts across the Narrow Sea.”

Princess Rhaenyra shook her head. “We have a few options. I have talked to Mysaria and while it has been some time since she left Lys, she knows people there. That is our best lead for finding out any information regarding the Triarchy itself.”

It was still bizarre to Lyman, even after all these years, that she had formed a working relationship with her uncle’s former paramour. Speaking of which, “I thought that Prince Daemon and Mysaria’s relationship did not end on the best of terms,” he said. “Can you trust that she is on our side in this matter and not her homeland’s?”

The princess considered it. “As far as I can trust anyone that gives me information in exchange for coin,” she finally said. “King’s Landing has been Mysaria’s home for decades now and she does care for its people. She was quick enough to bring that child-fighting pit in Flea Bottom to our attention.”

That had been an obscenity he could scarcely comprehend. Greedy, unscrupulous men had taken several children from orphanages in the city and forced them to fight, taking a cut of the coin from bets placed on the victor. However, word had quickly reached one of Mysaria’s many ears and then been passed onto Princess Rhaenyra. Lyman had never enjoyed executions but he had no qualms attending the hanging of the ringleaders.

“Besides,” the princess continued, “any advantage we get may stop dragonfire being unleashed on the common people of Lys. I doubt Mysaria would want that either.”

He nodded. “Just be careful of her.”

“I will,” she replied. “Now, the Velaryons have trading connections to Braavos, despite the death of the former Sealord. Laenor is going to ask Lord Corlys to reach out there. If we can turn him from his war preparations, that is.” A peculiar expression crossed Princess Rhaenyra’s face then. “I had also thought to reach out to Volantis,” she said hesitantly.

That made sense. Aside from those already mentioned, Volantis was the Free City closest to the Triarchy. Although … Lyman felt his brow furrow in confusion. Who did the princess know in Volantis?

“I was not aware you had any connections in Volantis,” he said.

She opened her mouth, closed it again and then let out an awkward laugh.

Indeed, he could not think of anyone in Volantis that had any significance to the Seven Kingdoms. Well, nobody except for—

“Oh, absolutely not,” Lyman said vehemently. “We do not need the help of that– of that– harlot.”

“I knew you would react like this,” the princess said under her breath. Then, louder, “Lyman, I know that you and my great-aunt Saera have … history—”

“History?” he asked incredulously. “She is responsible for the death of one of my nephews!”

If Princess Saera had been able to keep her base urges under control and not dallied with three different lordlings, Braxton would never have been dragged before the king. Would never have died in a trial by combat.

“By all accounts, Braxton very much made his own choices as well,” she replied. “Saera is well-connected within Volantis.”

“She is well-connected because she runs a pleasure house,” Lyman retorted, rubbing a hand over his forehead in frustration.

The princess raised a single finger. “A popular pleasure house,” she said. “One frequented by the nobility and that may provide her knowledge on the feelings of the city’s triarchs.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“I know that Saera parted from King Jaehaerys on bad terms but I think Daemon visited her a few times over the years,” Princess Rhaenyra continued. “She may be willing to help us, because of him if nothing else.”

Given the prince’s proclivity for silver-haired women and the former princess’s profession, Lyman expected he had done more than just visited.

“The realm was well rid of Princess Saera,” he replied. “We would not be able to trust anything she told us. She would probably lie for sport.”

He had not been at court at the time but had heard tell of the princess’s malicious japes. Many of them aimed at her own sister, Princess Daella.

However, Princess Rhaenyra was uncowed in the face of his displeasure. “You were the one who wanted me to not act too hastily,” she retorted. “For me to follow Lord Lyonel’s wish to gather more information from the other Free Cities. Which is precisely what I am trying to do. As you said the other night, the realm comes before our personal feelings.”

Lyman had said that, though he did not appreciate having his words thrown back in his face. But he conceded that she did have a point. They needed to be forewarned about how the other Free Cities would react if the Seven Kingdoms went to war with the Triarchy. Princess Saera may know something useful, no matter how distasteful he found the idea and her.

“Very well,” he acquiesced, though not with good humour. “I appreciate you letting me know.”

She nodded. “It might come to nothing but we shall see.” Her gaze flicked back over to her desk. “I could do with your advice on another matter.”

“Of course, princess.”

“This is the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment but Ser Harrold has brought something to my attention,” she said.

Gods above, what now?

“As you know,” she continued, “Lady Johanna Lannister was born into House Westerling and is Ser Harrold’s great-niece.”

Lyman nodded, having been vaguely aware of the familial connection between the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Lady Lannister.

“Well, Lady Johanna has been in contact with Ser Harrold through her birth house,” the princess revealed. “When Lord Jason was rather deep in his cups, he told his wife that their daughter would be queen.”

When no further details were forthcoming, he replied, “Forgive me but I do not see the issue. You suspected when Lord Lannister’s daughter was sent to court that her father desired a royal match. Prince Jacaerys remains unbetrothed and thus a possibility for little Lady Tyshara.”

Her lips quirked upwards in a humourless grin. “Lord Jason said that his daughter would be the next queen. Which, given my own good health, suggests she would be Aemon’s queen.” She shook her head. “Lord Jason never could keep his mouth shut.”

Lyman exhaled harshly. They had suspected there were plots afoot to crown Prince Aemon instead of Princess Rhaenyra after the king’s death – mainly centred around Oldtown. However, this news was the closest to confirmation they had received yet.

“Why would Lady Johanna pass such tidings to us, go against her husband?” he asked. “Surely such schemes would be to her advantage, to elevate her daughter’s position.”

“She does not wish to see her daughter in the middle of a disputed succession,” the princess replied. “She worries Lord Jason is putting her in danger. That is why she went to her father with her concerns. That and her duty to the crown.”

“Does she have any proof of anything nefarious?” They could not level such an accusation against the Warden of the West based on something that could be explained away as a slip of the tongue while drunk.

She shook her head. “Not at the moment. However, Lady Johanna is prepared to keep an eye on her husband in exchange for certain assurances from the crown.”

Nothing could ever be straightforward. “And these assurances would be?” Lyman asked.

Princess Rhaenyra leant forward on the settee towards him. “She has given birth to five daughters but no sons. Of course, Lord Jason is displeased with what he sees as his wife’s failure in this regard.” There was an old fury in her voice. A fury that the passing decades had done nothing to dull. “Lord Jason has a favoured mistress in Lannisport, one that has given birth to a boy. Lady Johanna fears that her husband may ask for the boy to be legitimised.”

The possibility of a natural son inheriting Casterly Rock over her trueborn daughter would explain Lady Johanna’s behaviour.

“As long as the crown does not grant his request, we have Lady Johanna on our side,” she finished.

While the king lived, only he could legitimise a natural-born child. That power would then pass to the princess upon his death. It would not be hard to ensure Lady Johanna’s request was granted.

“So that is it then,” he said mournfully. “Your accession will not pass uncontested.” He had hoped that all the work they had done – forming alliances and gathering supporters – would have prevented this.

The princess reached over and clasped his hand. “We have long been aware of the possibility of rebellion,” she comforted. “Do not fret. I will be damned if I lose sleep over Jason bloody Lannister.”

Lyman could not help but give a brief chuckle before growing serious once again. “We will have to keep an eye on Ser Tyland. Make sure his own duties have not been compromised. Especially with half the royal fleet going to reinforce the Stepstones. And we should shore up support in the Westerlands.”

“We have House Westerling at least,” she replied. “Lord Cerion Reyne has never forgotten our encounter with the white hart and I do not believe he is fond of Lord Jason either. Hopefully Lord Crakehall too remembers the marriage I arranged for his daughter when she was among my ladies-in-waiting.”

If House Lannister did call its banners against Princess Rhaenyra, that would be several houses which would not hasten to answer.

“I know this is hardly the time but you need to get Prince Aemon betrothed,” Lyman said. “Perhaps Ser Laenor could talk to Lady Laena if you still think Lady Baela is best.”

Prince Daemon had been strongly opposed to his nephew marrying his daughter but, well, that was no longer cause for concern.

She frowned. “As you say, I do not want to raise this with Laena now. Besides, nothing could formally be agreed without my father’s consent.”

“Even just an informal understanding,” he implored. “Something to suggest to the lords of the realm that Prince Aemon is not wholly unattached.”

The princess considered it for a few moments. “Very well,” she agreed. “I will speak to Laena after– after the funeral.” Her gaze moved to the window. “This cannot be allowed to fester. Suspecting that Lord Hightower plotted treason and his activities with the Faith were one thing, plots that cross kingdoms are something else entirely.”

“Once Prince Daemon’s funeral is over, princess,” Lyman replied. “We will work out our next steps then.”

Chapter Text

Lyman did not enjoy travelling by ship. While going by sea was faster than travelling over land, he would always choose the latter if it was an option. Between the rolling waves, the harsh wind and the stink of salt and fish, it was always a thoroughly unpleasant experience. Unfortunately, he did not have much choice to get to Prince Daemon’s funeral on Dragonstone. Well, if Lyman did want to shuffle off the mortal coil, he could always take Princess Rhaenyra up on her long-standing offer for him to join her on Syrax. However, he was not quite done with life yet so by ship it was.

At least he was faring better than poor Rosamund. When Lyman left their cabin that morn, she was still abed with a bucket next to her head for convenience’s sake. Luckily the journey to Dragonstone was relatively short so they should make port later that day.

The atmosphere on deck was lively as sailors bustled back and forth carrying out their duties. Ser Laenor stood at the … wheel of the ship? No, that was not right. The … helm. That was it, the helm, with Princess Visenya, allowing her to steer for the moment. Lyman had heard the knight remark that he had known the basics of captaining a ship before he could read and he was eager to pass that tradition on to his daughter, the future Lady of the Tides.

Moving out of the way of a man with a bucket and mop, Lyman noticed another sailor was showing Prince Daeron … something to do with the sails. They were tying off ropes, the prince talking at speed to his new companion. He had always been quick to make friends, Prince Daeron’s warmth and easy-going nature drawing in several of the other children at court.

Princes Jacaerys and Rhaemond were somewhere on the ship as well. To continue carrying out their duties for as long as possible before the funeral, Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra were remaining in the city before flying out together later that afternoon. Prince Aemon had also been most smug to be given leave to fly with them on Sunfyre, the only one of the royal children in King’s Landing with a dragon big enough to be mounted.

Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena were travelling down from the Vale for the occasion and would meet the rest of their family on Dragonstone. Despite the circumstances, Lyman was eager to see the two of them face to face again and hear how they had been getting on with Lady Jeyne Arryn. There was only so much that could be conveyed by letter.

Walking across the deck, he went to a nearby railing hoping that he would be out of the way there. Despite his dislike of sailing, he could admit the view was glorious. Only a few clouds broke up the bright blue sky, stretching down until it met the churning waves at the horizon.

Before long, a silver-haired head appeared beside him. “Can you see Dragonstone yet?” Prince Jacaerys asked.

“No, my prince,” Lyman replied. “I think it will be several hours yet before it comes into view.”

Prince Jacaerys nodded. “Did you know it was Aenar Targaryen that first moved his family and dragons to Dragonstone from Valyria?” he asked. “That established our house there?”

The ancient history of House Targaryen was a topic in which Lyman was not that well versed. History had always been more an interest of Garlon’s.

“I knew that House Targaryen arrived here from Valyria, of course,” he replied. “But the name Aenar had escaped me.”

The prince rested his hands on the railing, a solemn expression on his face. “If Aenar had not heeded his daughter – Daenys’s – warnings, we would have perished in the Doom with Valyria,” he said. “Our house would never have reached Westeros.”

“Indeed, you come from a most storied line. It does you credit not to forget that fact.”

Prince Jacaerys turned to face Lyman. “Dragonstone will be my seat one day. I have to know our histories, our ancestors, where we come from.”

It struck him then that, despite Prince Jacaerys favouring his father in looks, his eyes were the exact same shade of violet as Princess Rhaenyra’s. The two also got that same furrow at the corner of their eyes when they were worried about something.

“You will make a fine Prince of Dragonstone,” he assured. “Whenever that moment may come.”

Which – as the king lay abed in King’s Landing, tonics and poultices not improving his condition – may be soon.

The prince looked like he was about to say something more but his father called him over from the helm.

Lyman was left alone again, staring out across the water.

The port of Dragonstone was crowded when they reached land. Each of the several quays had multiple ships docked, their sails showing the attendance of houses from the Crownlands’ coast and further afield. Of the islands in the Gullet, it had always been Driftmark that was the main trading hub, even before the ventures of the Sea Snake. However, there were plenty of goods being unloaded here as well; some of it undoubtedly to cater to all those being hosted on Dragonstone for Prince Daemon’s funeral.

Princess Rhaenyra had been writing back and forth to her seat’s steward in the preceding week, ensuring that everything was prepared. This would be the first major court event that Dragonstone had hosted in decades and it was important for the crown princess’s reputation that the island had a good showing. Gods forbid the princess be able to lay her uncle to rest without worrying about how appearances impacted her future queenship.

Everything should be in place now though, with a score of household guards having been shipped from King’s Landing to supplement the existing guards. The royal family was acutely aware that with the political situation the way it was, with Lord Hightower’s ambitions, they may be vulnerable away from the relative safety of the Red Keep and their usual routines. Princess Rhaenyra, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor were taking no chances in ensuring nobody entered Dragonstone’s castle that was not supposed to be there. Especially with all the recent arrivals to the island.

After their disembarkation, Rosamund headed straight up to the castle for some rest on steady land but Lyman decided to take in the village attached to the port. Prince Daemon’s funeral was not until the next day and he had some time to spare.

While he had been on Dragonstone before for Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent’s wedding, he was still struck by the number of silver-haired figures bustling around. The hair colour was a rarity at court, always denoting a member of the royal family. However, here, where House Targaryen had long ruled and … indulged with the populace, the so-called ‘dragonseeds’ were dotted all over.

There were a few nobles as well that had obviously had the same idea as Lyman. A couple he thought to be Lord and Lady Staunton were examining the wares of a textile merchant; a knight, who looked to be of House Massey by the sigil he wore, walked out of a tavern. Lyman even saw Ser Myles Hightower going into a blacksmith’s. His continued presence in King’s Landing had become a concern and there were people that had been assigned to keep an eye on Queen Alicent’s brother. There were few reasons for Ser Myles to be on Dragonstone for Prince Daemon’s funeral, the most likely of which that he was attempting to mingle and gather support for Lord Hightower’s cause. Lyman resolved to mention his presence here to Princess Rhaenyra, make sure she was aware.

He was broken from his reverie by a small figure colliding with his own. Looking down, he saw a young girl with brown skin and a messy shock of black hair already starting to back away. From her dress and general manner, it was clear she was a member of the smallfolk.

“Sorry, m’lord,” she said. “Wasn’t watching my way.”

He waved back Ser Bryan who had moved up alongside Lyman, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“There was no harm done,” he replied, hoping to put the girl at ease.

With a quick smile and a nod, she was soon away again.

It was not until several hours later that he realised his coin purse was missing.

Prince Daemon’s funeral took place not long after daybreak the following morning.

A pyre had been constructed on the beach near where Caraxes lay. Lyman did not fully understand the bond between dragon and rider but the Blood Wyrm had followed the ship carrying Prince Daemon’s body north and settled himself on Dragonstone. Even now, he had his long, sinuous neck extended, his gaze fixed on the wrapped body.

The sight of that wrapped body took Lyman back to the last funeral of House Targaryen he had attended: that of Queen Aemma. He wondered if Princess Rhaenyra’s thoughts had gone in a similar direction as she stood at the front of those gathered with Lady Laena, her two daughters, Ser Laenor and Lord Corlys. With Princess Rhaenys currently holding the Stepstones, Lyman knew Lady Laena’s good-sister and brother had wanted to ensure that she was supported by the rest of her family at this time. Queen Alicent stood behind them, the royal children arrayed to either side of her in their black clothing.

From where he stood, Lyman was unable to see any of their faces as the funeral began. However, Lady Laena’s body leant into Ser Laenor’s, Lady Baela and Lady Rhaena curled into her sides.

The funeral itself was over fairly quickly compared to those of the Faith of the Seven. There was no long eulogy given, no religious text quoted by a septon. Instead, Lady Laena spoke a few brief words in High Valyrian before turning to her husband’s dragon. She gave no command, not like Princess Rhaenyra had given to Syrax those decades ago at the former queen’s pyre. However, Caraxes seemed to understand her intent all the same. Letting out a screech that sounded almost mournful, he shuffled forward, opened his jaws and engulfed the funeral pyre in flame.

As Prince Daemon became ashes in the wind, the dragon finally broke his gaze from the pyre and moved his sinuous neck to fix his eyes on the royal family instead.

With the funeral itself over, a spread of food had been laid out in the Great Hall and the guests encouraged to partake. After they had offered their condolences to Lady Laena and Princess Rhaenyra, he and Rosamund headed inside. There were a great many people that needed to be spoken to and Lyman had no desire to take up more of the princess’s time than needed. Lady Jeyne Arryn, who had accompanied Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena from the Vale, had obviously been angling to speak to Princess Rhaenyra when they left her company.

Making his way around the hall, Lyman found his eye drawn to two people standing to one side. While it was no surprise that Ser Gwayne Hightower had come from the Vale with Princess Helaena, he would not have expected Lady Rhea Royce to be at her former husband’s funeral. Walking over to join them, they exchanged greetings before Rosamund directly addressed Lady Rhea.

“Forgive me, my lady,” she said, “but I would not have thought to find you here.”

Lady Rhea looked like she wished to blend into the wall behind her. “Lady Jeyne insisted that I accompany her and the prince and princess from the Vale. Honestly, if I did not know better, I would swear it was her idea of a joke.”

Bringing Prince Daemon’s first wife to his funeral was certainly … a decision. Between this and the various antics Lady Amanda Arryn had partaken in over the years, Lyman was growing rather concerned about the sense of humour that ran in the Arryn line.

“Do you think I should offer Lady Laena my condolences?” Lady Rhea asked. “I feel awkward just standing here like this.”

Rosamund raised a single eyebrow. “For argument’s sake, what would these condolences sound like exactly?”

“Well, Lady Laena, I am sorry for—” Lady Rhea broke off with a frown. “Your husband was– no, that is no good.” Her sympathetic tone faltered. “We will all mourn—” She shook her head. “That is a lie and Lady Laena would know it.”

“In some cases,” Rosamund said, “it can be better to say nothing at all rather than offering false words. Everyone knows the truth of your relationship with the prince. There is no reason to pretend anything to the contrary.”

Ser Gwayne nodded in agreement. “Lady Rosamund speaks true,” he said. “What would I say to Lady Laena? Sorry for your loss. Your husband hated my whole family and once almost broke my neck in a tourney. He will be dearly missed.”

The stunt Prince Daemon had pulled on the day of Queen Aemma’s death – when he had aimed his lance at the legs of Ser Gwayne’s horse – could have done the knight serious injury. And there had been no cause for it apart from spite at Ser Otto.

Lady Rhea let out a chuckle that she quickly choked it off. “I wish Harwin was here. He is much better at all this mingling than I am. He worked with Prince Daemon in the City Watch for a time as well. His platitudes would not ring false.”

“I believe Ser Harwin wanted to remain at Lord Lyonel’s side in King’s Landing,” Lyman replied. “Somebody must keep everything under control while most of the court is away.”

Lady Rhea had a look to either side but there was nobody else within hearing distance. “We have heard that the king’s condition has not improved. If there is anything we can do, any support that can be offered, my sword is Princess Rhaenyra’s.”

Lyman briefly wondered if Lady Rhea’s martial abilities went beyond her hunting and skill with a bow and arrow.

“Yes,” Ser Gwayne added. “If it comes to it, I will stand with Alicent and my niece and nephews. My father’s plots have caused enough harm already.”

That reminded Lyman of the man he had seen the former day. “I saw your brother, Ser Myles, down in the village yesterday. I can think of no other reason for his attendance here than furthering Lord Hightower’s plots. Though I reported it to Princess Rhaenyra and he has apparently not been seen at the castle itself.”

Ser Gwayne’s nose scrunched up. “Myles? I wonder what he is up to?” A look of contemplation came over his face. “Myles was always more secretive than Bryndon, more cunning. Bryndon always thought he was one of the great knights of the Warrior’s Sons come again. Myles took more after our father. Keep an eye on him, he has never done anything without purpose.”

Lyman nodded in response.

The four of them chatted for a bit longer before he and Rosamund moved on. A fair few lords desired their time as well, though he found himself frequently having to obfuscate in response to questions about the king’s health and the Triarchy.

Eventually, Lyman grew tired of such questions and left his wife to politic while he took in some air outside. Aegon’s Garden was quiet as he walked through the trees and plants. Well, quiet until he came upon Ladies Baela and Rhaena having a conversation, too engrossed to notice his approach.

“Come on, Rhaena!” Lady Baela said. “You’ve always wanted a dragon. This way we can keep Caraxes. That’s what Father would want.”

Lady Rhaena pulled her arm out of her sister’s grip. “Go away. I don’t want father’s stupid, ugly dragon!” she declared. “I don’t want any stupid, ugly dragon!”

With that she turned and walked away deeper into the gardens, leaving Lady Baela staring in confusion after her.

Not wanting to intrude, Lyman turned and went back the way he had come, passing Lady Laena looking for her daughters on the way.

Lyman and Rosamund joined the majority of the royal family when they broke their fasts in private the next morning. Ladies Laena, Baela and Rhaena were not in attendance, leaving just Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor, Queen Alicent and their children.

Away from their cousins and their grief, it was clear that the children were happy to be reunited, despite the reason behind it. They told japes and caught up on news, though the queen was quick to tell them to mind themselves when their spirits grew too high. The melancholy that clung to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor was clear, though they tired their best to remain engaged.

“And we will need to see about having more dragonkeepers trained,” the princess said to her husband, going through their duties for the day. “They were already spread thin between here, King’s Landing, the Stepstones and the Vale. Then several were lost in the Triarchy attack. I will have Ser Robert speak with the head of the dragonkeepers about cost.”

Ser Laenor nodded. “I thought Vis might spend time with my father this morning. She has been most interested in hearing tales of his voyages.”

“As long as he does not start that nonsense again about wanting another grandson,” Queen Alicent said.

“Indeed,” Princess Rhaenyra replied. “If he brings that up now, I may be inclined to punch him in the face. Though it might do Lord Corlys good to see we are making a proper seafarer out of Vis.” She called down the table to Princess Visenya’s nursemaid, asking for the princess to be taken to Lord Corlys once they had finished eating.

Eventually, Princess Rhaenyra dabbed her chin with her napkin and rose from the table. “If you will excuse us, your parents have business to attend to.” She turned and rested a hand on Ser Laenor’s shoulder. “We should speak to Prince Reggio first, find out where Pentos stands on the Triarchy.”

As Ser Laenor and Queen Alicent moved to stand from their chairs too, the princess rounded the table towards Lyman. Bending down, she muttered lowly to him, “Can you keep an eye on the rest of the children? I know they have their guards but it would somewhat ease my mind.”

While she did not specify, Lyman knew that with the way things stood, it was Princes Aemon and Jacaerys that she worried over the most.

“Of course, princess,” he agreed. “It is no trouble.”

“Thank you.” Princess Rhaenyra gave a kiss to his cheek before turning to address the rest of the room. “All of you, behave. We may be persuaded to take you flying later if there are no issues.”

Prince Lucas and Prince Daeron both perked up at this, their dragons several years away from being large enough to ride. However, a queer look came over Prince Rhaemond’s face. Looking at him closely, Lyman saw that the prince had dark shadows under his eyes as though he had not slept well the night before.

“Muña?” he asked, as the princess passed him while rounding the table. “Can I speak to you later?”

“Of course, darling,” she replied, passing a hand over his hair.

With that, Princess Rhaenyra swept from the room, her husband and wife following after. Rosamund soon left as well, tea scheduled with several ladies of the court.

The rest of them decided to retire to a small library. It was an airy room with a connected balcony and several windows providing plenty of light. Lyman suspected that most of the princes would have been happier running off to get into mischief but they had no particular desire to mingle further with all the guests. Princess Helaena was making notes about insects she had found in the Vale at a desk in the corner. Looking at her drawings, Lyman passed on a compliment for how much her skills had improved, getting a smile from the princess in response. He had to suppress a shudder though; no creature needed that many eyes.

Prince Rhaemond and Prince Jacaerys were quietly practising their High Valyrian with each other, having retrieved several books written in the language. On the other hand, Prince Aemon was sprawled across a chair, staring into space, and Princes Lucas and Daeron were arguing about which knight of the Kingsguard was the best.

“Ser Harrold is the Lord Commander for a reason,” Prince Daeron insisted. “He is the one that guards the king. Of course he is the best.”

Prince Lucas shook his head, his tight silver curls bouncing this way and that. “But Ser Harrold is so old. He won’t be as good at fighting as he used to be. Ser Lorent practices all the time and he guards Muña.”

Lyman, who was a few years Ser Harrold’s senior, decided it was beneath his dignity to take offence at this comment.

“How would you know?” Prince Daeron retorted. “You’ve been in the Vale for moons. Ser Lorent could have—”

They were interrupted by a hesitant knock at the door before it opened to reveal Lady Rhaena. Everyone turned to look at her as she shuffled into the room. “My mother said you were all here. She thought it would be good if we spent some time together.” Her hand tugged awkwardly on her black mourning dress.

“Of course, Lady Rhaena,” Lyman replied. “We were doing a bit of light reading. I am sure your cousins would enjoy your company.”

Princess Helaena had returned to her note-taking but the princes were all eyeing Lady Rhaena as if she was some strange, foreign being. They were not unfamiliar with their cousin – her family having visited the Red Keep plenty over the years. However, Lyman expected the recent loss of Lady Rhaena’s father had left the princes floundering as to how to act with her.

Nodding and offering him a weak smile in response, Lady Rhaena moved into the room proper and perched on the edge of one of the settees. Her downcast gaze meant she missed the furtive looks the princes were shooting each other over her head. Prince Daeron locked eyes with Prince Aemon and gestured in the lady’s direction. Prince Aemon shook his head violently in response and pointed at Prince Rhaemond. The younger prince opened his mouth but soon closed it again, seemingly at a loss for words.

When the silence had lasted such an excruciating length of time that Lyman was considering breaking it himself, Prince Jacaerys rose and joined Lady Rhaena on her settee.

“We’re sorry about your father,” the prince said. “We didn’t know him that well but Muña often spoke of him.”

The dam broken, the rest of them soon chimed in with their own condolences. Looking at the earnest faces of the children as they tried to comfort their cousin, Lyman felt a surge of pride in his chest. They were good children.

However, Lady Rhaena looked up in response, an expression on her face that was almost anger. “You don’t need to be sorry. Father never liked me that much anyway. He always loved Baela more. She’s the one that really misses him.”

Seven hells! What kind of father had the Rogue Prince been that one of his own daughters would say such a thing? Lyman opened his mouth to reply, to offer some reassurance that of course Prince Daemon had loved his daughters equally.

However, Prince Aemon spoke first. “I know how that feels!” he said, looking far more comfortable with this turn the conversation had taken. “The king has always preferred Rhaenyra to us.” He gestured at himself and his blood siblings. “I think he forgets we exist half the time.”

Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucas exchanged awkward glances, undoubtedly having picked up on their grandfather’s favouritism by now.

Incredibly, these words seemed to perk Lady Rhaena up as she turned to look at Prince Aemon in confusion. “But your dragon egg hatched, didn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, Sunfyre,” he replied with a wide grin. “The most beautiful and majestic dragon there has ever been.”

The other children could not stifle their groans at this comment.

“If you’re a dragonrider though, why wouldn’t your father like you?” Lady Rhaena asked, her brow furrowed. “What more does a Targaryen need to be?”

There was something in how she said these words that suggested they had become engraved in her mind.

“A dragon’s not everything,” Prince Aemon replied. “Rhaemond doesn’t have one yet and we still like him. When he’s not being a twat that is.” He shot a smirk across at his younger brother. “The king ignores the four of us equally. I think he loved Rhaenyra’s mother more than ours. Which is hardly our fault.”

“I remember he used to talk about Queen Aemma when we were younger,” Prince Rhaemond added. “How kind she was. He has never talked about Mother that way.”

“Father didn’t like the new queen,” Lady Rhaena said. “He used to call her a—” She abruptly cut herself off, perhaps realising it was not wise to say such words in front of the queen’s children.

Given the long-standing enmity between Prince Daemon and the Hightowers, Lyman could well imagine the way he might speak about Queen Alicent in private.

Prince Aemon leant conspiratorially towards Lady Rhaena. “Honestly, it sounds as though your father was a cunt.”

Prince Lucas and Prince Rhaemond let out snorts but Prince Jacaerys turned to him aghast. “Aemon, you can’t say that! He’s just died.”

“Yes, Prince Aemon,” Lyman intervened. “Such foul language should not be used in the presence of ladies. What kind of example are you setting for your younger brothers?”

However, far from being offended, a grin was starting to grow on Lady Rhaena’s face.

Nor did Prince Aemon look cowed by his admonishment. “Oh, come on, Beebs,” he said. “I know you didn’t like Prince Daemon either.”

Lyman cast an awkward glance at Lady Rhaena before speaking. “My feelings about the prince are neither here nor there. His funeral was but yesterday and proper decorum must be observed.”

“A cunt,” Lady Rhaena said abruptly. “My father was a cunt.” She looked delighted as she emphasised the word.

Offering a quick prayer heavenward, Lyman could only hope that Lady Laena did not blame him for this expansion of her daughter’s vocabulary.

“Our father’s a cunt too,” Princess Helaena said in her typically airy voice from where she sat across the room. “Perhaps it runs in the blood.”

That did it. This exclamation from the usually restrained princess sent the children into fits of laughter, including Lady Rhaena. Lyman only sat there in silence. While it was nice to see them all bonding with each other, did they have pick the topic of their neglectful fathers?

He could not imagine ignoring one of his own children in such a fashion. When they had all lived at Honeyholt, he had never favoured one of his three children over the others. How could he when they were the best of himself and Rosamund? And now – decades later – he had a fourth child in Princess Rhaenyra, forging her own unique path through the world.

“Wait, wait.” Prince Lucas suddenly stopped laughing, a look of concern on his face. “Our father shares blood with yours. He doesn’t have a favourite, does he?” He looked to his older brother.

“No, Luke, Father doesn’t have a favourite,” Prince Jacaerys said. “He loves us all.”

“Laenor is a good sort,” Prince Aemon offered. “He is not a cunt” – he glanced over to Lady Rhaena as though sharing an inside joke – “like the king and Prince Daemon.”

That triggered another bout of laughter that was abruptly cut off by the door slamming. “What did you call my father?” Lady Baela stood at the entrance to the room, her fists clenched at her sides and an expressions of outrage on her face. Lyman had not heard her enter.

Seven hells, this is what he got for allowing these childish antics to continue.

“Lady Baela,” Lyman said, standing from his seat, “I do unreservedly apologise. The prince was making a somewhat ill-humoured—”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Lady Baela replied, her gaze fixed unerringly on Prince Aemon. “What did you call my father?” Her eyes were red and shadows darkened the skin under her eyes.

Any lightness the children had found had been extinguished by Lady Baela’s arrival. The princes avoided looking at her and a red flush was making its way up Prince Aemon’s face.

“Oh, stop it, Baela,” Lady Rhaena said, rising and moving towards her sister. “It was only a jape, he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Lady Baela finally broke her eye contact with Prince Aemon to look incredulously at her sister. “Didn’t mean anything by it? We burned our father yesterday. I should duel him.”

“It was in poor taste,” Lyman said, trying to cool tempers and de-escalate the situation. “And I am sure Prince Aemon is very sorry for any offence.” He widened his eyes at Prince Aemon and gave a small shake of his head, hoping to prompt an apology. This situation could be salvaged.

“Yes,” the prince said, moving to his feet, a contrite expression on his face. “I—”

“I suppose I should not have expected better,” Lady Baela spat out. “Not from you anyway.”

This brought Prince Aemon up short. “What do you mean from me?” he asked slowly.

At the mounting tension in the room, the other princes were exchanging hesitant looks. Prince Lucas had started picking at his fingers in a manner reminiscent of Queen Alicent in her youth and Prince Daeron’s leg was rapidly bouncing in place.

“My father warned me about you,” Lady Baela replied to Prince Aemon, trying to get round her sister to get closer to him. “That you are nothing but a viperous Hightower half-breed who covets Aunt Rhaenyra’s throne!”

The words were spoken with a strange inflection, as though they had been oft-heard but Lady Baela was not totally sure of their meaning. However, the effect on the room was immediate as she accused her cousin of plotting treason. Princess Helaena flinched violently as though struck. Both Princes Rhaemond and Jacaerys rose to their own feet, looks of outrage and shock on their faces. Perhaps not understanding the seriousness of the accusation, Prince Lucas and Prince Daeron looked more confused than anything else.

Prince Aemon’s face had gone white as milk. “How dare you?” he spoke through gritted teeth. “I would never betray my muña! I have no desire for that fucking throne!”

“Your muña?” Lady Rhaena asked, clearly unfamiliar with the … unusual family dynamics of the royal family.

“Aemon’s too stupid to be king,” Prince Lucas added. “He doesn’t study at all.”

This had gone on long enough. Lyman did not have the authority to instruct Ladies Baela and Rhaena but he had been left in charge of the princes and princess. “I think it would be best if you went for a walk with Ser Erryk, Prince Aemon,” Lyman said. “Get a bit of fresh air.”

However, the children would not be deterred from their argument. “Oh, please,” Lady Baela said. “Everyone knows what your whore mother wanted when she became queen.”

Lady Rhaena tugged on her sister’s arm, attempting to guide her from the room. “Baela, stop it! You are ruining everything. We were having fun.”

Prince Rhaemond took a step forward. “Don’t talk about my mother like that,” he said firmly.

“Just go away!” Lady Baela replied, a snarl on her face. “How many dragons have rejected you now? Four? Five? They can probably sense your mother’s filthy Hightower blood.”

At that, Prince Rhaemond reared back, as did Lady Rhaena. In the corner, Princess Helaena had clapped her hands over her ears.

Should he go and retrieve one of their parents? Though Lyman was loath to leave the children alone given the current state of affairs. Get guards? No, he could hardly ask them to lay hands on members of the royal family.

“That’s it,” Prince Aemon said, moving towards Lady Baela with definite intent.

“No!” Lyman moved to block him, keeping himself between Prince Aemon and Lady Baela. “Prince Aemon, calm yourself.” He thought he sensed movement behind him before Prince Jacaerys moved past towards Lady Baela.

There was a wild look in Prince Aemon’s eyes as Lyman clasped his shoulder. “She’s lying! I don’t want the throne. I don’t want it. I don’t.” His voice grew quieter and quieter with each exclamation.

“I know,” he soothed. “And so does Princess Rhaenyra.”

“I think you should go,” he heard Prince Jacaerys say, presumably to Lady Baela. “We are sorry about your father but you should not speak about the queen that way.” There were noises of agreement from Prince Daeron and Prince Lucas.

“I don’t have to take orders from you,” she replied. “He started it!”

Whatever anger had taken hold of Prince Aemon seemed to have abandoned him entirely. His body was starting to lean towards Lyman’s own as though he no longer had the will to remain upright.

“I believe that is enough for now,” Lyman spoke to the room at large. “I am sure that you will come to regret the words that have been spoken here, especially once I inform your parents of what has happened.”

With Prince Aemon now calmed, Lyman felt it was safe enough to turn back to Lady Baela. Hopefully, she was no longer spoiling for a fight either. Instead, while she still looked none too pleased, Lady Baela was listening as Prince Jacaerys muttered something that Lyman could not hear.

Relieved that the situation had been resolved without bloodshed, he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

Then, “Where are Rhaemond and Rhaena?” Prince Daeron asked.

Looking around, Lyman saw that the room contained two less inhabitants than it had previously. But, that was not possible. Neither had left through the door. He cast his eyes about wildly, hoping he had missed the two of them behind a bookcase or something. No, they were not here. That only left …. the balcony.

Rushing over – the children following in his wake – he saw that the balcony extended further than he thought, offering entry into several other rooms. Lyman was about to leave when his eyes caught on two silver-haired figures down below, hurrying across Dragonstone’s courtyard. They were heading towards the small back gate that opened to the rocky mountainside behind the castle. The rocky mountainside where Caraxes had settled the previous day.

Had Lady Rhaena changed her mind about claiming her father’s dragon?

Spotting her sister, Lady Baela called out, “Rhaena!” before turning and running out the library.

Prince Jacaerys then took after her, the other princes following. As Lyman himself left the library, his last glimpse was of Princess Helaena still in her seat, a serene smile on her face.

Ser Erryk looked surprised by the virtual stampede of children that had passed him but quickly gathered himself and began jogging after Prince Aemon.

The back gate. The back gate. Lyman had a distinct advantage over Lady Baela in that he was familiar with Dragonstone’s layout. Drawing on his memories of when he had last visited and the secrets Princess Rhaenyra had shared, he rushed down the passages and stairs which were the most expedient route.

Finally reaching the barren mountainside, Lyman was distracted by a screeching roar as Caraxes took to the air. From this angle, he could not see anybody on the dragon’s back but there was now only one small figure above him. Which meant that the dragon had a new rider. His heart thundering in his chest, he hurried up as quickly as his legs would allow.

He was not quick enough.

Lady Baela had led the princes and what were now several guards on a steeper path up the mountainside. The advantages of youth meant that they reached the figure he could now see to be Lady Rhaena before Lyman.

As he got close enough to what looked like an argument between the two young ladies, Lyman heard Lady Rhaena say, a note of triumph in her voice, “Looks like one of those Hightower half-breeds has claimed your precious father’s dragon.”

In response, Baela Targaryen, Lady of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, niece of King Viserys, raised her arm with an angry cry and punched her sister in the face.

Princess Rhaenyra stood behind her desk, a single eyebrow raised, as Lyman – after many interjections from the royal children – finished his tale. Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor looked none too pleased either as they assessed the children in front of them, who were in various states of dishevelment. Lyman was just happy to be sitting in a comfortable chair again. He knew his knees would not thank him later for that mad dash through the castle and up the mountain. There was an ache in his shin too where Lady Baela had kicked him.

“Luke, could you please inform me why, when Baela and Rhaena were fighting, you then felt the need to tackle Daeron?” the princess asked.

Prince Lucas shifted on his feet, loose dirt falling from the folds of his clothing. “I thought our cousins were playing,” he replied. “It looked like fun. I haven’t been able to play with Daeron since I went to the Vale.”

Prince Daeron nodded along. “Everyone has been sad and tense lately. I haven’t been able to mess about for ages.” There were red marks on his exposed arms where the two princes had gotten carried away in their mock wrestling.

“I know we have all been busy lately,” Ser Laenor said. “And we are sorry for that but this is not the manner in which we expect you to behave.”

“Apart from you, Helaena,” Princess Rhaenyra added. “You did nothing wrong by all accounts.”

Princess Helaena stood slightly apart from her brothers, her appearance in a much better state than theirs.

“I didn’t do anything wrong either!” Prince Aemon burst out hotly, reopening the split in his lip. “We were getting along fine with Rhaena until that little beast—”

Princess Rhaenyra raised her hand and his mouth snapped shut. “I understand that you were trying to comfort Rhaena, in your own way, but really, calling Daemon a cu—” Queen Alicent’s elbow jabbed sharply into her side. “That word the day after his funeral was hardly in good taste.”

“By the sounds of it, he was one,” Prince Aemon replied. “Rhaena said he didn’t like her. I was trying to help.”

“Prince Daemon’s behaviour is neither here nor there,” Queen Alicent said. “Often you must keep your opinions to yourself. It is no wonder Lady Baela took offence.”

“What about Baela then?” Prince Rhaemond asked. “She spoke horribly about you, Mother. She accused Aemon of plotting treason!” The prince was still rather invigorated from his flight upon Caraxes and was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

Princess Rhaenyra’s face darkened at this. “Do not worry, your Aunt Laena is going to speak to Baela. To make sure she understands the seriousness of her words and their possible consequences.”

They did not need rumours beginning to spread that Prince Aemon did covet the Iron Throne. It could embolden those that supported his claim already and mark him as a danger to those that supported Princess Rhaenyra’s.

“I thank you boys for defending my honour but I do not think Lady Baela even understood what she was saying, only repeating words she had heard,” said Queen Alicent.

Words that she had heard from Prince Daemon most likely.

“I’m sorry,” Prince Jacaerys said, his gaze downcast. “I tried to get them to stop arguing but Baela didn’t listen to me.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s expression softened. “I know, darling. It is all right. She didn’t listen to Lyman either. Baela is certainly … wilful.” Her brow furrowed then. “Though, Jace, was there any particular reason you did not intervene when Baela and Rhaena started fighting with each other? I think Rhaena has a broken nose.”

Lyman had tried to separate them himself, getting a kick to the leg from Lady Baela for his troubles. Eventually, it had taken Prince Aemon and two household guards to drag them away from each other.

“Father says it is not kingly behaviour to lay hands on a lady,” he replied, with a look to Ser Laenor.

Prince Aemon let out a snort and muttered something about Baela hardly being a lady.

Ser Laenor shot him a reproachful glance before addressing his son. “That is certainly the case but, for the future, it does not apply when your eight-year-old cousins are pummelling each other.”

Prince Jacaerys nodded in response.

For the future? Gods, Lyman hoped nothing like this ever happened again.

“Now, Rhaemond,” Queen Alicent said. “You have disobeyed us as well. You know you were not to attempt a dragon claiming without Rhaenyra present, for your own safety.”

It was now Prince Rhaemond that was avoiding eye contact with the adults in the room. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “Caraxes has been calling to me since we got here and the king already gave me leave to claim a dragon.” He turned to Princess Rhaenyra. “I was going to speak to you about it later but—”

“You let Baela’s words goad you into it instead,” the queen finished.

“Not just that,” Prince Rhaemond replied. “It was Rhaena’s idea. She started dragging me to Caraxes and told me to do it. I think she wanted to get back at her sister.”

Lady Laena was not going to have an enjoyable time solving this mess between her daughters.

“Even still, you knew you were not meant to do it,” Queen Alicent said.

Prince Rhaemond sunk in on himself at the admonishment, a red flush appearing on his cheeks. He had always been a somewhat sensitive boy.

“But congratulations,” Princess Rhaenyra offered with a grin. “Caraxes is a fine dragon. I look forward to us flying together in the future.”

A shy smile lit up Prince Rhaemond’s face as his brothers clapped him on the back and offered their own congratulations.

“Very well,” said the princess with finality. “I think I have heard enough. All of you, got get baths and clean yourselves up. We will speak more on this later. For now, you are confined to our wing of the castle.”

After a flurry of hugs and quick kisses, the children filed out, taking the odour of dirt and dragon with them. Once they had left, Princess Rhaenyra sunk into her chair with a groan and reached over to pour the four of them goblets of wine. “Seven hells, we were away barely an hour!”

Chapter Text

After Prince Daemon’s funeral had concluded, Lyman found it a relief to return to King’s Landing. Following the fight between the children, their remaining stay on the island was rather tense. He did enjoy the opportunity to see more of Princess Helaena and Prince Lucas before they went back to the Vale but, for the most part, the return sailing could not arrive soon enough.

Appropriate punishments had been doled out for the various offences committed. For claiming Caraxes without Princess Rhaenyra’s supervision, Prince Rhaemond had been banned from riding the dragon for a moon. He could tend to Caraxes to help foster their new bond but would not soon take to the skies again. Lady Baela too had been stopped from seeing her own dragon and from practising with a sword until she could be trusted to keep a handle on her temper.

Prince Aemon’s situation was more complex. While his words about Prince Daemon had certainly not been proper or courteous, he had not said them with malicious intent. However, they feared that leaving the prince without punishment would increase the bad feeling between him and Lady Baela further. Eventually, it was decided that he would assist in cleaning weapons and armour in the keep’s armoury. It was a task normally performed by squires but one which would keep Prince Aemon occupied. If the prince had shown any particular inclination, he would be a squire by now anyway.

One good thing had come from the children’s misadventures on Dragonstone: Lady Rhaena had become quick friends with the young princes. Lyman occasionally came across her and Prince Rhaemond reading together in the library and had once seen Lady Rhaena and Prince Daeron running around together in the godswood. However, despite her continued punishment, Lady Baela was another matter and had eschewed the older children, including her own sister. It was that fact that had driven Princess Rhaenyra to Lyman’s office for advice.

“Quite frankly,” the princess said, “we are at our wits’ end as to how to resolve this. Laena has tried to talk to Baela but she is being stubborn over the whole affair. And my children will not reach out to her either until Baela apologises for the words she said about Aemon, Rhaemond and Alicent.”

“The words Lady Baela spoke were harsh, princess,” Lyman replied. “I can understand why the princes are still angry.”

Had Lady Baela’s words been spoken by anyone but the niece of the king, it was likely that the speaker would have lost their tongue for the offence. Queen Alicent had been derided as if she was a common harlot and Prince Aemon had been accused of plotting treason.

Princess Rhaenyra waved his protest off. “Baela is a child repeating what Daemon had told her. And she has just lost her father; it is not her fault. I do not want this animosity to continue between my niece and my children. Especially as Baela and Rhaena will be at court for the foreseeable future. At the moment, Vis is the only one that Baela is spending any time with. Laena does not need to have any more on her mind with everything else going on.”

With the situation regarding the Stepstones being as it was, Lady Laena had decided her daughters were safer in King’s Landing for the immediate future. However, there was hope that the realm’s problems with the Triarchy would soon move beyond the current stalemate.

“Be that as it may,” he replied, “Lady Baela is old enough to take responsibility for her own actions. She is the Lady of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, the niece of the king. It is inappropriate for her to behave in such a manner.”

“Still though, beyond the fact that our family should be united, we have long hoped that a match might be made between Aemon and Baela. That dream seems to be in the wind now.”

It was the sensible option for ensuring that no other house had a stake in seeing Prince Aemon ascend to the throne. Especially with the Lannisters having designs on him.

“You thought that Lady Laena might be more open to the match now that Prince Daemon …” Lyman trailed off. It seemed tactless to point out that the anti-Hightower sentiments of the Rogue Prince had been the main impediment to agreeing a betrothal.

The princess shook her head. “Laena will not hear talk of a betrothal when Baela dislikes Aemon so. Which I can fair understand. We have already pushed Laena far with asking her to hold back against the Triarchy for the moment.”

Calling someone’s father a cu– that word the day after his funeral was not the best foundation for a marriage. Nor were Lady Baela’s accusations of treason on the part of Prince Aemon.

“Lady Rhaena seemed to get on with Prince Aemon well enough,” he suggested. “Perhaps you should switch the target of your match-making attempts.”

“That is an idea,” she replied after a contemplative pause. “They would have no inheritance to speak of but land could always be found. And the betrothal would have the same provision that either could call it off later.” The princess had become increasingly spirited as she spoke but then deflated. “Though it leaves the issue that Aemon and Baela cannot stand the sight of one another. We should not let such discord fester.”

No, better to nip their animosity in the bud. “You should focus on getting the two cordial first. Friendship can come after.”

“Yes, but how?” She ran a hand over her forehead in frustration. “The children have had spats in the past but nothing this serious. Have you dealt with anything similar?”

Lyman thought back but nothing of this magnitude came to mind. Mathis had always been focused on swordplay, Garlon on his books and Meredyth on more ladylike pursuits. These differences in interests – coupled with the age gaps between his children – meant that they had not spent enough time together for serious disagreements to occur.

“Leave them time for their tempers to cool,” he said. “Forcing them together when their feelings are sore, will not help.”

The princess gave a shake of her head. “We can try but since Baela is remaining at court for now, she will undoubtedly come into contact with Aemon.”

“In that case, do not leave the two together without supervision. Supervision that is able to intervene if things get out of hand,” Lyman amended. It was still rather humiliating that this incident had occurred while the children were under his purview.

“Baela is a particularly fierce eight-year-old,” she replied, perhaps realising where his thoughts had gone. “According to Laena, she was a terror when Daemon was alive and her behaviour has been worse since his death. She got into an argument with a squire yesterday that nearly devolved to fisticuffs.”

“She will hopefully grow out of it as she nears womanhood.”

“I would not bet on it,” Princess Rhaenyra retorted. “Not if we use the other women of my family as examples.”

That was true enough. Queen Visenya had wielded Dark Sister in her own and King Aegon’s defence. Princess Alyssa too had possessed some skill with a blade. Lyman gave a brief thought to the fact he was unsure what had happened to Dark Sister after Prince Daemon’s death. It was probably in Lady Laena’s possession for the moment.

“Aemon has been acting up since Daemon’s funeral too,” she continued, leaning back in her chair with an exasperated look on her face. “The maester reports that he has been missing lessons and he has stopped going to the training yard entirely. Alicent, Laenor and I have all tried to talk to him but he will not say a word about it.”

“He may have reached an age where he wants to assert his independence,” Lyman offered, thinking back to the behaviour of his own children at about the same age. “Mathis was not much older when he decided to become a guard in Oldtown. Could Ser Erryk offer insight?” Prince Aemon’s kingsguard was the one that spent the most time with him after all.

The princess shook her head. “We do not want Ser Erryk to report to us on his doings as it may make Aemon distrust him in the future. Ser Erryk’s job is to keep Aemon safe. I would rather that be fulfilled than have Aemon start trying to get away from his protector.”

An understandable sentiment. If Prince Aemon could not trust his kingsguard to keep his confidence, he may try and run off without Ser Erryk. Which would leave him exposed to danger.

“He is a good lad,” he replied. “I could perhaps have a word with him.”

An expression of relief passed over her face. “Would you, Lyman, thank you. He has always been fond of you and will hopefully be comfortable opening up to you.”

He could not help but straighten his back at the praise. It felt good to be needed in such a manner, especially since all his grandchildren by blood lived so far away.

“It is no trouble, I know things are difficult at the moment.” There was enough to occupy Princess Rhaenyra’s attention with the king’s ill health and the Stepstones. If he could ease her burdens in any way, he would.

“And then there is Jace,” she said. “He has been quiet these last weeks, withdrawn. I thought at first it was Daemon’s death, though they were not close, but now I am unsure.”

That was a situation on which Lyman could shed some light. “I talked to Prince Jacaerys on the voyage to Dragonstone. He is aware that the king is not expected to have long to live and is thinking ahead to becoming Prince of Dragonstone.”

The princess looked stricken at this. “I had hoped that such matters would not weigh on him so young.”

“Prince Jacaerys has been raised with the knowledge that he will one day be king,” he replied. “He is old enough to understand what that means for him.”

“I have always known that he is not just my son, he is my heir,” she said, a melancholy look upon her face. “That I have a duty beyond that of a mother, a duty to ensure he grows into a worthy king for the realm.”

“If I might be so bold, princess, I would say that you have succeeded admirably,” Lyman said, reaching across his desk to pat her hand. “He is a kind, well-mannered boy who takes his responsibilities seriously. A credit to yourself and Ser Laenor. And Queen Alicent.” She had been as much responsible for rearing the prince as his parents by blood.

Princess Rhaenyra gave him a grin, though it quickly waned. “I had hoped he might have more of a childhood. I did not become heir until four-and-ten. But with my father’s health not improving … Jace is already so serious, so focused. I suppose that is our burden to bear. The weight of the realm, the weight of the so—” She cut herself off abruptly with a sharp shake of her head. “All I can do is prepare him the best that I can.”

“As you say,” he replied, “it is a heavy burden but he will not be without support. He has his parents, his siblings. Besides, hopefully Prince Jacaerys will not become king for another forty, fifty years so he has time to grow into the role.”

“Forty or fifty years?” she questioned with a chuckle. “You foresee that I will live for a long time in that case.”

“I am sure that you have another half a century in you yet.” The princess was only thirty years old.

“Assuming that my children do not drive me to an early grave.”

“What was it they used to say about King Jaehaerys? That it was his children that were the most vexatious part of his reign.”

She let out a laugh, her whole face lighting up. “Given the plots that we know of against my accession, I will feel blessed if they one day say the same about me.”

After weeks of information gathering and discussion, retaliation against the Triarchy for Prince Daemon’s death looked to be drawing near.

With Lord Lyonel’s chief concern being how to avoid a full-scale war with all the Free Cities, they had now found out enough to allay those fears. The Free Cities had no desire to once again fall under the yoke of dragonlords, as they had been in the days of Valyria. Any sign that the Seven Kingdoms had ambitions to conquer parts of Essos would be met with resistance. However, the other Free Cities had no qualms about seeing the Triarchy smashed to dust. It had not just been Westerosi ships that the Triarchy had targeted during the time it had held the Stepstones and trade between the Free Cities had been affected too.

Older grudges against the Triarchy had come to bear as well. Princess Rhaenyra had received a letter back from Princess Saera on the stance of Volantis. After three somewhat rambling pages – that included multiple insults to the legacy of King Jaehaerys, a denouncement of the Faith of the Seven and an apology for the ‘cats and the bees’ (whatever that meant) – she had written that Volantis would not interfere. Assuming that she could be believed, the princess reported that the Volantenes still resented being driven from the Disputed Lands over thirty years previously when the Triarchy first united against them. They were eager to see this old hurt avenged.

Similar assurances regarding Pentos and Braavos already secured, it was confidently felt that the other Free Cities would not rush to the Triarchy’s aid.

The news from Dorne was rather less straightforward. Lord Hayford reported that Prince Qoren had passed on his sympathies for Prince Daemon’s passing. He was also most emphatic that Dorne had been unaware of the Triarchy’s plans to attack the Stepstones and had not been behind the use of scorpion bolts there. However, Lord Hayford had made a few contacts of his own within Sunspear and Prince Qoren had been seen meeting with several foreign men, one with the sort of brightly coloured hair and beard that was favoured by the Tyroshi.

While Prince Qoren had stated that, given the circumstances, he did not consider Dorne’s mutual treaty of defence valid if the realm attacked the Triarchy, Lord Hayford was unsure that his word could be trusted. There was enough bad feeling in Dorne over the Stepstones and the recent skirmishes in the Marches that they worried Dorne may attack the realm while they were occupied in Essos. Although it was taken as a positive sign that Lord Hayford had not been assassinated and his head sent back to King’s Landing in a box.

Lord Corlys had already sailed south with his own fleet. While it was ostensibly to support the royal fleet and his wife in holding the Stepstones, Ser Laenor suspected this was but a smokescreen to allow him to manoeuvre into position.

At a Small Council meeting that lasted for an entire day, Lord Lyonel was finally convinced to take action against the Triarchy. As Ser Tyland had no experience in commanding a fleet and was in King’s Landing besides, control of the royal ships in addition to his own was conferred on Lord Corlys. These ships – supported by Meleys and Vhagar – would begin a naval assault on Tyrosh first, the Triarchy city closest to the Stepstones.

Princess Rhaenyra had confided in Lord Lyonel that they suspected Lord Jason Lannister to have joined in common cause with Lord Hightower. Wary of a strike from the Reach or Westerlands while the crown was occupied with the Triarchy, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor would remain in King’s Landing with their own dragons unless they were truly needed to the south. Lyman knew the princess was frustrated about not being able to avenge her uncle’s death but her place was in the capital. For that same reason, the fleet of the Iron Islands had been left undisturbed, to provide a naval presence on the realm’s west coast if needed.

Instruction was sent to Lord Borros Baratheon to muster his own forces, the same to the marcher lords in the Reach. If Prince Qoren was lying and Dorne attacked from the south, the realm would be ready.

So many fronts to plan for attacks from. So many enemies popping up like weeds.

It was hoped that the campaign would be a short one as Mysaria had reported that there was discontent within the Triarchy itself as well. It had been a Lysene admiral, Sharako Lohar, that had led the naval assault on the Stepstones. Of the ships that survived Lady Laena and Vhagar’s wrath, the vast majority were Lysene, held back to the south while the others attacked from the north. There was therefore anger in Myr and Tyrosh at the Lyseni – and against Admiral Lohar in particular – for what they saw as a betrayal. If the Triarchy could be fractured, it would make the realm’s work far easier.

It was with a sombre feast that Lady Laena left the Red Keep and flew for her home and for war. Any ill feeling forgotten for the moment, her two daughters sat at either side of Lady Laena, not yet apt enough at disguising their emotions to hide their worry. Solemn promises had been extracted from Ser Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra to keep an eye on the girls in their remaining parent’s absence. However, Lady Laena would not allow herself to be pushed aside while others exacted vengeance for her husband’s murder.

As Vhagar took flight from outside the city walls, Lyman could only hope that the conflict did not drag out and that House Targaryen lost no further members.

With budgeting for war taking up much of his attention, Lyman’s following days were spent ensconced with Larys as they went over reports and ledgers. This had the consequence that he was unable to find the time to speak to Prince Aemon, a fact he soon came to regret.

Due to the war with the Triarchy and the king’s continued illness, Princess Rhaenyra thought it would reassure the court if the royal family took their dinners in the Great Hall. They would be visible to the courtiers, seen to have a firm hand on the situation.

It was at one such meal, the majority of the court present, where Prince Aemon abruptly stood from his seat in the middle of the high table. There was a deep red flush on his cheeks and he swayed on his feet. The prince waited a few moments for the room to quiet before beginning to speak. “I would like to propose a toast.” The words were noticeably slurred but he did not seem to care, a wide grin on his face.

Gods above. The prince was old enough to enjoy a goblet of wine with his meals but Lyman had never seen him so deep in his cups before. How had he drunk so much without one of them noticing?

Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent exchanged worried glances – likely wishing to avoid a scene – before the queen reached over to put her hand on her son’s arm. “Aemon, I think perhaps—”

Prince Aemon tugged his arm out of the queen’s grip and began walking down the table. “I would like to toast Ser Tyland Lannister.” The man in question looked rather alarmed at the sudden attention as eyes across the hall turned in his direction. “For realising that, despite his position, he doesn’t actually know that much about commanding a fleet.” Having reached his place, the prince heartily clapped Ser Tyland on his back.

Princess Rhaenyra had risen from her seat and was hurrying to them but it was too late to cut the insult off. “To Ser Tyland” – Prince Aemon raised his goblet high – “for being aware enough to know that his admire– admirt– admiralling skills are nothing compared to Lord Velaryon’s!”

The toast was awkwardly echoed around the room, with a few chuckles thrown in too. Ser Tyland had flushed red, whether from anger or embarrassment, Lyman could not tell. The prince continued to beam out until Princess Rhaenyra reached him, grabbed his arm and none to subtlety dragged him into a passage used by servants at the back of the hall.

There was silence for a few moments before Ser Tyland pushed himself out of his seat and stormed out of the room.

“Well then,” Queen Alicent said, “I think it is time for some dancing.” She indicated to the minstrels in the corner, who soon struck up a jaunty tune. The atmosphere in the room eased but Lyman saw the queen’s gaze repeatedly flicking to the doorway her wife and son had vanished through.

Lyman had never seen him behave in such a manner before. What was wrong with Prince Aemon?

Following his display, Prince Aemon refused to explain his behaviour to his parents and had been confined to his rooms. Wishing to get to the root of the problem, Lyman visited the following morning. With a nod to Ser Erryk, he entered the prince’s bedchamber.

Despite the sun having risen several hours before, the curtains were still drawn and Prince Aemon remained abed. He was likely suffering the effects of his overindulgence the evening prior.

“Go away, Mother,” a sullen voice said from under the covers. “I told you I do not want to talk about it.”

“As nice as it is to be mistaken for the queen, I fear you have missed your mark, Prince Aemon.”

A messy head of auburn hair emerged from the bed. “Morning, Beebs. Have you come to tear a strip off me too?” His voice was resigned but there was no apology in it.

“I would assume your parents have already said plenty in that regard.” Lyman walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. “No, I come to offer a friendly ear. You have not been yourself these last weeks and that performance last night was most out of character.”

Prince Aemon scoffed. “I spoke nothing that was not true. Ser Tyland would make a shit admiral. And the colour his face turned was amusing.”

Lyman simply waited in silence for the prince to get over his bravado.

At the lack of a response, Prince Aemon wiggled up so that his back leant against the headboard. “I am not stupid,” he said after some time had passed. “I hear what Mother, Muña and Laenor talk about. I hear the whisperings of the court. I know that some of them think I should be the crown prince.”

There was only so much they could do to keep him shielded from worries over the succession. “If it is a usurpation attempt you fear, your parents would do everything in their power—”

The prince was shaking his head. “I can prevent it from ever coming to that,” he insisted. “If I stop attending my lessons, if I cannot wield a sword, if I insult every lord and lady that sets foot in this keep, they will see. They will see that I am not suited to being king. That Muña will make a far better ruler than I ever could.” There was an edge of desperation to his words. As if by speaking them, he could will them to become truth.

“I fear that will not solve the problem entirely, my prince,” Lyman spoke gently. “Most of those that support your claim do not care what kind of king you would be. They want you as king because it would benefit them or they do not like the thought of bowing to a woman. Your own suitability is far down the list of concerns.”

“But– but– that is so stupid,” Prince Aemon burst out. “Should the lords not wish for a strong, just ruler above all?”

“They should but many lords give far more weight to their own ambitions than to the realm. Nothing that you do cannot be twisted. If your poor behaviour continues, it could be seen as a reflection of Princess Rhaenyra’s inability to control the royal household while the king is indisposed.”

The prince’s brow furrowed. “So I cannot win? Whatever I do will only be turned against Muña in some fashion?”

“Remain patient,” Lyman advised. “Now that we are making progress against the Triarchy, our attention will turn back to thwarting Lord Hightower’s plots. With luck, by the time of the king’s death, he will be in no position to move against Princess Rhaenyra.”

“So Aemon is acting up to try and show the court he would be a terrible king?” Princess Rhaenyra let out an exasperated sigh. “I suppose I should be relieved that there is not something serious wrong with him. Still, I wish he did not have to worry about such matters.”

The late afternoon sun shined through the window of the princess’s solar, throwing the dark shadows under her eyes into sharp relief.

“It was unavoidable that he would be affected by these plots,” Lyman replied.

“Yes, but—”

Princess Rhaenyra was interrupted by a knock at the door. “A letter, princess, from Dragonstone,” Ser Lorent called. “It is marked urgent.”

Going to the door and retrieving the letter, she then went to her desk. Breaking the seal and discarding the envelope, she began to read its contents. “What in the seven fucking hells?” Her face drained of colour with each line. Reaching the end, the princess sat down heavily in her chair. She then began muttering under her breath, “How? Who?”

“Princess?” Lyman asked, growing increasingly concerned by her uncharacteristic behaviour.

Still lost in some kind of stupor, she did not seem to hear him. The hand that clutched the letter was shaking ever so slightly.

“Rhaenyra!” he called. “What is the matter?”

She blinked several times before her gaze focused on him. “The dragons on Dragonstone were making a terrible racket last night, roaring and sending out gouts of flame. When the dragonkeepers went to check this morning, Vermithor and Silverwing were not in their usual cavern. Nor was there sign of them anywhere else around the island.”

From what Lyman knew of the behaviour of the unclaimed dragons, this was not uncommon.

“I do not understand,” he replied. “Do they not often fly afield to hunt and roam?”

“Yes, but the bodies of several people were in their cavern too.” The princess looked as though she had been hit about the head. “The dragons know better than to hunt people and the bodies were uneaten, just burned. The only explanation the dragonkeepers can come up with is that a group of people ascended the Dragonmont and went to Vermithor and Silverwing’s cavern of their own volition. And the only reason to do that …”

“Would be to claim them,” Lyman finished when her voice faltered. “But who? Lady Rhaena and Princess Visenya are here. They are the only ones of your house without dragons.”

“I do not believe this was anyone of my house.” Princess Rhaenyra stood and hurried to the door to the corridor outside. Opening it, she called out to Ser Lorent for Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor to be summoned post-haste. “I fear that we may have underestimated Lord Hightower.”

Lord Hightower? It took a few moments for it to slot into place in his mind. “You think Lord Hightower is behind this? But how? Where would he have found people with the blood to ride dragons?”

“There are plenty of dragonseeds,” she replied. “He would only have needed to turn a few to his side.”

If Lord Hightower had dragons of his own, that certainly improved his odds of succeeding in a coup in Prince Aemon’s name. And Vermithor and Silverwing were among the oldest and largest.

The princess had started to pace across the floor. “Fuck, we need to find them. Fast. Where would they have gone? Oldtown? No, that is too obvious. Everyone knows it is against the law to claim a dragon without the crown’s leave.”

There was a knock at the door and Ser Lorent announced the presence of Lord Lyonel. Princess Rhaenyra and Lyman exchanged a confused glance. How had he heard so soon?

“Come in, Lord Lyonel,” she called.

He rushed into the room at once in response. The normally put together lord Hand looked more panicked than Lyman had ever seen him, several letters of his own clutched in his hand.

“Crown Princess,” he said, ignoring Lyman completely, “we are receiving ravens from up the coast reporting dragon attacks. Rook’s Rest was first, now Duskendale burns. And the dragons are travelling in the direction of King’s Landing.”

Chapter Text

Lyman himself, Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor, Queen Alicent and Lord Lyonel stood in the princess’s solar as they discussed what to do about the newly claimed Vermithor and Silverwing. About the path of destruction the two dragons were razing along the coast as they approached King’s Landing.

“It is obviously a trap,” Queen Alicent said, looking from Princess Rhaenyra to Ser Laenor. “Apart from the children, you two are the only dragonriders left in the city. They mean to draw you out.” Her hand moved to clasp her own throat in what looked like a gesture of comfort.

“You are likely right,” the princess replied, “but I do not see what choice we have but to fly out and meet them. They have already burned Duskendale. We cannot allow them to reach King’s Landing.” Her eyes flicked between the windows, presumably to check that no dragons could yet be seen in the skies.

The full destructive power of the dragons had never been unleashed within his lifetime but Lyman knew the tales of the Conquest and of what had happened during Maegor’s usurpation. Of entire houses that had met their ends.

For all that though, Lyman wished for a brief moment that Princess Rhaenyra was a craven. Was someone that would let the realm burn while she remained safe, rather than risking her life to stop it. Although he supposed that she would not be the person that he loved in that case.

“Could we send a message to the Stepstones?” Lord Lyonel suggested. “Summon back Princess Rhaenys and Lady Laena. Move the numbers into the crown’s favour.”

Ser Laenor shook his head. “It would be days before they arrived, even if Meleys flew ahead. We are on our own.” He straightened his back as he turned to his wife. “I should go and face them. Myself. You are the heir to the Iron Throne. I am your consort, your husband—”

“Do not be stupid, Laenor,” Princess Rhaenyra interrupted. “You and Seasmoke cannot face Vermithor and Silverwing on your own, you would be torn to shreds.” She walked over to him and clasped his hands in her own. “We swore, did we not? Come what may, we are in this together. We will protect one another.”

He mustered up a weak smile but it quickly faded. “You know that it is you they want?”

Her that the Hightowers wanted to kill to clear the way for Prince Aemon’s own claim.

“Yes, but I have no intention of giving them the satisfaction,” she replied. “We hatched Syrax and Seasmoke in our cradles. We have been dragonriders for over twenty years. These people have not even been bonded a full day. Vermithor and Silverwing may outmatch us in size but we have every other advantage.”

Ser Laenor nodded along, her confidence seemingly inspiring his own. “We might not even need to defeat the dragons themselves, just the riders. Kill them and the dragons may fly off.”

“We attack together,” the princess continued. “Try and take Silverwing’s rider out first. She is smaller, more slight; we would be able to defeat her quicker if it comes to a fight between the dragons. Then we turn our attention to Vermithor.”

“If we loop to the west, come out of the setting sun, they may not see us until we are upon them.” There was a spark in Ser Laenor’s eyes now. “How well do you think you can aim your bow on dragonback?”

Princess Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow before her gaze once again went to one of the room’s windows. “The wind does not look too bad,” she mused. “If we can catch them unawares from above … I doubt they would be wearing heavy armour. If Syrax can get close enough, it would be possible for me to hit a rider. Get rid of one before their dragons have even noticed us.”

“It will make a most glorious song,” Ser Laenor finished. “Passed on through the ages.”

Husband and wife leant into each other, their foreheads pressing together. Lord Lyonel looked away at the display and it took several seconds for Lyman to realise that he thought the two were going to kiss.

“It will only make a glorious song if the two of you survive,” Queen Alicent interrupted. “Do not get cocky. And do not take any stupid risks. Either of you. The children need you.” I need you, went unspoken.

The two broke their near embrace, turning their attention back to the rest of the room.

“Do not worry,” the princess said, a small smile on her face as she moved to her wife. “We have been training all our lives for this. We were born for this.”

“You had better speak true,” the queen replied. “Or I shall be most cross with you.” Despite her strong words, Lyman could see the wetness beginning to gather in her eyes.

“Well, we cannot have that,” Princess Rhaenyra said, her tone soft as she took the queen’s hand and raised it to her mouth.

Lyman glanced towards Lord Lyonel but he was not paying the two women any heed, a contemplative look on his face.

“It need not be just the two of you,” Lord Lyonel said. “Prince Aemon’s dragon seems large en—”

There were protests throughout the room that mirrored Lyman’s own feelings.

“He is still a boy,” Queen Alicent cried out, breaking her connection with the princess.

“Do you know how big Vermithor is?” from Ser Laenor.

“I will not risk Aemon’s life,” the princess added vehemently. “Laenor and I will deal with this.”

“As Ser Laenor said, you are the heir to the throne, princess,” Lord Lyonel pressed. “Your safety must be prioritised. Going in with three dragons would be better than two.”

“No, Lord Lyonel,” she replied. “We have bent to your wishes enough these past weeks. Aemon will remain here.”

The lord Hand did not look happy but it was clear that none of them would be moved. “Should we evacuate the city?” he asked instead. “Just in case they do … get past the two of you and reach King’s Landing.”

The queen shook her head. “It would be pandemonium. Over four hundred thousand people trying to get out from seven gates? The blue cloaks would never be able to keep order. There would be stampedes, crushes. Scores of people would die.”

“They will not get past us,” Princess Rhaenyra assured, sharing an intense look with Ser Laenor who nodded in response.

Lyman was not sure he liked the resoluteness of their expressions.

“What about telling the court, or even just the Small Council?” Lord Lyonel asked.

“No,” the princess answered. “You know how quickly gossip spreads.” She paused for a moment. “Though I would be most curious to see Ser Tyland’s reaction to this.”

Ser Tyland, whose brother they suspected of being in cahoots with Lord Hightower. Had the Lannisters known about this? Surely not; Lord Jason’s eldest daughter was in the Red Keep at the moment as well. If they had known, Ser Tyland and Lady Tyshara would have found some pretence to leave King’s Landing.

“We will be hard-pressed to keep news of this contained for long,” Lord Lyonel warned. “More ravens will probably come from the north. The smoke might even become visible on the horizon.”

“Close off the rookery,” Queen Alicent suggested. “Keep the maesters there contained. That should buy us some time. We are only a few hours from nightfall.”

“What of the king?” Ser Laenor asked. “Should he be moved somewhere safer at least?”

Princess Rhaenyra exhaled sharply “I am unsure if he is well enough to be moved. Besides, I do not believe they would target the Red Keep. Not if they are working for Lord Hightower.”

She was correct. Assuming this was part of a plot to see Prince Aemon inherit the Iron Throne, it made no sense to target the keep where it was known he resided.

“Very well, is that all?” the princess asked. “We should begin our preparations.”

When nobody spoke to the contrary, Ser Laenor addressed the princess and the queen. “We should gather the children first. Explain to them what is happening.”

“Princess,” Lord Lyonel interrupted, “I believe that we should speak on your return. I realise matters have been … tense between us lately. However, know that my thoughts and prayers go with the two of you.” He reached over and grasped the princess’s forearm in a warrior-like fashion. After releasing her, he turned and left the room, presumably not wanting to intrude as the conversation grew more personal.

“Lyman, can you wait here while we speak with the children?” Princess Rhaenyra asked. “I need to talk to you about something.” Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor gave her curious looks but she did not elaborate.

He nodded in response and was soon left alone with his thoughts as the other three took their leave. What did a fight between dragons even look like? The only example the realm had seen had been when Maegor rode Balerion to attack his nephew’s dragon. An attack that saw both Aegon the Uncrowned and his dragon fall to their deaths.

No, that mental path led nowhere productive. Gods above, how many people were burning to death even now? What was the population of Duskendale? Lyman tried to recall but it felt like his mind had turned to sludge. He could feel sweat gathering on his palms.

Vermithor and Silverwing needed to be stopped but at what cost?

When Princess Rhaenyra did return, there was a redness around her eyes. How had they explained this to the children? She also had in her hand what looked like the king’s Valyrian steel dagger. Lyman was further confused when she then proceeded to kneel in front of the fireplace and place the blade among the burning wood.

Straightening, the princess briefly brushed off her knees before focusing her gaze on him. “I need to tell you something, something that you may find difficult to believe but it is important. You know of my ancestor Daenys the Dreamer, the one that foresaw the Doom and was responsible for our house’s survival.”

He was familiar with the tale, yes, but he was unsure what relevance it had at this particular moment. When the princess would soon fly to battle. “Yes.”

“It was not purely for the sake of power that Aegon conquered the realm,” she revealed. “He had a dream: that the end of the world of men would come with a Great Winter from the north. That what dwelt within that darkness would destroy everything that lived. All of Westeros must stand united against this threat and it can only be defeated while a Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne.”

A Great Winter? Darkness coming out of the north? The world tilted alarmingly on its axis and Lyman felt like he was back at sea.

Sensing his sudden unsteadiness, Princess Rhaenyra reached over and gripped his arm. “It is a secret that has been passed from king to heir since Aegon. My father told me when he named me crown princess all those years ago.”

Seven fucking hells! The end of the world of men? This was beyond anything he could ever have conceived of. Lyman had once been but the second son of a vassal house. Matters of this portent should never have fallen to him.

“Why are you telling me this?” he croaked out, not knowing what else to say. “If it is a secret meant to be passed down the royal line.”

“My father is sick and we have no idea if he is going to recover,” she replied, her attention moving back to the fireplace. “With Daemon dead, I am the only other person that knows. This knowledge cannot be lost to us. It is the entire reason my house rules, our purpose.”

Lyman immediately realised the unspoken implication of what the princess was saying. “You are talking as if you are not going to return.”

He would not even consider such. He could not.

“I have every intention of returning but I cannot leave this to chance. I am unsure how the prophecy even reached us past Maegor. If my father and I both die … I need to ensure it remains. Jace is too young to be told and I do not want to cause Alicent further worry right now.”

Whatever she had been checking for, it must have occurred as she reached over and drew the dagger out of the fireplace. Lyman saw that glowing Valyrian characters were now visible on the blade. “From my blood will come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire,” she said.

“What do you expect me to do with this information?” he asked, still struggling to wrap his mind around all of this.

“Safeguard it. If I … well, tell Alicent if my father passes too. She can decide when to inform Jace. Keep an eye out for any ravens from Ser Criston as well. If there are strange tidings coming out of the north, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch will be among the first to know. I do wonder if the Wall’s purpose– but anyway, I digress, this prophecy cannot be forgotten.”

Part of Lyman was suddenly seized with a violent urge to knock the dagger out of Princess Rhaenyra’s hand. The part that had no care for prophecies or portents when they were talking about his daughter potentially dy— However, the part of him that was the practical Master of Coin – used to weighing up the needs of the realm – recognised the necessity of her actions should the unthinkable occur.

“I am sorry for dumping all that on you but I cannot tarry,” she continued. “Laenor awaits and I need to change into my dragonriding leathers.”

He pushed all thoughts of prophecy from his mind, desperately hoping his new knowledge would never become relevant. “You come back to me, do you hear me?” he ordered, gently cupping the princess’s face in his hands. Looking at her, he could still see traces of the girl of three-and-ten that had first come to his office. “No heroics, no stupid risks. You and Ser Laenor fly safe.”

“I promise we will do our best.”

Reaching out, Lyman pulled Princess Rhaenyra into a crushing embrace.

Once she had changed in her bedchamber, the princess went to the door to leave for the Dragonpit … only to be nearly bowled over as three figures burst inside. Princes Aemon, Rhaemond and Jacaerys all looked rather dishevelled and were wearing dragonriding leathers – those of the latter two looking ill fitting in places.

“Oh, absolutely not,” she said, taking in their appearances. “Go and change back into your normal clothes. Now.”

“No,” Prince Aemon replied. “Sunfyre can help! He has grown. Three versus two is better odds than two versus two.”

“Four versus two,” Prince Rhaemond spoke up. “Caraxes is large and an experienced fighter.”

“Vermax is ready,” Prince Jacaerys insisted. “He is big enough to ride now, I know it.”

Princess Rhaenyra let out an exasperated sigh, though it was not without affection. “Jace, your first dragonride will not be to battle, even once Vermax is large enough to be mounted.” She passed a hand over his locs. “Rhaemond, you have been for but one ride on Caraxes, you are not ready for anything like this.” She gave a brief clasp to his cheek. “Aem—”

“I have been riding Sunfyre for years!” he interrupted. “I can help. Let me do this. Let me fight for you.”

Prince Aemon was almost of a height now with the princess and did not have to look up far to meet her eyes as he made his plea.

“Even if your mother would not kill me, you are both too young,” she replied. “Sunfyre is about a third of Vermithor’s size and you are just four-and-ten.”

“Laenor was barely five-and-ten when he started fighting on Seasmoke in the Stepstones,” Prince Aemon retorted hotly.

“Fighting against men on the ground.” Princess Rhaenyra reached out her hands and grasped his shoulders. “Not against fully grown dragons. Your place is here, my brave boy, with your siblings.”

The prince opened his mouth and then closed it again before finally speaking. “Well, if I cannot fight, send me south to the Stepstones,” he implored. “I can alert Aunt Laena and Cousin Rhaenys quicker than any raven.”

Despite the reasonableness of the request, there was a glint in his eye.

The princess must have noticed it too, for she raised a solitary eyebrow. “And I am sure that you have no plans of following after Laenor and I instead once you are in the air?”

The blush that came over Prince Aemon’s cheeks was answer enough.

“Aem, you would get me killed,” she said, drawing him closer to her. “I would be too worried about anything happening to you to focus. And such distraction would be fatal. You are my son, I need you safe.”

His posture slackened at this, head bowing forward.

The two of them then spoke briefly to each other in High Valyrian before the princess drew all three princes into her arms.

When they broke apart long seconds later, no one in the room had dry eyes.

“Remember what I said earlier.” Princess Rhaenyra’s gaze moved between the princes as she spoke. “Look after each other and stay safe. And listen to your mother.”

With a warm look back to Lyman himself, she departed.

The following hours passed excruciatingly slowly.

Both to distract himself and to keep up appearances for the rest of the court, Lyman tried to return to his work. However, it was no good. The comfort normally brought to him by cold numbers was absent. All he could think about was what Princess Rhaenyra might be going through at that very moment. Fighting. Burning. Dyi—

The quill in his hand snapped clean in half. Lyman had not even realised how much pressure he was exerting on it.

Should he have predicted this? Lord Hightower had been so … calm when Lyman had confronted him in Oldtown those moons ago. So assured for a man that had little to his advantage apart from an uncle among the Most Devout of the Faith and the Redwyne fleet.

Without any dragons, it had not seemed possible that he could muster any credible threat to Princess Rhaenyra’s future ascension to the throne. Should Lyman have predicted that his lord might make plans to nullify that advantage?

He moved over to the window, angling his head to look as close to north-east as he could. The sun had reached the horizon now, casting much of the sky into tones of pink. Was that smoke he could see in the far distance or just wisps of cloud? Birds or approaching dragons, be they friend or foe?

This was useless. He was useless.

Abandoning his work, Lyman headed out into the keep.

A short visit to the sept brought him no comfort and Lyman left soon after lighting two candles before the statue of the Warrior.

Lives are like candle flames that can be snuffed out by an errant puff of wind.

Instead, he went back to Maegor’s Holdfast.

It did not take him long to locate the royal family; all the kingsguards amassed outside Princess Rhaenyra’s chambers were something of a giveaway. Once he had been admitted, Lyman found the solar to be rather crowded.

Ser Joffrey sat at a table with Prince Jacaerys, Prince Daeron and Lady Rhaena, dice in front of each of them and a small pile of coppers in the middle of the table. Given the abandoned cards and a fox-and-geese board off to one side, Lyman suspected this was not the first game Ser Joffrey had attempted to distract the children with. While the knight was trying to affect a jovial manner for the children’s benefit, his face looked drawn and wan.

Prince Rhaemond sat in a corner reading a book that Lyman suspected was The Seven-Pointed Star. Of all the children, he was the one most dedicated to the Faith of the Seven. Hopefully it was giving him more comfort than Lyman had found in the sept.

Whatever lingering animosity Lady Baela felt seemed to have been put aside as her temporary guardians flew to battle – as her mother had. Instead, Lady Baela was on a settee with Princess Visenya as the latter showed off her dragon egg.

Princess Visenya was but three. If the worst happened, would she even remember— Stop it, Lyman. Stop it. He had to have faith.

The remaining two occupants, Queen Alicent and Prince Aemon, were staring out a window as Lyman had done. Every so often, the queen’s hands would move towards each other before her son gave her a nudge with his elbow.

They all barely reacted to Lyman’s arrival before returning to their activities and thoughts. That suited him, at least here he did not have to pretend that nothing was wrong. He thought about offering a few words of comfort to Queen Alicent but everything he could think to say sounded hollow given the circumstances. Instead, he settled quietly into a chair near the fire.

Dinner was brought shortly thereafter but none of them could stomach more than a few bites. Prince Jacaerys had looked positively green before dropping his own fork. Princess Visenya was then sent off to bed as night began to truly fall.

Should they have heard something by now? Vermithor and Silverwing had last been seen at Duskendale. How long would it take to fly from King’s Landing to there? A few hours?

Rosamund came and joined their vigil. Lyman only had a vague recollection of telling her what was happening earlier in the day.

The white hart had shown that Princess Rhaenyra had the favour of the gods, that she was meant for queenship. Surely they would not forsake her now. Though he did not want Ser Laenor to come to harm either.

He stared at the fireplace for a while before it occurred to him that Princess Rhaenyra might be dodging jets of flame at that very moment. Then he focused on a wall hanging instead.

Time passed. The younger children began falling asleep where they sat and Ser Joffrey carried them to bed one by one.

Queen Alicent remained by the window, although she could not possibly see anything through the blackness of the night.

How late was it now? The hour of ghosts? The hour of the owl?

Lyman closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them again, Princes Jacaerys and Rhaemond had disappeared as well. Rosamund was asleep on his shoulder.

Was the queen looking for dragonfire on the horizon?

Ser Joffrey cajoled Prince Aemon into going to bed too.

Before Lyman closed his eyes again, his last sight was of Ser Joffrey joining the queen at her window, an arm wrapping around her shoulders.

He woke to shouting. Panicked shouting.

Had they miscalculated? Had Seasmoke and Syrax been defeated? Was Princess Rhaenyra—

Lyman leapt to his feet, nearly tripping over them in his haste.

The fire was out, the room barely lit by a few candles. It was also empty apart from himself and Rosamund, his wife stirring at his abrupt movement.

“Is there news?” she asked groggily. “Rhaenyra? Ser Laenor?”

“I don’t know,” Lyman replied, rushing for the door.

Household guards were heading down the corridor and he followed. They stopped outside Prince Aemon’s room, the shouting coming from inside.

As he made to enter, Ser Erryk emerged with another guard, holding between them a slight, filthy man that he had never seen before. There was blood on Ser Erryk’s armour. Lyman went inside the prince’s bedchamber.

The first thing he noticed was a gaping black hole in the wall behind where Prince Aemon’s bureau normally sat.

An entrance into the secret tunnels. An entrance that was meant to be bolted shut, as were the other entrances in the royal family’s personal rooms.

On the floor in front of the entrance was a large man, clearly dead as blood pooled around him.

Turning, Lyman pinpointed the source of the yelling as Queen Alicent shouted, “Where is the Grand Maester? What is taking him so long?” She sounded hysterical.

Prince Aemon stood before the bed shaking. He was wearing his dragonriding leathers again. “I’m sorry! They’ve been gone for so long, I just wanted to help. I didn’t know Rhaemond would follow me.”

Lyman’s eyes alighted on the figure lying on the bed and he had to swallow his rising gorge. Prince Rhaemond was only recognisable by his silver hair, most of his face covered as his mother pressed a piece of fabric to it. Fabric that was quickly becoming saturated with blood.

The Grand Maester could not save the eye. As he removed what remained, cleaned the wound and sewed it shut, Lyman began to get a picture of what had occurred.

Fearing for Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor, Prince Aemon had made the decision to use the secret tunnels to leave the keep, go to the Dragonpit and fly after them. However, not far into the tunnels he had come across two men. Men that were looking for him. Prince Aemon had been trying to resist their attempts to kidnap him when Prince Rhaemond caught up to them, having gone to his older brother’s room for comfort.

Prince Rhaemond had shouted for help, alerting Ser Erryk and the other guards. But not before one of the men swiped at him with a dagger.

An attempt to kidnap Prince Aemon, not to kill him. An attempt to get him under someone else’s control. Lord Hightower would be answering for much once this night ended.

As Prince Rhaemond passed into a drugged sleep, as Prince Aemon continued to beg a silent Queen Alicent for forgiveness, as the long night finally ended with the sun cresting the horizon, Ser Joffrey burst into the room.

A lone dragon had been spotted flying towards the city. A golden dragon: Syrax.

Chapter Text

At the news that Syrax approached King’s Landing, Lyman felt something deep in his chest unclench in relief. If the dragon was still able to fly and had returned to the city, then surely the unknown dragonriders had been defeated. Surely Princess Rhaenyra still lived.

However, that momentary relief soon curdled into dread. Syrax approached the city alone, without Seasmoke. What of Ser Laenor? The royal children had already been through enough this night, woken from their fitful slumbers to be told of the attempted kidnapping of Prince Aemon and that Prince Rhaemond had been injured. They did not need further anguish on top of that.

From the balcony where Lyman himself, Ser Joffrey and Queen Alicent had moved to watch Syrax’s progress as she reached the city’s limits, he saw that she had not made it through the fight unscathed. One of the dragon’s wings was not flapping correctly, causing her to look somewhat lopsided as she struggled to maintain height. She was also not heading for the Dragonpit, her trajectory towards the Red Keep itself. Lyman only had a fleeting glimpse of the furrows gashed into Syrax’s flank as she flew directly overhead before alighting in the Red Keep’s outer yard. Turning from the balcony, the three of them rushed down to meet her.

There should not have been that many people in the outer yard at this hour of the morn. However, Syrax’s approach had not gone unnoticed by others. Lord Lyonel was already there, flanked by Ser Harwin and several other guards of his household. They were giving the dragon a wide berth, though one glance at Syrax made it clear why.

The dragon was visibly agitated, her neck snapping this way and that as both growls and small plumes of smoke emerged from her throat. Up close, the injuries Syrax had suffered were clearer. The spine of her right wing was not bending the way it should be, leaving that wing hanging loosely at her side. Syrax’s right leg too had been injured, the dragon attempting to balance without putting too much weight on it. As the golden head whipped in Lyman’s direction, he saw that her maw was coated in blood. Craning his neck past the angry dragon, he struggled to see the saddle’s occupant.

Just when he was starting to fear that Syrax may attack them, he heard a familiar voice speak High Valyrian in a comforting tone. Princess Rhaenyra. Syrax calmed, her head lowering towards the ground as she made a pained warbling sound. Lyman could finally see the princess’s figure where she sat in the saddle, his heartbeat slowing further when he saw she looked whole.

“Rhaenyra!” Taking this as some kind of signal, Queen Alicent left Lyman’s side and rushed towards the dragon. The queen’s movement was quicker than he himself would have dared to make but Syrax did not seem to mind, merely tracking Queen Alicent with her eyes as the dragon allowed her to approach.

However, Princess Rhaenyra made no move to leave the dragon’s saddle. “I need a maester,” she called. “Now.” Her tone brooked no argument but there was a panicked note in there as well. Approaching Syrax cautiously, Lyman soon saw why.

Behind the princess in the saddle sat Ser Laenor. Though ‘sat’ was perhaps not the correct word. He was slumped against her back, unconscious and held in place by a series of make-shift tethers that tied him to both Princess Rhaenyra and the saddle. Ser Laenor’s teal dragonriding leathers did not look quite … right and it took Lyman several moments to realise they had been charred and burned away in places. His left leg also sat crooked.

Ser Joffrey could not contain his anguished cry at the sight and they began to work to get Ser Laenor onto the ground without jostling him too much further.

The Grand Maester did what he could, aided by the other maesters experienced in healing that were in the keep to tend to the king. Ser Laenor’s leathers had to be cut away, the heat of dragonfire having caused parts of them to become fused to his skin. The scent of burnt flesh was nauseating and Lyman wished he did not have to witness this. However, Princess Rhaenyra would not leave her husband’s side and Lyman did not wish to leave her.

Ser Joffrey had to be coaxed to give the maesters space to work as they then began setting Ser Laenor’s broken bones. His left leg looked like it had been crushed and Lyman overheard them passing comment that he may never walk correctly again. Several ribs were also broken, the maesters binding Ser Laenor’s chest to hold them in place. Eventually, the Grand Maester said that they had done all they could and that it was in the hands of the gods.

Throughout all of this, Princess Rhaenyra had stood across the room with Queen Alicent, her gaze focused on the rise and fall of her husband’s chest. At the news that nothing more could be done for Ser Laenor, she collapsed into a chair, hissing in pain as she did so. That was when they discovered that the princess had suffered burns of her own to her left arm, disguised better by the black colour of her leathers.

The foolish, self-sacrificing woman had wanted to ensure that Ser Laenor got all due attention first.

As her arm was treated, she revealed what had happened when she and Ser Laenor had faced the unknown dragonriders. Flying in the direction of Duskendale – where Vermithor and Silverwing had last been reported – smoke on the horizon allowed Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor to track the enemy dragons’ progress. The princess suspected they had been burning every village along the Rosby road as they made their way towards King’s Landing.

Finally, seeing Vermithor and Silverwing themselves in the distance about halfway between Rosby and Duskendale, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor began their attack. The first part of their plan had gone perfectly. As had been decided before they left King’s Landing, when Syrax and Seasmoke intercepted Vermithor and Silverwing, they came at them high and out of the setting sun. The flight paths of the two enemy dragons had looked erratic and Princess Rhaenyra had wondered if their riders were fully in control of them as they banked this way and that.

However, despite this, by the grace of the gods the wind too was in Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s favour, keeping their scents upwind as they drew closer to Vermithor and Silverwing. Syrax had been able to manoeuvre virtually right above Silverwing without being detected.

Then, in what Lyman still thought sounded like a move of utter insanity, the princess had thrown Syrax into a dive and taken aim at Silverwing’s rider with her bow. The first shot missed entirely, the second pinged harmlessly off the dragon’s scales but the third found purchase in the silver-haired person’s torso. Letting out a roar of pain that surely mirrored her rider’s, Silverwing veered east towards Blackwater Bay, losing height all the way. However, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor had now extinguished their element of surprise.

Vermithor’s rider proved cannier than his compatriot and they failed in dealing him a swift death. When Syrax and Seasmoke’s attacks proved to only enrage Vermithor, they swapped strategy and moved to bring the larger dragon down instead by targeting his wings. In this, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor were successful but the fight continued on the ground as darkness fell around them.

“We were doing damage but not enough,” Princess Rhaenyra confessed, a far away look in her eye as though she was reliving the battle. “One of Syrax’s legs was injured and her wing so we struggled to keep clear of Vermithor’s attacks. I am not even sure if his rider was alive at that point.” She winced as the Grand Maester smeared an ointment over her burnt arm. Lyman tried not to look directly at the split and reddened flesh. What would it look like if the princess had not been protected by her riding leathers? “Everything was so confused, there were just teeth and scales as plumes of flame lit up the night.”

Lyman felt a shudder go through him at the mental image this conjured.

“I thought Syrax and I were finished when that gaping jaw and jagged teeth loomed over us,” the princess continued. “But then Seasmoke was there. Laenor must have thrown him in front of us, the fool.” Her tone was soft. “Vermithor ripped Seasmoke’s head clean off. Even with everything going on, I could hear Laenor cry out as what was left of Seasmoke collapsed. However, it gave Syrax enough time to go for Vermithor’s throat while he was distracted. And to finish him off.”

The connection between rider and dragon was not one that Lyman could fully comprehend. However, he had heard Princess Rhaenyra talk plenty over the years of Syrax feeling her emotions and vice versa. Ser Laenor had bonded to his dragon in the cradle. If the gods were good and he survived, the loss of that bond would not be something easily recovered from.

“Do you know what happened to Silverwing?” Queen Alicent asked. She had remained silent during the tale, only wincing at the perilous moments.

The princess shook her head in response. “We did not see her again after I shot her rider and she flew off. I am hoping that the shock of her rider dying caused Silverwing to retreat to Dragonstone but I was too focused on getting Laenor back here to check. Half of him was pinned beneath Seasmoke’s torso and it was challenging enough getting him out in the dark. Then Syrax could not fly very fast with her wing as it is.” She let out a sharp exhale as the Grand Maester wrapped bandages around her arm.

“You should really take some dreamwine, princess,” Alester suggested as he tied the bandages off. “Or perhaps a small dose of milk of the pop—”

“Not yet,” the queen interrupted. “I need to talk to the crown princess first, while she is lucid.”

“Your Grace,” the Grand Maester said. With a bow, he left the three of them alone, returning to check on Ser Laenor – Ser Joffrey at his side with his head bowed in prayer.

“What is it?” Princess Rhaenyra asked, her eyes moving concernedly between Lyman himself and Queen Alicent.

“There was an incident last night,” the queen said, her hand reaching over to clasp the princess’s good one. For the first time since the previous evening, her stoic mask began to crack and her brown eyes looked wet. “Two men attempted to kidnap Aemon.”

Princess Rhaenyra leapt to her feet, not hiding her grimace as the movement jostled her arm. “Where is he?” She made to leave the room but the queen tugged her back by their joined hands.

“He is unharmed,” Queen Alicent tried to assure, though the pain in her voice somewhat ruined the effect. “Aemon went into the keep’s tunnels. He planned to go to Sunfyre and follow you and Laenor.”

The princess closed her eyes. “My brave boy,” she said under her breath before raising her voice again. “Alicent, I swear I tried to put him off—”

The queen raised her free hand. “I know. But there were two men in the tunnels that had come for Aemon. They might have made off with him but Rhaemond went looking for Aemon and followed his path. Rhaemond raised the alarm but one of the men … he—” Her voice broke and she raised a hand to cover her mouth, the tears starting to flow in earnest now.

Princess Rhaenyra pulled Queen Alicent into a one-armed hug, comforting the queen as she cried on her shoulder. The princess’s gaze then moved questioningly to Lyman. “What happened?”

“One of the men cut Prince Rhaemond’s face,” he explained, not seeing a way to soften the blow. “He has lost his left eye.”

The little colour that remained in the princess’s cheeks after her trials drained away at that. Were it not for the fact that she was supporting Queen Alicent, Lyman rather thought this news would have caused Princess Rhaenyra to collapse. As it was, she buried her face in the queen’s hair, breathing harshly through her nose.

Not wanting to intrude on their intimate moment, he idly watched Alester putter about as he waited for the two women to gather themselves.

It was several minutes later that they disentangled from their embrace. “I cannot take much more of this, Rhaenyra,” Queen Alicent said, pulling away to look her wife in the face. Her crying had ceased and there was an unfamiliar harshness to her expression. “I will not. Not when my uncle is sending men after our children in our home. He needs to be stopped.”

“Yes,” the princess agreed. “This has gone far enough. We need to end it.”

Princess Rhaenyra made sure to give each of the children an individual hug when she was reunited with them – apart from Prince Rhaemond who was still knocked out by milk of the poppy. Prince Aemon had shied away guiltily from her touch but she pulled him in with her arm anyway, muttering words into his ear that Lyman could not hear. Whatever she said, the prince looked the better for it when they pulled away from each other.

There then followed a brief conversation with Lord Lyonel who had been waiting for an update of his own. The Hand was relieved to hear that the threat of Vermithor and Silverwing was at an end and began making plans to dispatch aid to the affected towns and villages up the coast. Dragonkeepers had been summoned too to treat Syrax, who now slumbered in the outer yard. Lord Lyonel suggested that perhaps it might be better if the dragon returned to the pit but Princess Rhaenyra disagreed, wanting Syrax to remain at the keep. Lyman was unsure if this was because the princess desired the closeness of their bond or as a means of protection.

A meeting of the Small Council was scheduled for an hour hence to discuss what to do next and what to tell the court. An injured dragon landing in the middle of the Red Keep had hardly gone unnoticed, nor had Ser Laenor’s own state. The courtiers were undoubtedly gossiping like old fish wives about the implications.

With the other children visiting Ser Laenor, Lyman, Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent found themselves sitting around Prince Rhaemond’s bedside.

“He was the only one of the children that inherited your beautiful brown eyes,” the princess said sadly to her wife as she brushed a strand of hair away from the prince’s stitches. She then took a deep breath and closed her eyes, as though steeling herself. When her eyes opened again, the previous tenderness had disappeared. “What do we say to the rest of the Small Council about what happens next?”

“Princess, to make sure we are all on the same page, I assume you do not plan to summon Lord Hightower to King’s Landing to face trial for suspected treason?” Lyman asked.

Given the vehemence of the princess and queen’s earlier comments and how far this conspiracy had now escalated, he expected it was Fire and Blood that dominated Princess Rhaenyra’s thoughts rather than any legal recourse.

The princess’s expression remained unmoved as she gave a slow shake of her head.

Queen Alicent let out a scoff, though there was no humour in it. “We have no evidence at the moment, nothing we could hold up to the lords of the realm to prove that my uncle plots to usurp the throne. Nothing connects him to the Triarchy attack, to Vermithor and Silverwing or to the attempt to take Aemon.” Her gaze went to Prince Rhaemond in his bed. “My uncle’s ambitions are clear to us but a trial would accomplish naught. He would likely deny the summons and stay holed up in that accursed tower.”

“You said one of the men that tried to kidnap Aemon lives and has been given to the confessors,” Princess Rhaenyra said, “but I doubt he knows anything important, anything that directly implicates Lord Hightower.”

“My brother appears to have fled the city as well,” the queen added. “I sent men to retrieve Myles earlier this morning but they have been unable to find him thus far.”

The unknown dragonriders were dead too so they would be unable to testify on what had driven their actions. What path did that leave? Lord Jason Lannister had all but confessed to his wife of being involved in a plot to crown Prince Aemon but, again, there was no proof. His words could be explained away as a drunken slip of the tongue. His brother, Ser Tyland, was in King’s Landing but they did not know if he was aware of Lord Jason’s plans, let alone part of them.

Given enough time, they could perhaps follow leads on Dragonstone and in King’s Landing, unravel the twisted mess of these plots. However, that was time that might be running out.

Lord Hightower had proved to be ruthless in his ambitions, crossing lines that Lyman would not have dreamed of: encouraging an attack on the realm by the Triarchy; putting the destructive power of the dragons in the hands of dragonseeds; sending men to kidnap Prince Aemon. It was still unknown whether Ser Laenor would survive. Prince Daemon was dead. The loss of Prince Rhaemond’s eye. Princess Rhaenyra's arm.

The keep’s rookery remained closed but that would not stop word of his failures from reaching Lord Hightower forever. If they delayed too long in acting, what might his next gambit be? Sending assassins? Turning the guards of the keep against them? It would be all too easy for Princess Rhaenyra’s life to be snuffed out. Just one man in the right place, at the right moment, with a blade.

The princess was right; this had gone far enough.

“What do you intend then?” Lyman asked.

Princess Rhaenyra leant back in her chair. She had been up all night and in a dragon fight besides and was obviously exhausted. “We write to the Stepstones and ask for Laena and Vhagar to come back to King’s Landing. Depending on how the blockade is going on Tyrosh, Rhaenys might return as well when she hears what has happened to Laenor. Either way, it will take some time for Syrax to recover and Vhagar is the most formidable of our dragons. She is the best choice to go to Oldtown.”

“To burn the Hightower?” Queen Alicent clarified, her tone blank.

It was not unexpected but Lyman could barely contain a gasp. Growing up in Honeyholt, the Hightower had always loomed large over him – both in literal terms and in the obedience that he owed to his liege lord. His thoughts went, unbidden, to his father, who had always taken pride in fulfilling his duties as a loyal vassal to Oldtown. What would he think of Lyman now?

The princess opened her mouth before closing it again, hesitating. “Alicent, are you sure you want to be part of this? Lord Hightower is your uncle. Your cousins are there, one of your brothers.” She reached over and gently hooked her finger around the queen’s necklace, the seven-pointed star dangling from its chain. “No person is so accursed as the kinslayer. I would spare you of being involved, if I can.”

Queen Alicent brought her hand up and closed her fist around the star itself, tugging the necklace out of the princess’s grasp. “I did not want it to come to this. But it is my uncle, Lord Hightower, that has driven us all towards these actions. You and Laenor could both have died. Rhaemond has been permanently damaged. I joined my blood to yours, Rhaenyra. You are my family, my kin too. You and the children.”

Would being party to the deed make the queen as guilty of kinslaying as if she had wielded the blade herself? Whatever the answer to that question, it did not seem as though she would let such concerns stand in her way.

“As Lyman recently reminded me,” she continued, “the Mother bids that I protect my children.” Their conversation in the sept about how the queen felt relieved at Prince Daemon’s death. “Would she deny me that right because the danger comes from my own blood? Do I not deserve the Father’s judgement to fall upon Lord Hightower?” She shook her head. “I will not be sent away from this. I would see him pay for what he has wrought.”

Princess Rhaenyra regarded her for a long moment before she nodded. “Very well,” she said. “The quickest way to end this, and with the least death, would be to attack the Hightower directly. Have Vhagar fly on Oldtown during the night so that she is not seen coming. And then … well, I do not know if Vhagar’s flames are as hot as Balerion’s were but they should be sufficient to kill the occupants.”

To roast them within the stone tower as the Conqueror had ended House Hoare when he took Harrenhal. It was– it was terrible to consider but the princess was right. Open war or a siege on Oldtown would result in untold casualties. The city had a population of a third of a million. How many people resided in the Hightower in comparison? A few hundred? Some of them child— Lyman pushed that thought from his mind as quickly as it arrived. What would happen to Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucas and Princess Visenya if the Hightowers succeeded? How many people were dead on the Stepstones, in Duskendale? How many more would die if war broke out? However, something else came to him that may limit that death count further.

“The chambers of Lord Hightower and his family are at the top of the tower, just below the beacon itself,” Lyman offered, acutely aware that by speaking he had become complicit in this plan as well. “The whole Hightower would not need to be burned, only the top floors.”

The princess let out a sigh. “I will bear that in mind.”

Queen Alicent looked at her in confusion. “You will bear it in mind? You are surely not planning on going yourself?”

“I have to,” she replied tiredly. “Vhagar will easily be able to carry me as well. I cannot just send Laena to commit this deed on my behalf.”

After what had happened to her husband and now her brother, Lyman doubted that Lady Laena would find it an imposition. Although he could understand the sentiment of the princess not wishing to lay this grim task at her good-sister’s feet. For not wanting her to shoulder the blame. And there would be blame, it occurred to Lyman then. How would the lords and ladies of the realm react to an attack on the Hightowers by the crown princess with no evidence of any wrongdoing on their part?

“Rhaenyra, do you understand how all of this is going to look?” Lyman asked. “The king insensate, his heir leading a dragon attack on one of the most prominent houses of the Seven Kingdoms. Even if you announce Lord Hightower’s crimes after the fact, there would still be those who thought you acted unjustly.”

“There is nothing I can do about that,” she replied. “Perhaps if my father was– if I was queen it may be a different matter but I will not allow perception to stop me from keeping the realm secure. From keeping my family safe.”

“My uncle is not without allies,” the queen warned. “This may get bloody.”

“His allies will melt away quickly enough once he is dead,” the princess retorted. “Lord Hightower has failed, Alicent. I am alive. Aemon is here with us. He has lost Vermithor and Silverwing and the guards on Dragonstone will ensure nobody gets the chance to claim one of the wild dragons. If Vhagar descends on the Hightower, how many houses would rush to avenge them? With every dragon in the realm under our control? It would be folly.”

Through a marriage with Lord Hightower’s heir, Ser Ormund, House Redwyne had the closest ties to the Hightowers. However, its power was largely naval and would be of little use against dragons. The same was true of the other Hightower vassal houses: they would burn easily enough.

There was Lord Jason Lannister but his brother and oldest daughter were both in the Red Keep. Formally declaring them hostages might ignite hostilities with the Westerlands but the two could be indefinitely confined to their rooms; kept under the crown’s control.

“You told me once that you trusted I would protect our family,” Princess Rhaenyra implored, looking directly into the queen’s eyes, their injured son lying in front of them. “I mean to honour that trust.”

Queen Alicent briefly bowed her head but when it rose again there was no hesitation on her face. “Very well.”

Lyman’s heart ached in his chest. “I have always thought that you would make a good queen. As good a ruler as King Jaehaerys. Nay, better. You know that this will taint your rule before it has even begun?” For years – decades now – he had been working to make the princess the best heir, the best queen that he could. One that would be revered in the realm’s histories. This felt like a failure.

However, she did not look affected by his words. “I am not Lord Corlys, obsessed with how history will remember him. I want to do what is best for our family, for the crown and for the realm. The lords may whisper, they may call me Maegor with teats or some other nonsense behind my back after this. But they will fall in line. And those people that matter will know the truth.”

There was little else that could be said in that case. Though he wished it had not come to this. That Princess Rhaenyra, who had once lamented that she did not want to become Maegor, risked being seen as following in his footsteps.

After a few moments of silence, the princess spoke again. “Now, I think I will write to Jeyne, Luke and Helaena before the Small Council meeting. They need to be told about Laenor and Jeyne should be warned to stay on her guard. At least the Eyrie is among the most secure strongholds in the realm.” She brushed a careful kiss to Prince Rhaemond’s forehead before doing the same to Lyman’s cheek and her wife’s lips. With that the princess left.

The plan that had been hatched in that room would secure them victory but Lyman found he felt little better for that fact.

A message arrived shortly after for the queen advising that Larys wished to speak with her. Immediately. With the man having a not insignificant number of informants, Queen Alicent was hopeful that he might have some information pertaining to this mess. Possibly the location of her missing brother, Ser Myles.

Maegor’s Holdfast was being kept secure with a heavy guard presence so Lyman offered his own office in the main keep for the impromptu meeting. He did not want to leave the queen at the moment as she seemed, understandably, out of sorts given everything that was happening. Lyman therefore offered to accompany her, an offer that was quickly accepted.

When the two of them arrived, Larys had already made himself comfortable in front of Lyman’s desk. Compared to how others in the keep were reacting to all the turmoil, Larys seemed relatively calm and collected.

Once perfunctory greetings were out the way and they had sat down, Queen Alicent got down to business. “Have you heard anything?” she asked. “About Myles or the men that tried to kidnap Aemon?”

“No, Your Grace,” Larys replied. “The confessors are working their craft on the man Ser Erryk did not slay but he seems to know little. Just some ratcatcher that was paid to guide the other man.”

The queen’s frustration was clear as her head dipped forward and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Then what is it that you want, Larys? I am sure you can understand that I am hardly in the mood for minor gossip at the moment.”

Larys did not look cowed by her irritation. “It is not gossip that I bring you, Your Grace, but an offer. It is clear which way the wind is blowing: that Lord Hightower’s machinations need to be brought to an end. I am sure that you and the crown princess are already making plans to that effect. However, actions that the lords of the realm would support are rather limited. That is why I believe my spy in Lord Hightower’s household could be of use to you.”

What help would the Hightowers’ wet nurse be at this point?

“Unless your woman in the Hightower has found an incriminating letter penned in Lord Hightower’s hand or is an accomplished assassin,” Queen Alicent said, “I do not see what use she can be in our current predicament.”

The corners of Larys’s lips quirked upwards. Was his spy an assassin? “Not an assassin, no,” he replied as he leant forward, his hair falling loose from behind his ear. “But she is a witch.”

Lyman felt a chill go through him, though the fire continued to roar in its hearth. He did not think Larys referred to a simple woods witch. As a respectable lord, witchcraft had never been a topic that he had delved into. However, Lyman had heard the stories, the warnings, both in the sept and from cautionary tales in his boyhood. Of foul women who consorted with demons, who offered sacrifices in exchange for most terrible powers. Of what befell those foolish or unlucky enough to cross one.

“A witch?” If the queen shared in Lyman’s unease, she was disguising it well, her tone more one of suspicion. “How … fortuitous that it should be such a woman in your employ within Lord Hightower’s household.”

Larys acknowledged her point with a dip of his head. “It was clear that the situation with Lord Hightower might become ugly, might necessitate extreme measures. I thought it would be prudent to have someone in place that could assist with such. For the good of the crown, of course.”

“Of course,” Queen Alicent replied neutrally.

“And you are suggesting what?” Lyman asked. “That this witch work some kind of devilry to kill Lord Hightower?”

“Just so,” Larys replied. “If this mess with the Triarchy has made one thing clear, it is that my father will not take action without reassurance, without proof. He would never support an attack on Oldtown without some kind of evidence. Nor would the lords of the realm.”

Lyman, the princess and the queen had come to a similar conclusion earlier but even so, a witch. Was this really the solution to their quandary? It would allow them to leave Princess Rhaenyra’s reputation unbesmirched but to partake in the black arts …

“What do you want in return?” Queen Alicent asked. “You have set this up so beautifully, Larys. What is the cost?”

The cost? Lyman had worked with Larys for years, considered him something of a friend. He had assisted Lyman most diligently in matters of the crown’s coin. House Strong had been among the earliest allies that Princess Rhaenyra had courted. Was that not enough? Was protecting the heir to the Iron Throne from treasonous plots not enough?

Larys’s smile widened.

Apparently not.

Looking between that smile and Queen Alicent’s continued coolness, Lyman felt that he was out of his depth. Such intrigues had never been his forte. But for Princess Rhaenyra, for the crown, he would endure it. He was not blind to the darker aspects of how power was safeguarded. Gods knew what instruments the confessors were using even now against Prince Rhaemond’s assaulter.

“The cost is not steep,” Larys replied. “Given the circumstances, I would wager you will find my terms perfectly reasonable. I merely require three favours, Your Grace.”

“Which are?” Lyman prodded, beginning to get tired of the man’s obfuscation.

Larys raised a single finger. “Firstly, for my spy to be legitimised by the crown princess once she becomes queen.” He raised a second. “Then for her to always have access to the Hightower.” A third. “And lastly, a favour for myself, as of yet undetermined.”

“Legitimised?” the queen asked. “So your spy is some lord’s bastard that wants to improve her station?”

“My half-sister, Alys,” he revealed. “Let us just say that my father is not quite as virtuous as he pretends to be.”

At this point, Lyman had thought he had lost the ability to be surprised. However, the knowledge that Lord Lyonel Strong – stalwart champion of honour – had a natural daughter that was a witch proved his assumption wrong.

“To my knowledge, Lord Lyonel has never brought up this Alys to the king,” Queen Alicent said. “Nor has word of her ever reached my ear. She is not even acknowledged, is she?”

“Of course not,” Larys replied with a chuckle. “That would require my father casting away his veil of righteousness and admitting that he is just as susceptible to lust as any common man. To the weaknesses of his body.” Lyman could not stop his eyes from flicking towards Larys’s clubfoot. “No, I wish to bring his sins into the light, Your Grace.” Despite the … relish in his voice, there was a barely detectable undercurrent of anger as well.

“And for Alys to always have access to the Hightower?” she asked, confusion clear on her face.

Lyman did not blame the queen for seeking clarification; it was an unusual request.

“I do not quite understand how these matters work,” Larys replied. “But there are places that have more power than others. Harrenhal. The Hightower. Apparently, Alys rather enjoys the taste of the magic there.” He shrugged his shoulders in a what-can-you-do sort of manner.

That was … Lyman did not even know what to say to that. Matters of magic were too far beyond his ken.

“And lastly, an unspecified favour for yourself?” Queen Alicent asked.

Larys simply nodded.

That could be pretty much anything. Land. A lordship. Lyman had been planning on grooming Larys as his successor as Master of Coin but this conversation was making him rethink that plan. It was revealing a side to the man that he had never seen before. A side more nefarious and self-serving than he was comfortable with.

Lyman could not help but glance to the queen, looking for some insight into her thoughts and feelings. However, her face was like stone as she regarded Larys.

“Three favours, that is all,” Larys said. “Three favours and the most significant of your problems disappear into the wind.” His hand made a fluttering motion in the air. “With minimal loss of life and no evidence that leads back to the crown or Princess Rhaenyra. I would say that is a most equitable arrangement.”

It seemed so simple, so easy. And therein lay the temptation. To have a witch kill Lord Hightower, it was not the godly, righteous choice. How might the Seven judge Lyman if he was party to such?

But then … Queen Alicent was prepared to risk being damned as a kinslayer to see this end. Princess Rhaenyra to sacrifice her honour and the good will she had cultivated among the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. Was Lyman a hypocrite if he allowed them to do so but held to his own moral scruples?

The princess had worked so hard for so long. She did not deserve the realm to turn on her for answering Lord Hightower’s provocations. For not letting a small, ambitious man rob her of her birthright. Lyman would protect her from that judgment if he could.

He turned and caught the queen’s eye. Once he was sure that he had her attention, Lyman gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Queen Alicent held his gaze for several heartbeats before turning back to Larys.

“You said you think Alys can accomplish this with minimal casualties?” she asked. “I would not see my youngest cousins harmed if possible. Lyonel is just a boy and Martyn a babe. They have done no wrong.” The queen took a deep breath. “But my uncle and his sons need to die.”

“That can probably be arranged,” Larys replied. “Alys is little Martyn’s wet nurse and I am sure she could ensure the boys are left unaffected. However, if you truly wish for three Hightowers to die without suspicion being cast on Princess Rhaenyra, it would need to look like an accident. A large one. There may be collateral damage.”

A fire maybe? Some kind of disease? What options did a witch have at her disposal?

Queen Alicent thought it over before looking to Lyman once again. For Princess Rhaenyra, and the queen she would one day be. He gave another nod of his head.

“Very well, Larys,” the queen said. “We accept your offer.”

Chapter Text

As they left their meeting with Larys, Lyman and Queen Alicent had a brief conversation over whether they should tell Princess Rhaenyra of this plan to have Alys Rivers use witchcraft to kill Lord Hightower. In the end, they decided not to.

The queen was not convinced that she fully trusted Larys and disliked the thought of hanging all their hopes on a natural-born woman they had never met. If Alys failed in her task, the princess would be forced to go through with her original plan of burning the Hightower so it seemed wrong to give her false hope. Her being unaware would also give her another layer of deniability if Lord Hightower did perish in unusual circumstances. Should Alys Rivers succeed, they resolved to come clean to Princess Rhaenyra then.

After coming to that agreement, Queen Alicent and Lyman hurried to the Small Council chamber for that morning’s emergency meeting. As had been the case for moons, the king’s chair sat empty at the top of the table. With Princess Rhaenys having been on the Stepstones since the crown had heard of Prince Daemon’s death, the seat occupied by the Mistress of Laws was vacant as well.

However, the rest of the Small Council was in attendance including, in a rare instance, Ser Harrold. The infiltration of the Red Keep by Prince Aemon’s would-be kidnappers must have been a breach serious enough for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to leave his customary place at the king’s door and take up his own seat.

Princess Rhaenyra was no longer in her soiled dragonriding leathers but had either not had time to sort out her appearance or had not cared enough to. She had changed into a dress at least, one with sleeves loose enough not to bother her injured arm. On the other hand, her hair was still in the braids she had worn to battle and Lyman was sure he could see blood at her hairline.

Around the table, the tiredness was clear on everyone’s faces. Well, apart from Ser Tyland. The Master of Ships had apparently enjoyed an uninterrupted night’s sleep, not having been made aware that anything was wrong until Syrax landed in the keep that morning. Ser Tyland was also the only member of the Small Council that had bothered to bring his orb of office to the emergency meeting. It looked rather out of place, alone on the table.

Lyman could not help but feel uneasy as he settled into his seat, glancing at Lord Lyonel out of the corner of his eye. For the deal that had been struck would see the lord Hand’s natural daughter legitimised in what was clearly intended as a humiliation. Earlier that morning, Lyman had given little thought to Lord Lyonel himself but now, in the same room as him, he could feel the guilt stirring in his chest. Guilt at what felt like a betrayal of the man he had served the crown with for decades.

However, Lyman pushed that guilt down. He could not allow himself to regret his actions, not when they would see Princess Rhaenyra rise to the throne unsullied in the eyes of the lords and ladies of the realm. Besides, Lyman consoled himself, Lord Lyonel was hardly blameless for the event that had seen this Alys conceived. An event he had apparently taken little responsibility for if the girl had not even been acknowledged by him.

There was no need for the lord Hand to call the meeting to order; everyone was already waiting in silence when he began speaking. “Crown Princess, if you would give a brief summary of the events of yesterday for those that are unaware.”

Princess Rhaenyra nodded in acknowledgement. “I received a raven late yesterday afternoon from Dragonstone indicating that Vermithor and Silverwing, the old king and queen’s dragons, had been claimed by unknown riders.” Her eyes were moving around the table but Lyman was sure she was glancing at Ser Tyland more than anyone else. Ser Tyland who was looking more and more alarmed with every word that the princess spoke.

“Are you telling me that the crown has lost control of two dragons and this council was not immediately informed?” Ser Tyland was normally a reserved man but this was the most animated that Lyman had seen him.

“Not anymore,” the princess replied calmly. “Laenor and I flew out to meet them when we started hearing reports that dragons were burning their way from Duskendale towards King’s Landing. Silverwing retreated after her rider died and we were able to kill Vermithor between us. Though Seasmoke is dead and Laenor severely injured.”

“Ser Laenor has suffered multiple broken bones and burns,” the Grand Maester added. “I have done what I can and left him in the care of some maesters specialised in healing. If he lives out the day, I would say his chances are good. So long as his burns do not fester.”

“I should have been informed of this!” Ser Tyland protested. “The rest of you obviously knew. We all sit this council together to manage the realm.” His arm waved angrily as he spoke, a red flush crawling up his cheeks.

It was not strictly true that the other members of the council had all known about the stolen dragons. The Grand Maester had not been notified that anything was amiss until he was called upon to treat first Prince Rhaemond and then Ser Laenor. Lyman was unsure how much Ser Harrold had known either, though the seasoned knight had looked unsurprised by Princess Rhaenyra’s telling.

“Get a hold of yourself, Tyland,” Lord Lyonel commanded. “We did not wish to cause panic in the city and thought the less people that knew, the better.”

The princess continued to lean back in her chair but the expression on her face as she regarded Ser Tyland … it was not dissimilar to the way Syrax looked at goats presented to her. Was Ser Tyland party to his brother’s desire to see Prince Aemon on the throne or not? Could they trust him?

“While I am sure we are all relieved that this threat has been neutralised by Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s decisive actions, I do wonder how it occurred in the first place,” the Grand Maester queried. “And who these mysterious riders were.”

“A party of people were able to ascend the Dragonmont undetected,” the princess replied. “A lapse in Dragonstone’s security that will not be repeated, I assure you.” She paused a moment. “Of the riders themselves, I know little. Only that they were both silver-haired and I believe both men. By the end, Vermithor’s rider was too badly burnt to discern more than that. They were likely dragonseeds.”

“I do not believe we can assume these men acted alone in deciding to illegally claim dragons and ride for our capital,” Lord Lyonel said. “Alongside what else happened last night, it points to a far larger, more dangerous plot.”

An expression of confusion came over Ser Tyland’s face. But was it genuine or feigned? “What else happened last night?” he asked.

“Prince Aemon was nearly kidnapped,” Queen Alicent replied, her voice hoarse from the emotion of the last day. “The attempt failed but Prince Rhaemond has—” She took a moment to steady herself and Lyman saw the queen’s throat bob as she swallowed. “He has lost an eye.”

“Maegor’s Holdfast was breached?” Ser Tyland turned, askance, to look at Ser Harrold. “How could this have happened?”

“Another lapse that will not reoccur,” Ser Harrold replied, his jaw clenching. “The surviving kidnapper is with the confessors now. He will be made to reveal all that he knows.”

Which, according to Larys, seemed to be very little. Though they had suspected the man had no information of great import.

Lord Lyonel straightened in his seat. “I am going to speak frankly to this council now. In the moons since King Viserys sickened, turmoil has come to the realm. Prince Daemon has been killed. We are at war with the Triarchy. Dragonfire has been unleashed upon our lands and an attempt made to kidnap the king’s eldest son. Now, more than ever, we need strong, clear leadership. Leadership that I have been unable to provide within my position as Hand of the King.”

He did not look ashamed as he laid out his perceived failings before all of them, speaking in a matter-of-fact manner. Lyman was unsure if he agreed with the lord Hand’s assessment, believing that the man had been placed in a difficult position and had acted as well as he could. However, Lyman did agree that this situation required strong leadership. Although the plans already in motion to end the Hightower threat hopefully rendered this discussion moot.

“To that end,” Lord Lyonel continued, “I propose that the crown princess be made Princess Regent and Protector of the Realm while the king remains incapacitated.”

Princess Regent? Regencies were traditionally only used for cases where a rightful ruler had yet to reach their majority. And granting Princess Rhaenyra the title Protector of the Realm as well would give her the ability to call on the crown’s military strength. The only non-monarch to hold that title had been Lord Rogar Baratheon during King Jaehaerys’s minority. The lord Hand was essentially suggesting that the princess be conferred with the full power of King Viserys while he was unable to wield it himself.

Princess Rhaenyra’s eyes had widened at this suggestion but she quickly gathered herself. Peering around the room, Ser Harrold looked approving, Queen Alicent contemplative and the Grand Maester and Ser Tyland hesitant.

“Is that– is that an option that we have available to us?” Grand Maester Alester asked slowly. “Without Princess Rhaenys, we do not have our authority on the laws of the land but I do not recall such an arrangement ever having been made before.”

“That is because it has not been,” the lord Hand replied. “But I feel that we have reached the limit of what can be decreed by law and past precedent.”

Ser Tyland was shaking his head. “We have precedent though. It is the lord Hand that rules when the king cannot.” He gestured towards Lord Lyonel. “As it was when King Jaehaerys grew too old to rule, as it has been while King Viserys is ill.”

Lord Lyonel did not look moved by the Master of Ship’s argument. “A precedent I fear I clung to too strongly. Ser Otto ruled the realm in King Jaehaerys’s name during a time of relative peace and prosperity. There were no conflicts that necessitated decisive action outside of the powers that he wielded. We are not experiencing such a time now.”

That was true enough. What would they have done if the Seven Kingdoms had found themselves at war while King Jaehaerys was bedbound? Continue to follow Ser Otto’s leadership or invest power in the heir to the Iron Throne?

“You have my support for this,” Ser Harrold said. “King Viserys decreed that it be Princess Rhaenyra that follows him onto the throne. She is his chosen successor, she can rule in his stead.” He was regarding the crown princess with a look of pride on his face.

“I agree,” Queen Alicent added. “After the events of last night, it is more important than ever that the crown is strong. That the lords and ladies of the realm are aware of that strength. We need a figurehead if the king cannot carry out such himself.”

Princess Rhaenyra looked moved by the words spoken by her former sworn shield and by her wife, eyes bright.

“Such an investiture of power would the sensible option,” Lyman said. “Especially with the multiple threats arrayed against the crown.”

Lord Lyonel was a fine Hand but he had not been made to lead the realm through difficult times. But Princess Rhaenyra had.

They regarded the Grand Maester and Ser Tyland, waiting to see how the two men would respond.

“I do not wish to overreach this council’s authority,” Alester said nervously. “I was selected to provide guidance to the king on behalf of the Citadel. Not to make decisions on matters such as this.”

Ser Tyland nodded in agreement.

Lord Lyonel did not look satisfied at this response. “With no prescribed way of declaring Princess Rhaenyra as regent and Protector of the Realm, I am taking a majority of this council as authority enough. However, I would prefer if we could agree unanimously for the sake of presenting this to the court and the wider realm.” His hand smacked the table for emphasis. “We are the ones King Viserys selected to help govern, to advise him. We are the ones he trusts. I believe that this is what the king would want. What the realm needs.”

“What the realm needs?” The Grand Maester paused for a long moment, raising a hand to rub at his chin. A look of resolve then came over his lined face. “For the sake of the realm then; very well, I accede.”

All eyes went to Ser Tyland. If he was involved in the same scheme as his brother to see Prince Aemon crowned, now would be the time to act on that intent. To not give the crown princess his full support as she assumed these new responsibilities.

“Then, for the sake of the crown we are sworn to serve, I agree too,” Ser Tyland said, dipping his head in a bow to Princess Rhaenyra.

Lyman could not say he was unsurprised. Perhaps they had misjudged Ser Tyland Lannister.

“In that case, by the power vested in me as Hand of the King and the full agreement of this council, I declare Princess Rhaenyra as Princess Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Lyonel boomed.

As they banged their fists on the table, the princess rose to her feet. “I thank you for your trust, my lords, Your Grace. I will do my utmost to prove worthy of it and to steer the Seven Kingdoms through this perilous time.”

The lord Hand motioned with his head towards the head of the table. To the seat that had remained unoccupied since the king sickened.

Taking his meaning, the princess regent rose to her feet, rounded the table and took up her new place.

Honeyholt

Ser Mathis Beesbury was tired. With his father in the capital, all the duties of their ancestral lands had fallen to him, including responsibility for the lives of those that lived there. The last few moons had been tense as Mathis prepared Honeyholt for a potential attack from the south, from Oldtown.

Both his parents were convinced that Lord Hightower had designs to see Prince Aemon ascend the throne if King Viserys did fall to the illness that had him in its grip. Mathis was unsure if he believed it himself but who was he to argue with the will of his lord father? So he gathered weaponry, he drilled the men, he made sure plans were in place to evacuate those that could not fight to Horn Hill if needed.

Despite all those preparations though, Mathis never actually expected that it would come to war. That was why he was so rattled by the latest raven he had received from his mother. Dragons stolen and unleashed on the Crownlands. Princess Rhaenyra and her consort injured fighting them. An attempt to kidnap Prince Aemon. Another of the princes losing an eye. If it was Lord Hightower behind these outrageous events, the crown would have to strike back. And House Beesbury was among the nearest that could be mustered.

Mathis did not relish the thought of attacking Oldtown. He had friends in the city. Guards that he had trained alongside and that had been keeping him updated these past moons. Merchants he had known since boyhood. Tavern owners that always welcomed him with a pint of ale.

He left his mother’s letter at his desk and decided to get a breath of air to clear his head. It was a mild and clear evening, the sun having set and stars beginning to emerge. Mathis’s gaze instinctively turned to the south. With the encroaching darkness, he could just make out the orange-yellow glimmer of the Hightower’s beacon glowing above the horizon.

It had seemed romantic to him as a boy, an unwavering light to guide ships into port. Nowadays, he had men of his household whose sole duty was to keep Mathis appraised of its colour.

He closed his eyes for a moment to rest them. Who knew when he would have a waking moment to himself again. But when Mathis opened them again, the light … it had changed, it was– no, he must be imagining things. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut before checking again but he could still see … Mathis gave his eyes a harsh rub, praying they were deceiving him. But no, the light was clear in the distance, far brighter than he would ever have expected.

Green.

The court accepted Princess Rhaenyra’s new position readily enough. They too had felt the turmoil in the Red Keep as King Viserys grew ill and threats to the realm emerged. According to Rosamund, having a clear leader at the helm was appreciated by many.

However, over the next several days, little actually changed. The confessors were able to extract a description of the man that had hired Prince Aemon’s would-be kidnappers and the location they were to bring him to. The blue cloaks had torn through the underbelly of King’s Landing in response but could find no trace of the man or new leads on his location.

Lord Lyonel believed that Princess Rhaenyra was seeking proof of Lord Hightower’s treasons and remained unaware of her plan to have Vhagar fly on Oldtown. Meanwhile, the princess herself was unaware that Alys Rivers might render such action unnecessary.

Then Lady Laena and Princess Rhaenys returned to court. Vhagar and Meleys had left the Stepstones separately but the differences in their flight speeds meant they reached King’s Landing on the same morning. After reuniting with Ladies Baela and Rhaena, the two women spent several hours with Ser Laenor. According to the Grand Maester, the knight was past the most dangerous period – thank the gods – but he was only regaining consciousness for brief periods at a time.

After Lady Laena and Princess Rhaenys had spent time with their brother and son respectively, they ensconced themselves with Princess Rhaenyra. Lyman was unsure what was discussed exactly but he was later told that the two women agreed with the necessity of attacking the Hightower. Not that he would have expected otherwise with everything that had come to pass.

Lyman tried to talk to Larys about what kind of time frame Alys Rivers might be working to but he rather enigmatically replied that it would happen when it happened. This did nothing to reassure Lyman and he was starting to wonder if Vhagar would be forced to burn the Hightower anyway. A feeling that grew as Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena began quietly discussing a possible date of departure.

Oldtown

Archmaester Vaegon was not in a pleasant mood that evening. If Burton truly thought he was worthy of earning a yellow-gold link for his maester’s chain, he would need to demonstrate a more thorough knowledge of accounting than he had that afternoon. The Citadel was responsible for sending maesters across the realm to assist ruling lords and ladies in their duties. Vaegon refused to be the cause of mistakes in their ledgers.

Hoping to distract himself from the arrogance and stupidity of youth, Archmaester Vaegon began to walk towards the library to swap some books. Crossing one of the many bridges that spanned the Honeywine, Vaegon found himself pausing to look downriver. For much of his tenure in Oldtown, he had not paid much mind to the Hightower. It was a marvel of architecture, to be sure, but that topic had never held much interest for Vaegon. However, his feelings towards the Hightower had changed in recent decades.

Maesters gave up their house name when they swore their vows. They were meant to be entirely neutral, loyal only to the ideals of learning and to the seats they were assigned. It was this neutrality that had enabled the maesters to serve the realm throughout war, upheaval and other conflicts. Maesters were not meant to be stripped of their chains, as Maester Garlon had been, because the Hightowers were unhappy about losing the allegiance of House Beesbury.

Archmaester Vaegon had protested the decision. If the Citadel bowed to the whims of Lord Hightower whenever he threatened its funding, where would that leave the maesters’ neutrality? However, Vaegon had been overruled, with the other archmaesters cautioning him that he risked letting old family ties influence his thinking. Which was a load of tosh! Vaegon had happily shed the name Targaryen, along with his princely title, and had no lingering allegiance to his old family. Nor to his great-nie– to Princess Rhaenyra. He had not though regarded the Hightower with any fondness since.

Especially in recent moons, with Lord Hobert Hightower stirring up the Faith in Oldtown. The Citadel might keep the maesters isolated from the general population but they were not completely cut off; rumour and gossip still reached their ears. Talk had spread that some septons had started denouncing the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, saying that Prince Aemon was the rightful heir. Which was only Archmaester Vaegon’s business insofar as such talk might bring the wrath of the crown down on Oldtown and, consequently, the Citadel.

Now, one of his nep– Prince Daemon was dead and the realm at war with the Triarchy. Such discord affected everyone, from the king to the lowest labourer. And the Hightowers were making matters worse. But politics was not the purview of Archmaester Vaegon. He turned away from the white tower with its shining beacon and continued towards the library.

Vaegon’s vision was bathed in green light.

He heard the booming noise seconds later as the ground trembled beneath him. Nearly losing his footing, Vaegon dropped his books as he fought to steady himself.

Green light in Oldtown meant only one thing – the beacon summoning the Hightower banners to war – but what had that sound been?

Vaegon turned back towards the Hightower.

The beacon was not glowing green. Indeed, the beacon was not glowing any colour at all because it was no longer there. The top of the tower had been blown clear off, green fire emerging from what were now the highest floors and wreathing the entire edifice in an uncanny glow.

Vaegon Targaryen allowed a smile to curl his lips at the sight.

When the news reached King’s Landing that something had happened in Oldtown, it was garbled and confused. The raven from Mathis at Honeyholt was the first, announcing that the Hightower beacon was glowing green, calling their banners. Lyman had thought that Lord Hightower’s recent failures had driven him to drop all pretences and declare open war. That Larys’s baseborn sister had not acted quickly enough or was unable to.

The Small Council was sitting an emergency session on how to respond when more ravens began arriving. The other Hightower vassals that were loyal to the crown – Houses Mullendore and Costayne – reported similar tidings and that they were mustering their own men in response. But the ravens from Oldtown itself … that the gods had struck the Hightower in their wrath; that half the tower had fallen into Whispering Sound.

As the afternoon approached its end, all the Small Council had decided was that a dragonrider should be sent to Oldtown to find out what in the seven hells was going on there. Then the most coherent message received thus far came from the Citadel: that the top of the tower – the part containing the beacon itself and the Hightower family chambers – had been blown off in a fiery green explosion. Lyman had carefully avoided meeting Queen Alicent’s eyes as this news was relayed, focusing instead on looking as askance as his fellow councillors.

With it possible that the realm’s second-largest city now lacked any leadership, and wanting to verify this news, Princess Rhaenys left to fly to Oldtown on Meleys to settle the situation there. Despite the Grand Maester’s protests, she was cautioned to approach the city carefully in case the Citadel had turned its cloak and was involved in some elaborate trap.

The following week was relatively quiet in King’s Landing as they waited to hear back from Princess Rhaenys, though every arriving raven was regarded with vague dread until the message it carried had been ascertained. Security in the Red Keep had been tightened after everything that had happened and no petitioners were being heard at the moment. Lyman’s attention was occupied with financing aid to the people of Duskendale and the villages that had been razed along the coast. He found himself hesitant to delegate tasks to Larys, as he had done in the past, after Lyman’s recent insight into the man’s true character. In turn, this was leaving Lyman with an increased workload himself.

Of Princess Rhaenyra, he did not see much of her that week outside of their official duties. Her new role as Princess Regent meant that much of the work Lord Lyonel had been carrying out now fell to her. As news of the dragon attack in the Crownlands began to spread across the realm, she had to reassure other houses that such would not befall their own lands. The princess had also, understandably, wished to focus on her family as well after the traumas that they had suffered in recent weeks. Lyman’s heart ached imagining how they must all be feeling after Prince Rhaemond had been maimed in their very home and Ser Laenor injured so severely.

Despite what he suspected regarding events in Oldtown and Alys Rivers, Lyman was relieved when the red form of Meleys returned to King’s Landing late one evening.

“Princess Rhaenys will make a full report to the Small Council on the morrow but I thought you should be aware of a few details first,” Princess Rhaenyra said as she settled on the settee in his rooms a few hours after her good-mother had returned.

“Given that no urgent session of the Small Council has been convened, I assume that Oldtown has not called its banners to war?” Lyman asked as he began pouring her a goblet of wine. He was nearly certain whatever had happened had been the work of Alys Rivers but he needed to be sure.

“No,” she replied, taking the goblet of wine he offered to her. “The top of the Hightower is gone. As far as Princess Rhaenys can gather, the explosion claimed the lives of Lord Hobert Hightower, his eldest son and heir, Ser Ormund, and his second son, Ser Robeson. And Ser Bryndon, Alicent’s oldest brother.”

There was a tinge of sadness on the princess’s face at this last. However, Lyman scarce noticed it. Lord Hightower was dead. A weight that he had not even noticed he carried eased as relief washed over him. Lord Hightower was dead. His infernal plots and machinations were at an end. Lyman need no longer fear waking to news that another member of the royal family had been hurt or worse.

“Along with a score of household guards and servants,” the princess continued. “The most popular theory at present is that it was a mistake by the Alchemists' Guild. That the powder it provides to light the beacon green when needed was in some way flawed and that this caused the explosion.” Her gaze fixed on Lyman then. “Of course, they do not know about the witch.”

He winced. “So you are aware—”

“Of the deal you and Alicent agreed with Larys?” she interrupted. “Yes. Alys Rivers was waiting for Princess Rhaenys when she landed outside Oldtown’s walls. She knew exactly where the princess was going to land as well. It was apparently a rather eerie conversation all things considered.” Princess Rhaenyra did not sound angry exactly but the frustration was clear in her voice.

“I am sorry, princess,” Lyman said. “The queen and I were unsure if this witch would succeed and we did not want to mention our deal with Larys unless it came to fruition. I would not have expected her to seek Princess Rhaenys out in Oldtown.”

She waved him off. “Alicent has already offered apology enough. I can understand why you thought this route preferable to blackening my reputation. And it is not as though my house has any particular compunctions about magic.”

There were rumours occasionally muttered about such undertakings by Queen Visenya. Lyman had never given weight to these but perhaps …

Princess Rhaenyra took a long gulp of her wine. “Princess Rhaenys reports that Ser Ormund’s children were unharmed so that is something.”

“Queen Alicent will be relieved,” he replied. “The fate of her youngest cousins was a worry to her.”

“None of us wished for children to be hurt if it could be avoided.” She ran a rough hand over her forehead. “Gods though, what am I going to tell Lord Lyonel when I eventually legitimise his natural daughter? What am I going to tell Harwin?”

“You are happy then to fulfil the terms of this pact?” Lyman asked. “Even though it was not one of your making?”

“I would not say I was happy but I will not make oathbreakers of you and Alicent. Besides, it does not seem wise to break faith with a witch that apparently has visions of the future.”

“Visions of the future?”

The princess nodded. “Something Princess Rhaenys says Alys alluded to in Oldtown. Along with some vague message about people trying to take what was not theirs. All considered, I would much rather have Alys Rivers as an ally than an enemy. Though one kept at arm’s length.”

That would be for the best. It would not do to spurn the woman, especially if what Princess Rhaenys suspected of her powers was true. However, they did not need rumours associating the heir to the Iron Throne with witchcraft.

“From the way he spoke, I believe Larys means her legitimisation to be an insult to Lord Lyonel,” Lyman confessed. “And he seemed to rather … relish the prospect.”

“Harwin has shared little of his childhood over the years but I believe there has long been bad feeling between Lord Lyonel and Larys,” she replied, taking another sip of her wine. “Of his three wives, Lord Lyonel loved Larys’s mother the best and was most affected by her passing birthing him. There has always been a certain amount of resentment there.”

That was not Larys’s fault. Though such feelings were hardly based in rationality.

“I suppose that I will just have to tell them some version of the truth: that Alys is being legitimised after aiding the crown,” Princess Rhaenyra continued. “To the court, we can perhaps spin a tale that Lord Lyonel was unaware of Alys’s existence until recently. That her legitimisation is a boon after his decades of service. Larys still has a favour of his own to use so will need to be appeased by that.” Her gaze focused on Lyman. “Have you any inkling what his favour may be? You know the man better than I.”

“A lordship or a higher position at court would be my best guess,” he replied. “He is a second son so likely wants to secure an inheritance of his own.”

“We will just have to wait and see, I suppose.” She then gave a shake of her head. “But anyway, Oldtown. The new Lord of the Hightower is Lord Hobert’s grandson, Lyonel, a boy of seven. He and his younger brother were visiting with their mother in her chambers further down the tower when the explosion took place.”

At seven, the little lord would be too young to take up his house seat until he reached his majority.

“Will you confirm his inheritance then?” Lyman asked. “Is his mother to serve as his regent?”

“This is where I will need to politick.” The princess did not sound eager about the prospect. “Little Lord Hightower's mother, Lady Talla, was born of House Redwyne. We have long believed that the Redwynes were up to their necks in Lord Hobert’s plots but, as with him, there was never proof. I intend to offer Lady Talla and Lord Redwyne the following terms: Lyonel will be recognised as Lord Hightower and, to demonstrate their continued support of the crown, the Redwyne fleet will join our war with the Triarchy. I feel confident they will agree, to one day see their blood rule Oldtown.”

Well, at least the Redwynes would put all those ships they had built to good use. And, if Lady Talla and Lord Redwyne were smart, they would recognise the mercy that Princess Rhaenyra was granting them.

“However,” she continued, “I am uncomfortable giving Lady Talla her son’s regency under the circumstances.” That was sensible. If it was left to the Redwynes, they would likely start cheating the crown on Oldtown’s taxes! “Instead, I intend to ask her to bring her sons to court, where they will be fostered until the time for Lyonel to take up his lordship grows near.”

Ensuring that Lyonel would grow up alongside his cousins and Prince Jacaerys, under the supervision of Princess Rhaenyra. Oldtown’s ties to the crown should be assured once more, especially if true friendships developed between the children.

“So who is going to be regent then?” he asked. Ser Gwayne was a possibility but Lyman had never found the youngest of Queen Alicent’s brothers to be particularly … learned.

Princess Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked away before meeting his own again. “Princess Rhaenys installed a temporary ruler before leaving Oldtown. From a house of known loyalty to the crown but also familiar with Oldtown itself. Mathis was apparently rather shocked to be selected but I believe he will do a fine job and I will officialise his appointment as regent until Lyonel is of age.”

Mathis?

“You intend to install my son as Oldtown’s regent?” He could not keep the incredulity out of his voice. It was hardly natural to have the heir of a vassal house rule in their liege lord’s stead.

“Alan is old enough now to rule Honeyholt while you are both occupied,” she replied. “Besides, it demonstrates that loyalty to the crown will not go unrewarded.”

“Even so—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “The Grand Maester to see you, princess,” Ser Lorent announced.

The princess jerked at this, forehead scrunching in concern. Ser Laenor was meant to be on the road to recovery but such matters could unexpectedly turn.

After being bid entry, Alester was quick to fall into a bow before revealing the reason behind his presence. “It is the king, princess. He has regained awareness and is asking for you.”

Chapter Text

The explosion at the top of the Hightower shocked the realm. The second-most-powerful house in the Reach losing its lord and heir in one fell swoop sent ripples throughout that kingdom and beyond. Despite an error from the Alchemists’ Guild being labelled by the Citadel as the most likely cause, that did not prevent conjecture on other possibilities.

Some believed that the Hightowers must have been calling their banners when the accident occurred, though for what possible purpose was debated. One theory – thought to have emerged from within the Faith – was that the explosion was the work of the gods; a punishment for House Hightower’s hubris. Others were more fanciful. Lyman had no idea where the rumour came from that a sea serpent had emerged from Whispering Sound and bitten off the top of the tower. How could that have caused the fire?

No whispers reached Rosamund that the crown may have had something to do with it. Though few people had reason to suspect that the crown had cause and would want to keep such musings to themselves. Lord Lyonel had given Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent a few suspicious glances when the Hightower explosion was discussed at Small Council meetings but he did not question them directly.

King Viserys had regained lucidity but, as the weeks passed, it became clear his strength would not return after his illness. Nor did he seem to be much concerned with that fact. According to Princess Rhaenyra, the news of Prince Daemon’s death had dealt the king a significant blow, despite the fact that the brothers had so often been at odds over the years.

That blow – combined with the ongoing war with the Triarchy, the dragon attack on Duskendale and the events in Oldtown – had knocked away whatever desire King Viserys had to resume his duties. Indeed, no objection was raised to Princess Rhaenyra having assumed the positions of Princess Regent and Protector of the Realm while he was unwell. When the king summoned the Small Council to his solar, he announced that he was happy for matters to carry on as they were. For Princess Rhaenyra to continue to manage the realm in his stead.

None of them offered much beyond a token protest to this decision. Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent had little faith remaining in the king’s leadership abilities and thought it more secure to have his daughter holding the reins of the kingdom.

It was also felt by them to be too big a risk to confide in King Viserys the truth of the events of the past moons. Instead, he was fed the same narrative as the wider realm: that dragonseeds had claimed Vermithor and Silverwing with unknown goals and that the Hightower explosion seemed to have been a tragic accident.

Given Prince Rhaemond’s maiming, the attempted kidnapping of Prince Aemon could not be obfuscated. However, it was not mentioned to King Viserys that they suspected the Hightowers of being behind this, lest he then draw a connection to events in Oldtown. No, the king was left in blissful ignorance of how close they had come to ruin.

Several weeks after the Hightower explosion, Princess Rhaenyra and Lyman settled down with cups of tea and a plate of cakes in the latter’s office.

“I apologise that I have had little time to talk to you recently,” the princess said, blowing on her tea to cool it. “With everything going on …”

Lyman waved her apology off. “That is quite all right, princess. I understand.”

Assuming the role of Princess Regent and dealing with the effects of Lord Hightower’s plots had left Princess Rhaenyra with limited free time. Even now, the exhaustion was clear in the pallor of her face. This past moon had not been easy for any of them.

“It should not be too long now until Laena returns to Tyrosh,” she said. “We are fairly confident that matters are calm here for the moment. Then the Triarchy can finally be put to rest. That will lighten the load.” She reached over and picked up one of her favoured lemon cakes, popping the candied slice on top into her mouth first.

“Lord Velaryon has done well maintaining the blockade without the support of dragons,” he replied. “Though the Redwyne fleet helped matters.”

The princess nodded, swallowing her treat. “Let it never be said that Lord Corlys is not a competent admiral. Though I will be sad to see Laena go. She has been doing a fine job of keeping Laenor occupied.”

“How is Ser Laenor? The last I saw of him, he seemed rather low in mood.”

Ser Laenor was presently bedbound as his broken bones and burns healed. In a moment when he found himself alone with the knight, Lyman was able to thank him for his selfless actions – which had likely saved Princess Rhaenyra’s life. Ser Laenor had brushed off his thanks, stating that he had been fulfilling his duty, both as her consort and as a subject of the crown. However, the words had been spoken with little inflection, Ser Laenor’s face blank.

Princess Rhaenyra looked pained at this question. “Physically, according to the maesters, he is healing as well as can be expected. He has started doing stretches to help with the after-effects of his burns.” She flexed her left arm, though the material of her dress hid her own burns from view. “But they are unsure how much mobility his leg will regain and the loss of Seasmoke … it has left a void.”

“Would it be possible for Ser Laenor to claim another dragon?” Lyman asked.

Little was known about the dragons by the wider realm, House Targaryen keeping its secrets closely guarded. Septon Barth had written a book on the subject but Lyman had never read it himself and did not know how much detail it went into.

The princess nodded. “Before the Doom, it did happen that a rider would outlive their mount. Some chose to never take another but others did.” Almost unconsciously, she raised a hand and rubbed at her sternum. “It will be too raw for Laenor to consider at the moment but maybe in a few years, when his grief has settled, he might think on it.” Her gaze was distant.

Despite there being no other outward signs, he was sure that she was tugging on her own bond with Syrax. The dragon was now recovering in the Dragonpit but her encounter with Vermithor had not left her without scars. They had not been flying since returning to the Red Keep with Ser Laenor but Princess Rhaenyra visited with her dragon as much as her duties allowed. It had never been said aloud but Lyman suspected that she wished to affirm her connection with Syrax given what Ser Laenor was going through.

To have your soul bonded to another creature and then to lose that connection, it was no wonder Ser Laenor was struggling. And there were few people that could empathise with what the knight was going through.

“Have you considered asking King Viserys to speak to Ser Laenor?” he asked. “He lost his own dragon, after all. If anyone can understand what Ser Laenor is feeling, it would be His Grace.”

She thought on it for a couple of seconds before replying, “I will think about it. My father claimed Balerion less than a year prior to his passing so it is not the same as Laenor and Seasmoke, who bonded in the cradle. Beyond that, I am unsure if he even liked being a dragonrider. I tried to talk to him about riding Balerion a few times in my youth but I got the impression he had feared him. There is a reason my father has never tired to claim another dragon.”

The fabled Black Dread had died before Lyman became Master of Coin so he had never seen the great beast himself. However, the tales from the Conquest and from Maegor’s usurpation painted a formidable picture. With his now decades-long familiarity with King Viserys, Lyman would not have thought the two were suited to each other in terms of temperament.

“Besides,” the princess continued, frustration coming over her face, “my father seems to have little care for any matters beyond that damned model of his. I understand that he is not fully recovered from his illness, nor will he ever be. However, I had hoped that after Aemon’s near kidnapping and Rhaemond losing an eye, he might be shocked into trying to reach out to them. However, he is content to dwell on his histories and on old memories with Princess Rhaenys.”

The king had always been ambivalent about his children with his second wife. Though Lyman would have expected him to muster up some concern given the severity of Prince Rhaemond’s injury.

“How is Prince Rhaemond coping?” he asked. “He was rather melancholy when I ran into him the other day.” Lyman had been looking for a particular tome in the keep’s library when he saw the prince reading at an out-of-the-way table. While Prince Rhaemond had been courteous in response to Lyman’s attempts at conversation, it was clear he was not fully engaged.

Princess Rhaenyra placed down her cup, making an uncertain gesture with her free hand. “The maesters think his remaining eye is adjusting and starting to compensate for the one that was lost,” she replied. “Rhaemond is not bumping into things or knocking them over as much as he did at first. However, his mood has been … erratic. Laena has been going flying with him when she can. His bond with Caraxes helps settle Rhaemond, I think.”

He nodded. With an injury so severe and permanent, all they could really do was ensure that Prince Rhaemond received the best treatment the maesters could offer and be there for him when needed. Both Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent had lamented in the past that they could not simply pluck out one of their own eyes and offer it to the prince instead. Alas, such was not possible.

“The eye socket itself is healing quicker than I would have expected,” she continued. “The maesters are starting to talk about fitting some kind of false eye, perhaps a gemstone. Apparently, Rhaemond’s face may become misshapen otherwise and fluids can accumulate. There is little that can be done about the scar though.”

The bandages and stitches had been removed from Prince Rhaemond’s face but had revealed an ugly scar to either side of his empty eye socket. The family had adjusted to his new appearance but some among the court were less charitable. The prince had long been a quiet, shy boy and had not taken well to the scrutiny and whispers his face now provoked. Nobody would dare say anything outright to him, or in front of the royal family, but it was noticeable nonetheless.

“Has there been any progress on getting him to return to the training yard?” Lyman asked. “I know after what happened the first time, he was … distressed.”

Although distressed was perhaps not the right word. A scant few weeks after his injury, Prince Rhaemond had tried to resume practising with a sword. It was far sooner than the maesters recommended but he was determined and had snuck out of a lesson while his minders had been otherwise occupied. The prince engaged in a bout with a lad several years his junior but was easily defeated as the boy look advantage of his reduced vision and general unsteadiness.

For Prince Rhaemond, who was the prince most dedicated to swordplay and with the greatest talent for it, this had been the snapping point after his injury. He had destroyed most of his room in a black fury and then not emerged for over a day. To Lyman’s knowledge, the prince had not returned to the training yard since.

“Not as of yet,” the princess replied. “But Joffrey is working on it. He knew a few men while fighting on the Stepstones that had lost eyes. Joffrey is confident that, if Rhaemond puts in the effort, his swordplay can adapt. It is just a matter of getting him back in the yard.”

“That is good,” he commented. “Ser Joffrey is a proficient instructor.”

They sat in silence for a time, Lyman indulging in a few cakes himself. He spared a passing thought to his waistline but figured an indulgence every once in a while could not hurt.

“How is ruling Oldtown suiting Mathis?” Princess Rhaenyra asked. “The reports of him that I have heard thus far have been favourable.”

He straightened in his chair at the compliment to his son. “It is an adjustment for him, to be sure, but Mathis seems to be coping well based on the ravens he has sent. The integrity of the rest of the tower has now been assured, at least.” There had been worries that the explosion may have weakened the Hightower but the maesters that examined it deemed the remaining structure solid. “Lord Tyrell has advised Mathis that he supports his appointment and that Highgarden can be called upon if needed.”

She let out a scoff. “The Tyrells have long thought that the Hightowers overreached their power. I am sure they are delighted to see them brought low.”

Nodding in agreement, Lyman reached for the teapot and topped up their cups. “There is interesting talk swirling around the Faith in Oldtown,” he advised. “Particularly with regards as to who might succeed the High Septon.”

For months the High Septon had been declining in health and it seemed he might soon reach the end of his life. A few among the Faith had been gathering support to make bids to become his successor, including Lord Hobert Hightower’s uncle, Septon Talbert. Princess Rhaenyra’s close circle had feared that possibility, worried that he would revoke the Faith’s support for the princess and strike down the Doctrine of Exceptionalism.

Princess Rhaenyra leant forward in her chair. “Go on,” she prompted.

“Some are saying that the explosion of the Hightower was the will of the gods,” he said. “That it is proof that House Hightower had lost the gods’ favour. Septon Talbert’s popularity among the Most Devout has correspondingly dropped. It does not look likely now that he will ever wear the crystal crown.”

“Gods,” she said with a humourless laugh, “do you remember when we though the extent of Lord Hightower’s plots was turning the Faith against me?”

“Indeed,” Lyman replied, before taking a sip of his tea. “He held his secrets close.”

“I am not quite sure what to do now,” the princess confessed, idly twisting a ring around her finger. “It was always the Hightowers that had the most to gain from disputing my heirship, from getting their own blood on the throne through Aemon. Them that I assumed would be the biggest danger when the king died.”

As soon as Queen Alicent had given birth to a son, the seeds for a conflict with the Hightowers had been sown. The possibility had lessened with the queen’s loyalty to Princess Rhaenyra and then Ser Otto’s death but Lord Hobert Hightower had ensured it never disappeared entirely. Now, however, the head of House Hightower was a seven-year-old boy who had recently arrived at court. Whatever threat the Hightowers presented had been neutralised by the deaths of their most senior members.

“You are not completely out of the woods,” he cautioned, not wanting to bring the mood down but feeling it was better to be realistic. “The Hightowers were always going to be the focal point of any action against you, that much is true. However, there are still others too narrow-minded to believe a woman should ever sit the throne. Or that think they might benefit in some way by supporting Prince Aemon. There could be trouble yet.”

Her jaw clenched and a stormy look entered her eyes. “We showed patience enough in dealing with Lord Hightower and look how that turned out for Daemon, Rhaemond and Laenor. I will not allow lords playing their stupid games for influence and power to hurt my family again.”

“A feeling I can understand given the circumstances,” Lyman replied. “But there may be opportunity to win some of them over before your accession.” While King Viserys lived, the princess had time to appeal to those lords that doubted her. “We suspect Lord Jason Lannister may have been complicit—”

“Oh gods, Lord Jason.” She reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “His wife, Lady Johanna, was never able to find proof that he was in league with the Hightowers. I would not trust the man as far as I could throw him but I do not think he has the nerve to try anything now. Especially with his brother and eldest daughter here in the keep.” Princess Rhaenyra gave a shake of her head before focusing back on him. “As far as securing his loyalty goes, I am certainly not giving Lord Jason the royal marriage he has been seeking.”

“I had an idea for that,” he offered. “Something that may help with those lords reluctant to bend the knee when the time comes.”

“I am all ears in that case, Lyman.”

He took a deep breath before beginning, placing his own cup of tea down on the desk as well. “How many remain alive of the lords that swore to you over a decade and a half ago? Even among the lords paramount and the wardens, there is a new Lord Stark, Lord Baratheon, Lord Lannister and Lord Tyrell.” Of the other two, Lady Jeyne Arryn remained well and Lord Grover Tully was stubbornly clinging to life, despite all expectations to the contrary.

The oaths that had been sworn to Princess Rhaenyra as heir all those years ago had never been renewed, despite King Viserys then going on to father three sons. The succession for the Iron Throne had been legally codified, decreeing that it would firstborn regardless of sex that inherited the crown. However, having this new generation of lords and ladies bend the knee to the princess would not go amiss.

“I believe it would be prudent to call the lords and ladies of the realm to King’s Lading and have them swear anew,” Lyman finished.

She thought it over for a few moments before her nose scrunched up. “Oaths cannot be relied upon. Lord Hobert Hightower bent the knee to me himself and look what happened there.”

“He may have plotted against you regardless of his oath but he did not do so openly. A formal swearing will give others less room to renege on their obligations. Not without being seen as oathbreakers.”

Which was a reputation no person wanted given the importance of fulfilling one’s word.

Princess Rhaenyra slowly nodded. “Very well, we will have the lords summoned to re-swear to me as heir. We just have to deal with the Triarchy first.”

With all the legitimacy she could now wield until wearing the crown itself, the princess turned her attention to defeating the Triarchy. Even though he had lost the support of dragons when his wife and daughter returned to King’s Landing, Lord Velaryon had been able to maintain his blockade on Tyrosh. A blockade that was bolstered by the support of House Redwyne’s ships. Tyrosh was not expected to hold out much longer, with Vhagar due to fly south and rumours swirling of uprisings within the city itself.

However, it was not Tyrosh that was the first of the Triarchy’s cities to offer surrender, it was Lys. The admiral that had led the attack on the Stepstones was a Lyseni, Sharako Lohar. He himself had survived Lady Laena’s immediate retribution for the death of her husband and returned to Lys with what was left of his fleet. A fleet of which the vast majority of the surviving ships were Lysene. When Lohar was slain, the exact circumstances were disputed. Depending on who told the tale, it had either been a fight for a woman’s affections, revenge from the Myrish after the loss of their own ships or an assassin sent by Westeros.

Either way, discontent had grown within Lys. Trade with the Narrow Sea had virtually been cut off and merchants lost more and more coin each day. Westeros was expected to eventually turn its attention to Lys and now it seemed one of their fellow Triarchy cities might have turned on them. The simmering anger reached boiling point. In a night of bloody massacre, the eleven Lysene magisters that served on the High Council of the Triarchy were killed.

Once the fighting stopped and the dust settled, Lys had a new ruler: Johanna Swann. Originally of the Stormlands, Lady Johanna had been captured during Lord Velaryon and Prince Daemon’s war for the Stepstones and sold to a pillow house. Rising to become a celebrated courtesan, Lady Johanna had ruled Lys in all but name when the latest conflict began. Now, using all the influence she had accumulated over that time, Lady Johanna had taken over the rulership of Lys in truth.

It was the beginning of the end for the Triarchy. Having no wish for the wrath of Westeros or its dragons to come to her own shores, Lady Johanna was quick to write to the crown offering surrender and requesting a cessation of hostilities. As a gesture of good will, the heads of both the High Council magisters and those ship captains that had made it back to Lys were sent with the messenger to King’s Landing as well. After much back and forth, a deal was hammered out. Lys would formally withdraw from the Triarchy, never to reunify with Tyrosh and Myr. Reparations were agreed along with a ten-year trade deal that favoured Westeros.

The crown’s coffers would swell to their highest levels since King Viserys had taken the throne. Lyman could barely contain his glee as Lys agreed to their terms.

Tyrosh opened its own gates soon after Vhagar appeared in the skies above the city, the Tyroshi making their own offering of the magisters that sat on the High Council of the Triarchy. Myr, abruptly finding itself standing alone with no allies to call upon, surrendered within a moon’s turn. Similar terms were agreed with Tyrosh and Myr as had been with Lys, though not as favourable to them.

So came to pass the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, having existed for only several decades. With the Triarchy’s entire leadership killed in a bid to appease the crown, they never were able to confirm if Lord Hightower had a hand in prompting the attack on the Stepstones. Though Lyman supposed it made little difference now with the man’s death.

It took a few months to have all the lords and ladies of the realm gather in King’s Landing. Arrangements had to be made to host them all and sufficient time left for those of the North to reach the capital. A few made their excuses for not attending, the most prominent of which had been the elderly Lord Grover Tully, writing that he was too ill to attend. While his grandson and heir had made the journey to King’s Landing, Princess Rhaenyra had not been content with this. Especially given previous comments Lord Tully had made regarding the succession. Lyman did lament that he had not been there to see Lord Tully’s reaction when Vhagar and Syrax descended on Riverrun to secure his oath there instead.

As it was, the Red Keep’s numbers swelled as prominent lords and their retinues were hosted by the crown itself. Others had to find their own accommodation further afield. Lyman became occupied conversing with familiar faces and being introduced to many unfamiliar.

Soon the day came and the lords presented themselves to swear to Princess Rhaenyra anew. And had not that been a headache: sorting out the order in which they would swear so that nobody felt slighted.

Despite the ruling of the realm having been assumed by the princess regent, King Viserys roused himself from Maegor’s Holdfast for his first appearance in public since his sickness. Lyman could admit, in his own mind, to having no fondness for the king after his behaviour with regards to his family over the past decades. However, he could admire the resolve that it must have taken for King Viserys to make the long walk up to the Iron Throne under his own power. It would do the realm good to see this indisputable proof that his chosen heir still had the king’s support.

Once the room was full – Princess Rhaenyra standing halfway up the steps to the throne – Lady Jeyne Arryn took a step forward to bend the knee, Prince Lucas at her side as her future heir. However, they were cut off as three figures moved out from the front row.

Princes Aemon, Rhaemond and Daeron were dressed in their best finery, black breeches and doublets emblazoned with the Targaryen sigil.

“Apologies, Lady Arryn,” Prince Aemon said, “but I believe the three of us were overlooked when the order of swearing was drawn up.” With his back straight and no trace of nerves in his voice, it was the most princely he had ever looked.

The princess was staring down at him in confusion as Lady Jeyne gracefully withdrew and the three princes went to one knee.

“I, Prince Aemon of House Targaryen, promise to be faithful to Princess Rhaenyra as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” The words were clear and spoken without hesitation into the silence of the room. “I pledge fealty to her and shall defend her against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

Princess Rhaenyra made a motion forward, as though she wished to step down to him.

Prince Rhaemond and Prince Daeron followed in speaking their own oaths, the latter only stumbling slightly over the formal words.

As the princess bid her brothers rise – with an ever so slight hesitation over the word brothers – there was a lightness to Prince Aemon’s features that Lyman had not seen in moons.

Due to the sheer number of them, it was not possible to have every lord in the realm make their oaths on the same day. After morning passed to afternoon and then to evening, Lyman was relieved to leave the throne room and to have supper with Rosamund. When they had finished eating, his wife went to spend some time with her sister and Lyman himself headed for Maegor’s Holdfast to see Princess Rhaenyra.

When he entered her solar, the princess was half reclining in a chair and massaging her calves. “I had forgotten how tedious it was standing before them all day,” she said. “It was all I could do not to yawn as we neared today’s end.”

That would certainly not have projected the image that Princess Rhaenyra wished to.

“Where is everyone?” he asked. At this hour it was not uncommon to find multiple children and other members of the royal family with the princess.

“With Luke and Helaena back in King’s Landing for a while, the children are spending time together in Aemon’s room,” she replied, indicating for him to sit on the settee. “Baela had already started to thaw towards Aemon but I think today’s display proved he is not her enemy. But anyway, Laenor and Laena are dining with their parents, Joffrey with his family and Alicent with Larys. I had dinner with my father. I owed him that much after today.”

King Viserys had not lasted the full day of oath-swearing, retiring early afternoon. However, his presence and continued support of the princess had left enough of an impression on those assembled.

“I think today went well,” Lyman said. “It did the lords good to see His Grace at your back and the princes swear too.”

“Yes, that was a surprise.” The princess righted herself in her chair. “Apparently, Aemon planned it not long after we announced the swearing ceremony.”

“It was a fine idea. None of the lords will have any doubt about where Prince Aemon stands now.” Lyman stretched out his legs so the fireplace warmed his feet.

“I think Lord Jason has given up on his desire to see Aemon take the throne with Lady Tyshara as his queen.” She let out a snort. “I expect his knee is bruised with how quickly he bent it when it was time for the Lannisters to swear.”

Lord Lannister had never struck Lyman as being a man gifted with either courage or intelligence. However, it seemed he was smart enough to recognise when to capitulate. And to do so with great vigour.

“Though you should have seen Lord Borros’s face when Lady Cassandra was introduced as the Baratheon heir!” Princess Rhaenyra continued. “The thunder there would have rivalled the worst nights at Storm’s End.”

“Another man that longs for a son,” he replied idly, thinking of all the damage such desires had caused over the years. “How many daughters does he have now? Four?”

She nodded. “The way things stand, if Jeyne outlives Lord Jason and Lord Borros, three out of the six old kingdoms will have women in charge.” There was a definite air of smugness to that pronouncement. “With me ruling over them all.”

“Well, I will drink to that, princess.” Lyman stood and began to move to where a carafe of wine sat on a side table.

However, as he did, he was startled as frantic knocking began. Though it was not from the direction of the door. Instead, it seemed to be coming from behind one of the tapestries that hung from the walls.

Lyman looked to the princess in confusion but she was already walking over. “Who goes there?” she asked cautiously, her voice low.

Of course, one of the secret tunnels. Hopefully it was a member of the royal family and not anyone with ill intent.

“Rhaenyra, it’s– it’s me.” Queen Alicent’s muffled voice was recognisable but there was a tone to it he had never heard before: one of fear. Princess Rhaenyra had already torn the tapestry away and was undoing the previously hidden latches as the queen continued, “It was an accident, I didn’t mean—”

The princess undid the last latch, wrenching open the door. Queen Alicent stumbled as she half fell out of the dark corridor and into the room. Then, barely taking a moment to right herself, she flung herself into her wife’s arms. As the queen’s hands grasped desperately at the back of Princess Rhaenyra’s dress, Lyman saw that they were stained a vivid red. He felt a cold wave begin at the top of his head and rush down to his feet.

“I don’t know what– we were just talking– the favour– his hand was on my arm– I couldn’t breathe– I don’t even remember– the knife– the blood– I’m sorry.” The queen’s words ran together as she struggled to get them out between gasping breaths.

Gently stroking one hand through her wife’s hair, the princess murmured assurances, seemingly focused on trying to calm her down rather than getting to the bottom of what had happened. Though the words spoken by Queen Alicent and the blood coating her hands presented a certain image. As did the fact she had been dining with Larys Strong.

What in the name of the seven hells could possibly have driven the queen to … this?

It took some time for Princess Rhaenyra to calm Queen Alicent down and longer still for her to speak with any coherence. Slowly, Lyman began to get a picture of what had happened. Larys and the queen had been dining together – not too infrequent an occasion – when their conversation had naturally turned to the swearing ceremony. From there, they had moved on to discussing King Viserys and his lingering ill health.

“Larys started talking about how he doubted the king had much longer to live,” Queen Alicent said. She and the princess had moved to the settee, the queen tightly gripping her wife’s arm. Lyman was not even sure Queen Alicent was aware of the blood she was smearing on Princess Rhaenyra’s dress, though the latter showed no qualms. “That he would soon see his promised favour fulfilled.”

Lyman did not think that favour had been a higher position at court.

“And then I asked Larys if he would finally say what the favour was. He smirked and shrugged, as if it made no matter to admit it now. That with the king dead, I would be unwed. That the dowager queen’s hand would be a fine prize. That I was only thirty and had years of childbearing left.” The hysteria was growing in the queen’s voice. “Then his hand was on my arm and he was closer and it was as though my throat had closed. My lungs wouldn’t work. I can’t go through that again, Rhaenyra. I can’t. I don’t even remember grabbing the knife but then it was in his neck—” Her breaths were wheezing, as if every one was a struggle to get in and out.

The princess gently clasped the queen’s face in her hands, gaze meeting her wet brown eyes. “Alicent, you are safe. No man will ever touch you like that again. I need you to breathe for me.” She brought one of Queen Alicent’s hands to her sternum and began making exaggerated inhales and exhales. “In and out. That is all you need to do. In and out.”

A kernel of fury was growing in Lyman’s chest. The queen’s feelings on her marriage to King Viserys had long remained unspoken but it was clear the two lacked the camaraderie and respect of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s marriage. However, Queen Alicent’s words hinted at something far darker between her and the man that had shared her bed for many a year. Something that Larys Strong’s remarks had brought to the forefront of her mind.

He had no right to speak of the queen’s hand as though it were some favour to be bartered. Though whether Larys had deserved to die for it … Lyman had drawn away from the man in recent moons but had considered him a friend for a long time. Had been grooming Larys to succeed him as Master of Coin. He had seen Larys earlier that very day. Lyman gave a sharp shake of his head. It would do him no good to dwell on such now.

Queen Alicent’s breathing was beginning to calm as she mimicked her wife. Lyman was wondering if he should subtly leave when it occurred to him: Larys Strong was dead. His body somewhere in the Red Keep after he had gone to dinner with the queen, a fact which surely had not gone unnoticed given the many guards and servants that would have marked their meeting. And those in the realm of highest standing were currently in the keep as well, including Larys’s father, brother and good-sister. What could possibly be said to placate the lord Hand?

“Alicent, all will be well, we will fix this. But I need to know, where were you eating?” the princess asked. Where was the body?

“His roo– we met in his rooms,” Queen Alicent replied shakily. “Rhaenyra, he’s dead.” Her body began to sag forward towards her wife’s own.

“I know, I know,” the princess soothed. “Did you leave through the tunnels?”

The queen nodded.

Lyman wondered how many rooms in the Red Keep had entrances to the tunnels. Princess Rhaenyra had never mentioned anything to him about his own chambers or office – which he assumed she would have if they were so connected. Was it coincidence that Larys’s rooms had an entrance of their own?

“And came straight here?” the princess confirmed.

Queen Alicent nodded again.

Princess Rhaenyra let out a slow exhale. “Very well. This is what we will do.”

It was the most surreal evening that Lyman had ever experienced. He remained in the princess’s chambers as she guided the queen back through the tunnels.

”I am sorry, Alicent,” she had said. “We need to go back. You need to be seen leaving.”

Luckily, there were only tiny flecks of blood on Queen Alicent’s clothing. She must not have pulled the knife out. The queen had then taken the public route from Larys’s rooms back to Maegor’s Holdfast, pretending that nothing was amiss.

Lyman sat with Queen Alicent as Princess Rhaenyra worked out what to do about– about the body. Ser Joffrey was free first and Lyman could just about hear what they were muttering to each other in low tones. About how the knight thought the best option was to throw Larys’s body into Blackwater Bay under cover of darkness. About the princess not wanting him to just disappear for the sake of Lord Lyonel, Ser Harwin and his sisters. That they should have closure if nothing else.

After ensuring that the queen felt well enough to be left, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Joffrey then went back into the tunnels.

Larys Strong’s body was found early the next morning not that far from the Red Keep in a narrow alley just off the Hook. Between the House Strong sigil on the formal tunic he had been wearing at the swearing ceremony and his twisted foot, the blue cloaks had little trouble identifying him. However, working out how he came to be dead in that alley was another matter entirely.

Nobody in the keep reported seeing him after he had retired to his rooms in the early evening for dinner with Queen Alicent. Including the guards that manned all the entrances. Once the queen had bluffed her way through Lord Lyonel’s queries and asserted that all seemed fine when she left Larys, there were few leads left.

Larys was known to have had contacts throughout King’s Landing and Ser Harwin eventually concluded that he must have been visiting one such contact when something had gone wrong. The knight’s grief at his brother’s death was clear and Lyman knew that Princess Rhaenyra found it a great relief when Ser Harwin went to rule Harrenhal in Lord Lyonel’s stead, that she no longer had to lie so blatantly to one of her closest friends.

There was only one indication that anyone else knew what had happened, a raven received by the princess the very next day after Larys’s death. All the message said was:

I did warn him.

A. R.

Once the visiting nobles had all left King’s Landing, Lyman allowed himself to take a breath. The Triarchy had been defeated. Lord Hightower was dead and his plots were at an end. Princess Rhaenyra’s position was as secure as it could be, the realm growing familiar with her leadership as she served as regent.

All told, he found himself freer of worries than he had been for years. Having spent the evening enjoying a rare novel, he was happy to head to bed for an early night. After blowing out the last of his candles, Lyman lay in the dark waiting for sleep to claim him.

That was when he remembered a conversation that circumstances had pushed to the back of his mind: It was not purely for the sake of power that Aegon conquered the realm. He had a dream: that the end of the world of men would come with a Great Winter from the north. That what dwelt within that darkness would destroy everything that lived.

Princess Rhaenyra’s voice ringing in his mind, Lyman lurched upright again.

What in the name of the gods were they meant to do about that?

Chapter Text

Six Months Later

It was one of the more unlikely petitions that Lyman had been privy to during his tenure on the Small Council: Ser Vaemond Velaryon, the Sea Snake’s brother, was contesting Lady Baela’s inheritance of the Stepstones, citing right of conquest.

Lyman was unsure what Ser Vaemond hoped to achieve; Princess Rhaenyra was unlikely to strip her niece of her title – the title she had lawfully and rightfully inherited from Prince Daemon. However, the princess regent could not simply dismiss the petition out of hand and so had summoned Lady Baela and Ser Vaemond to King’s Landing to make their arguments before the court.

Princess Rhaenyra sat the Iron Throne, looking more comfortable among the jagged steel than King Viserys ever had. As she had taken to doing when pronouncing judgements, Blackfyre was in a scabbard across her lap. “The court gathers here today to hear a dispute on the succession of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. As Princess Regent, the final decision on this matter rests with me. The crown will now hear your argument, Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.” The princess regent easily commanded the attention of the room as the court looked on in silence.

In front of the throne, the claimants and their supporters stood in two clear camps. Lady Baela was joined by her mother and regent, Lady Laena, Ser Laenor, Lady Rhaena and Prince Jacaerys. In deference to her supposed neutrality as Mistress of Laws, Princess Rhaenys sat to one side with the rest of the Small Council rather than being with her granddaughter. However, Lyman had heard her cursing her good-brother’s temerity in private and held no doubt as to where Princess Rhaenys’s allegiance lay.

Ser Vaemond, on the other hand, was backed by his two sons and a few young grandchildren. There were also two boys with him that carried the name Waters and had the Velaryon look. Bringing natural-born children to court was hardly courteous but Princess Rhaenyra had not protested this near insult by Ser Vaemond. To so shame his own wife as well by parading the boys before all and sundry!

The only exception to this clear division was Lord Velaryon. Not standing on any particular side, he occupied the space between them. An attempt to maintain peace with his brother? Lyman would have expected an outcry from the proud lord at any attempt to strip his granddaughter of her inheritance.

Ser Vaemond took a moment to step out from among his family before beginning to speak. “Princess, the lordship of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea is barely in its infancy, having been created little more than a decade ago.” The words were calm and measured, as if they had been practised many a time. “The islands were won for the realm by right of conquest after the Crabfeeder was defeated and his men driven from the Stepstones’ shores. A conquest that I partook in as I fought alongside Prince Daemon and Corlys while the crown refused to act. With the prince’s tragic death, it is only just and right that the lordship pass to another of us that led in securing the islands in the first place.”

There was a scoff from among Lady Baela’s party. “I remember you doing little on the Stepstones other than complain, Uncle,” Ser Laenor remarked. “I would not have said you were integral to our victory.” The cane in his right hand helped him stand tall and proud but Lyman suspected his leg would start paining him if the proceedings lasted too long.

Although it was hard to discern, Ser Vaemond’s cheeks darkened at this comment from his nephew. Lyman was unsure if this was due to anger or embarrassment.

“You spent most of the fighting up in the air on your dragon, Nephew,” Ser Vaemond replied, a definite bite to his words. “It is unsurprising that you missed much regarding the actions of those of us that were in the thick of the melees on the ground.”

Ser Laenor flinched at this mention of Seasmoke but quickly gathered his composure. The knight was opening his mouth to offer a rebuttal when Princess Rhaenyra spoke.

“Enough,” she said, looking down at Ser Vaemond from the throne. “The lordship of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea was granted to Prince Daemon over ten years ago. I do not remember you making your own claim at the time.”

Ser Vaemond dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I had a great deal of respect for Prince Daemon; we would never have defeated the Crabfeeder without him. At the time, it seemed prudent for him to assume full control of the islands, rather than quibbling that perhaps they should be divided among those that led our forces. However, the prince is gone and the security of the Stepstones needs to be ensured. I therefore put myself forward as the rightful Lord of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea by right of conquest.”

“Very well, thank you, Ser Vaemond,” Princess Rhaenyra replied. “Lady Laena, as her regent, you may now speak for your daughter, Baela Targaryen.”

Lady Laena nodded, turning to the table where the Small Council sat. “Princess Rhaenys, with Prince Daemon dead, how does the law of the land decree that his holdings be handled?”

“That, in the absence of any trueborn sons, they pass to his eldest trueborn daughter: Lady Baela of House Targaryen,” Princess Rhaenys replied promptly.

“Just so.” Lady Laena turned back to address Princess Rhaenyra. “My uncle comes before this court with naked ambition. To deny Prince Daemon the right to see his lordship pass to his daughter, his lawful successor. Instead, he has fallen prey to that trap so common among second sons: to covet that which is not his. Any claim to the Stepstones he puts forward is nothing but a farce.”

Second sons unhappy with their lot had caused much discord over the years. Ser Otto. Prince Daemon. Recently, Bennard Stark – pushing back against his nephew’s inheritance of the North. Lyman had oft considered it one of life’s bitter ironies that he himself had never been so afflicted but had come to inherit Honeyholt after his elder brother and nephews had passed.

With the opening statements out of the way, the two sides began to debate their positions in earnest.

“Prince Daemon never expressed any wish that Baela would inherit the Stepstones,” Ser Vaemond said. Lyman wondered if the omission of ‘lady’ was purposeful or based on their familial connection. He would bet on the former. “The prince hoped for a son at the time he was killed, a son that he would have raised as his heir.”

Lady Baela had not perfected her courtly mask enough to disguise the pain this remark caused.

“Whether Prince Daemon wished for a son or not is irrelevant,” Princess Rhaenyra replied. “Per the law, a daughter inherits a lordship when there are no sons. Your argument holds little water, Ser Vaemond.”

“Yes, but the Stepstones is not a standard lordship,” Ser Vaemond retorted. “Its importance in protecting the realm’s shipping and the sovereignty of our waters has long been recognised. That sovereignty has already been threatened when the Triarchy attacked and killed Prince Daemon. It is essential that whoever rules the Stepstones has the means to hold them.”

“And you doubt Baela’s strength?” Lady Laena retorted. “She is of House Targaryen and bonded to a dragon besides.”

Ser Vaemond hesitated for a moment, perhaps considering his words here lest he offend the princess regent. “Baela is a girl of only nine years and, from what I have heard, her dragon is a small, stunted thing. After the Triarchy attack, Baela came here to court, abandoning the islands and the surviving people there. It was Princess Rhaenys that then held the Stepstones. It was Velaryon ships that protected them and blockaded Tyrosh. Ships that I commanded with Corlys, as his second.”

Ser Tyland let out a scoff from next to Lyman. “And the royal fleet was just there for show was it?” he muttered.

What was Ser Vaemond suggesting Lady Baela should have done? Stayed on the Stepstones, on what could have become a major battleground against the Triarchy? Had Lady Baela been captured, as the king’s niece she would have had great value as a hostage. No, it was better both for Lady Baela’s personal safety and from a political standpoint that she had come to King’s Landing.

“Baela is young,” Lady Laena said. “Which is why I am serving as her regent until her sixteenth name day. I assume you have no comment to make about Vhagar’s size?” The frustration was starting to grow on her face as Lady Laena’s hand twitched to the sword at her side. Dark Sister remained – for the moment – in the possession of Prince Daemon’s widow. However, Lyman knew that Princess Rhaenyra intended to grant House Targaryen’s second ancestral sword to Lady Baela once she reached her majority. That it would then pass down this new branch of their house.

“I mean no insult, Niece,” Ser Vaemond replied, his voice not rising to meet her ire. “I realise that this will be a loss of station for Baela. That is why I propose a betrothal between her and my grandson, Daenor.” He gestured at one of the young boys with him, who looked alarmed at the attention of the full court being focused on him. “Baela would, eventually, become Lady of the Stepstones again and the title would then pass to her son.”

But she would be Lady of the Stepstones as the lord’s consort, rather than ruling in her own right.

“Whatever you intended, Uncle, insult has been well and truly taken,” Lady Laena retorted.

Princess Rhaenyra intervened before the situation could devolve into an argument. “Ser Vaemond, the crown is of course grateful for your service, both in the original war for the Stepstones and in this most recent conflict with the Triarchy. However, answering your liege when called upon does not make you deserving of a lordship. If I recall, the Crabfeeder’s defeat yielded much gold and other treasures. I do not imagine you have gone uncompensated for your actions.”

With that, she straightened on the throne. Lyman got the distinct impression that she was ready to render her judgement. And in whose favour it would be. Ser Vaemond must have thought the same for he turned and shot a glance at his brother, motioning with his head.

In response, Lord Velaryon looked at the group backing Ser Vaemond for a long moment before stepping forward. “If I could, princess, I believe my brother speaks true.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s face scrunched up in confusion, an expression mirrored throughout the room. Why would Lord Velaryon speak against his own granddaughter’s inheritance? Lady Laena and Ser Laenor began exchanging comments in low tones, casting angry looks in their father’s direction. Even the normally composed Princess Rhaenys was askance as she regarded her husband.

“For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas,” the Lord of the Tides continued. “Due to the naval function it performs, the lordship of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea should be held by a seafarer. And Vaemond is a fine one that has proven his ability and willingness to keep the realm’s shipping lanes secure.” His voice resonated powerfully as he held the room’s attention. “There is precedent that lordships can be re-granted if the house that holds them does not fulfil its obligations. Houses Fontine and Bellclark were so stripped within the last millennium.”

Lyman had never even heard of the houses Lord Velaryon was talking about, suggesting that the realm’s histories must have been dredged for those examples.

“Yes, House Velaryon has long ruled the seas,” Lady Laena replied, stepping towards her father with a dark look upon her face. “The blood of which flows through Baela’s veins. Your blood. She may not carry your name but that heritage is hers too.”

“But the Stepstones lack a proper fleet,” Lord Velaryon retorted, continuing to press his argument. “What would have become of Baela’s holdings if Driftmark had not provided aid?”

Ser Tyland made a noise of offence at the royal fleet once again being overlooked.

“Be that as it may, Lord Corlys,” Princess Rhaenyra said decisively, “nothing I have seen indicates that this new cadet branch of House Targaryen cannot fulfil its obligations to the crown.” She stood from the throne, holding the sheathed Blackfyre at her right side. “I hereby reaffirm Baela of House Targaryen as Lady of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. When she reaches her majority, I am sure Lady Baela will perform her duties admirably.”

Lady Baela beamed up at her aunt. There were smiles from Lady Laena and Ser Laenor as well, even as they were still eyeing their father with displeasure.

On the other hand, the anger on Ser Vaemond’s face was clear, but Lyman was unsure what other outcome he would have expected.

It was a large group of them that gathered for a celebratory dinner that evening. Though, given that there had been little doubt as to the outcome of Ser Vaemond’s petition, it was really an excuse for the family to spend time together. Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena had flown down from the Vale in support of their cousin, marking the first time everyone had been in the same room since Prince Daemon’s funeral.

Between the young princesses, princes and Ladies Baela and Rhaena, there were nine children around the table. Then, additionally, Lyman himself, Rosamund, Princess Rhaenyra, Queen Alicent, Princess Rhaenys, Ser Laenor, Lady Laena and Ser Joffrey. Lord Velaryon was conspicuously absent. Not that Lyman blamed him; it was likely only court propriety that had prevented half his family from shouting at the Lord of the Tides in the throne room. King Viserys had not had the strength to join them either, having barely left his rooms these past weeks.

The queen offered to open the dinner with a prayer, despite the fact that few of those gathered were true followers of the Faith of the Seven. He did see Prince Lucas bow his head before Lyman closed his own eyes; perhaps the prince had forged a stronger connection to his faith in the Vale, where those of the Seven had first reached Westerosi shores.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love,” Queen Alicent said. “May the Smith maintain the bonds between us all. And may the Crone help Ser Vaemond find the wisdom to accept his station in life.”

Lyman was sure he heard a titter of laughter to his left at this last appeal but he could not identify who made it.

With that, the servants began placing platters of food down on the table. The succulent roast pig looked particularly appetising, especially when paired with the chunky apple sauce on offer. He could feel the moisture gathering in his mouth.

Once everything had been laid out, Princess Rhaenyra stood from her chair at the centre of the table, goblet in hand. “A toast to Lady Baela of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. I am sure when the time comes for you to take up your seat, you will be as fine a ruler as the realm has known.”

Lady Baela gave a bashful grin as the toast was echoed around the table.

Queen Alicent stood next. “I would like to toast this family. It is rare that we are all able to gather and I am sure that it will become rarer in the future, as you children begin making your own paths through the world. But tonight, we are all under the same roof, together.”

Lyman raised his own goblet to this family that he had found himself enfolded into and took a hearty swig of his wine.

He had expected – and hoped – that they would begin eating then but Prince Aemon rose to his own feet. “I would like to toast Helaena. Who found the creepiest insect I have seen in my life the other day and made Daeron jump out of his skin.”

Prince Daeron protested that he had just been startled as laughter rang out. This started the royal children off as they began making ridiculous and elaborate toasts to each other. With the exception of Princess Visenya, who raised her glass of water to her newly hatched dragon: Amethyst. And had that name not caused a debate.

Princes Jacaerys, Daeron and Lucas had all followed their muña in choosing dragon names from the Valyrian pantheon of gods and goddesses. However, Princess Visenya – in her now-typical contrary fashion – had not wanted to follow the same pattern. They had managed to talk her out of her initial suggestion of Vhagar II, but a comparison between the hatchling’s colouring and the necklace Princess Rhaenyra was wearing at the time led to Amethyst.

Once everyone was finally seated again, they began taking advantage of the delicious spread on offer. As Lyman had expected, the pork was juicy, pairing well with the tartness of the apple.

“Have you any idea why Lord Corlys acted as he did?” Rosamund asked Princess Rhaenys between mouthfuls. “Speaking out against Lady Baela.”

A dark look came over Princess Rhaenys’s face. “No, I do not. We will be having … words tomorrow.”

Lyman could not contain a wince at her frosty tone. He suspected Lord Velaryon would find his marriage bed cold for some time. Though what the man could possibly have been thinking, he had no idea.

“I thought we could take the children sailing tomorrow,” Lady Laena said, looking to her brother. “Let nobody doubt that they are comfortable upon the open water.”

Taking in the eager nods from down the table, Ser Laenor was quick to voice his agreement. “That is a fine idea, Laena.” A smirk came over his face. “It will get you away from Ser Clement, at least.”

One of Lady Laena’s hands moved to cover her forehead in exasperation. “The man cannot take a hint.”

“Ser Clement Celtigar?” Princess Rhaenyra questioned. “Lord Bartimos’s son?”

Lyman could not say he knew much of Ser Clement but was unsure why Lady Laena would have cause to avoid him.

“The same,” Lady Laena confirmed. “He has made several comments regarding how lonely I must be without a husband and how my mourning period will soon be coming to an end.”

Ah. With Prince Daemon dead for approaching a year, it would not be unreasonable to assume Lady Laena might soon be open to marriage offers. And the Celtigars were the only house other than the Targaryens and Velaryons to hail from Valyria. Despite the fact that House Celtigar’s heritage was indisputable, Lyman felt his nose scrunch up at the thought.

“If I may be so bold, Lady Laena,” he said, “I would not advise marrying into House Celtigar. They never have their taxes in order on time. And when they do eventually send them, the numbers make no sense.” The Celtigars’ last tax payment had been two months late and the accompanying ledger … it was among some of the worst bookkeeping that Lyman had ever seen! He had then spent nearly an entire afternoon writing a letter to Lord Celtigar detailing all of the mistakes and how they might be rectified in the future. Hopefully, the lord had been able to look it over with his maester or whoever else assisted with his taxes.

An expression came over Lady Laena’s face as if she was trying very hard to suppress a smile. “Do not worry, Lord Lyman, I have no intention of marrying Ser Clement. Or anybody else for that matter. Being out on Blackwater Bay tomorrow should spare me his attentions.”

She had not been that keen on marriage in the first place, Lyman remembered. The years spent with Prince Daemon had apparently not changed that opinion.

He reached over the table for a cut of sweetbreads as he gave a brief thought to his own plans for the next day. His yearly review of the Red Keep’s budget was coming up soon and he really should schedule time with Queen Alicent to see if she had any concerns. The most senior servants of the keep all reported directly to the queen so she would be the most aware if extra coin needed to be designated there.

Then there was reviewing the most recent report from the rebuilding of Duskendale, the latest taxes from House Massey and repairs to the roseroad.

Once they had all finished with the savoury offerings, the table was cleared and the desserts brought out. Lyman quickly secured a slice of the blackberry tart before it was all gone. He was thankful for his speed as the juices from the fruit burst over his tongue.

“Lord Lyman,” Princess Rhaenys said, leaning over towards him. “If you have a moment tomorrow, I would like to discuss the coin allocated for the City Watch.”

He bit back a groan, already having had several similar conversations with the princess over the last few months. “Another increase?” he asked tiredly, placing down his fork.

Princess Rhaenys nodded. “The West Barracks are in a state of poor repair at the moment. I believe the men would appreciate not having a leaky roof. And an extension might be needed.”

The number of City Watchmen had increased in the last year. If Lyman’s memory was not failing him, there were now near three thousand men that wore the blue cloak. Of course, this increase had necessitated coin to fund wages, training, weapons, armour and food. While the crown’s coffers had swelled with the reparations from Myr, Tyrosh and Lys, that did not mean they should be mindlessly spending coin.

“Is all this really necessary?” he asked. “Your last Small Council update on the situation stated that crime in King’s Landing is at its lowest point for decades.”

“Yes,” Princess Rhaenys replied, “but it is precisely because the City Watch is better funded that crime has fallen. Besides, I am sure you remember as well as I the riots that occurred in the city when King Jaehaerys passed away. Granted, King Viserys is not held in such high esteem but there may still be upset. Better that the blue cloaks are fully prepared to deal with such.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s charity work had ensured that she was well loved among the general populace of King’s Landing; Lyman did not foresee there would be protests from that front upon her accession. However, as Princess Rhaenys said, it was perhaps better to err on the side of caution. The riots upon King Jaehaerys’s death had required a great deal of coin to be spent repairing the damage caused.

“Lucas Velaryon.” Queen Alicent’s voice suddenly rang out from down the table. “Do not stick your finger into Rhaemond’s eye socket!”

Lyman turned quickly enough to see Prince Lucas guiltily withdrawing his hand from Prince Rhaemond’s face. “I just wanted to see if I could touch his brain.”

“What, is your brain in there?” Lady Baela asked curiously, craning her neck to peer closer at Prince Rhaemond’s empty eye socket.

Prince Aemon scoffed. “Well, it is not in his backside.”

With a roll of his remaining eye, Prince Rhaemond addressed Prince Lucas. “There is the back of the socket, Luke. I cannot poke right into my head.”

Prince Lucas looked disappointed at this news. What had the maester at the Eyrie been teaching him about anatomy?

They had already gone through one round of such questions from the children when Prince Rhaemond’s eye had been removed. Although that was when Prince Lucas and Princess Helaena had both been in the Vale.

“Rhaemond,” Princess Rhaenyra said, exasperation clear in her voice as she took in the empty eye socket and the sapphire sitting next to Prince Rhaemond’s plate, “what did we say about taking your eye out at the dinner table?”

“Not to do it after the incident with the plum sauce,” he recited.

“Plum sauce?” Lady Laena asked, she too having become distracted from her conversation.

Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor replied at the same time.

“Gods, please do not remind me.”

“The false eye was sticky for days.”

“Sorry,” Prince Rhaemond said, idly prodding at the sapphire, his gaze downcast. “It was getting sore again.”

The area around his empty eye socket was looking rather red and irritated.

“I still think we should have another talk with the maesters,” Queen Alicent replied, her eyes sweeping critically over her son’s face. “That jewel seems too heavy which I do not think is helping—”

“No!” Prince Rhaemond protested, clutching the sapphire in his fist as if someone had designs to snatch it from him. “This is perfect.”

“Why a sapphire?” Princess Helaena asked curiously. “I would have assumed you would have chosen an onyx or a ruby. For our house colours.”

Prince Rhaemond lit up, turning round to give Princess Helaena his full attention. Lyman got the impression that several of the adults around him barely contained their winces at this question, having become well familiar with the prince’s reasoning in recent months. Prince Aemon was not so courteous, letting out a loud groan.

“So,” Prince Rhaemond began, “there was a knight during the Age of Heroes: Symeon Star-Eyes. He was so-called because he lost both his eyes and had them replaced with star sapphires.” The prince waved his false eye. “He could still fight though, he wielded a double-bladed long staff.”

Lyman could not help it, he allowed the words to fade from his focus as the prince began to regale his sister with the alleged deeds of Ser Symeon. Ever since Ser Joffrey had discovered the historical figure when trying to coax Prince Rhaemond back into the training yard, the prince had developed something of an obsession. Likely every book in the realm that mentioned Ser Symeon now resided in the Red Keep.

“Ser Joffrey said he will teach me how to use a double-bladed long staff when I have grown better with a sword,” Prince Rhaemond finished proudly.

All the adults, including Lyman, turned to look incredulously at Ser Joffrey. Waving around a large stick with a blade at each end seemed like an accident waiting to happen.

“Do you even know how to use a weapon like that?” Ser Laenor asked quietly.

“No,” Ser Joffrey replied at the same volume, leaning back unapologetically in his chair. “I will have to find an instructor from Dorne or somewhere if we ever reach that point. But it is keeping Rhaemond motivated in the meantime.”

It was good to see that Prince Rhaemond had resumed his normal activities in the training yard and that his swordplay had come on in leaps and bounds since he had first lost the eye.

Once dessert was finished, several minstrels were admitted to perform music for them all. Princess Helaena and Prince Jacaerys were soon dancing together, the princess teaching the prince a dance she had learned in the Vale. They did look slightly comical – as Princess Helaena had hit a growth spurt and was at least a head taller than her partner – but that was not stopping them from enjoying themselves.

Lyman was glad to see that the rapport remained between the two. If all went well there, they would one day be king and queen together. Though, hopefully, not for many, many decades.

“Remember when we used to dance like that?” Rosamund asked, eyeing the two with an almost wistful smile.

They were practising a new section of the dance that required linking their arms and kicking their legs past each other.

“I do not remember ever dancing like that,” Lyman replied. “And I think an attempt now would break something.”

His wife let out a laugh, affectionately patting his hand.

With a belly full of food – conversation and music continuing in the background – Lyman sat back in his chair and simply enjoyed the atmosphere.

Princess Rhaenyra asked if the two of them might have a brief conversation in his office once the dinner had concluded. Readily accepting, they made their excuses and headed there, the princess stopping by her own rooms for some papers on the way.

Once they had settled at his desk, she began speaking. “I should not keep you too long, Lyman. It is just regarding the latest raven from the Night’s Watch.”

That explained her desire to speak to him privately. Having discussed the implications of King Aegon’s prophecy together a few times over the last months, it seemed clear that the Wall was the greatest obstacle to any threat coming out of the far north. Once Lyman had finally accepted that House Targaryen was responsible for averting the doom of mankind. He and the princess were therefore looking at ideas for how they could fortify the Night’s Watch as far as possible.

“Ser Criston’s main concern is the number of men he has under him,” Princess Rhaenyra continued, looking over the letter that she had unfurled. “And their quality. One hundred years ago, the Watch numbered ten thousand. Currently, it is barely seven thousand. The majority of them sentenced criminals.”

In years gone by, the Wall had been an honourable option for knights or younger sons without an inheritance. However, that perception had waned in recent years. Off the top of his head, Lyman could recall less than a score of highborn men that had voluntarily taken the black while he was at court.

“We could try and improve the Watch’s reputation,” he suggested. “Attract those at loose ends among the nobility. With the banning of the Faith Militant, there are few groups that a man can pledge his sword to. The Kingsguard is regarded as the pinnacle of knightly valour but it has only seven positions. There must be those for whom the Night’s Watch would be a good fit.”

“I never understood the appeal of the Kingsguard,” Princess Rhaenyra confessed. “Do not misunderstand me, I appreciate the duty that Ser Harrold, Ser Lorent and the rest do. But it seems so … tedious.”

Lyman himself had never held such aspirations, realising at a young age he was not particularly gifted at swordplay. However, Mathis had gone through a phase of pretending he was Ser Lorence Roxton, one of King Jaehaerys’s original kingsguards.

“What higher honour could there be for a knight than guarding the royal family?” he asked. “Than guarding the crown?”

“That makes sense in theory but it is more standing at doors than anything else.” She gestured towards the office door, behind which Ser Lorent surely stood. “I would be bored to tears. I actually asked Ser Criston that once: whether he grew sick of following me around all day.”

“How did he respond?”

Due to his own proximity to the princess, Lyman had seen Ser Criston frequently during the several years that the knight had been her sworn shield. He had never seemed to take his duty with anything but the utmost seriousness.

“He said that the gods must have put him in my path. That it was their will that he guarded me.” Her brow crinkled. “With hindsight, perhaps I should have been concerned over the depth of his … devotion earlier.”

A knight was meant to be dedicated to his charge; Ser Criston’s devotion had not been a warning sign in and of itself. And there had been no hint of his violent temper until that awful business with Ser Otto.

“You could hardly have seen it coming,” he comforted. “And he seems settled enough now as Lord Commender of the Night’s Watch.”

Princess Rhaenyra made a sound of acknowledgement in response.

“But anyway, the Watch,” Lyman said, bringing them back to their original topic. “There must be those among the general populace that could be encouraged to join. A man with few prospects could find his place there.”

She looked contemplative as she thought it over. “That is an idea. There are many among the people of King’s Landing that struggle to find steady work. There could be opportunities there. Perhaps even an amount of coin given to the families of those men that join as an incentive?”

How much coin? To how many families?

Something must have shown on his face for she hastened to add, “We can discuss it, at least.” Looking back down at the letter, the princess continued, “Ser Criston also thinks that the Starks are still smarting over the New Gift so I may have to make reparations there.”

Queen Alysanne had doubled the amount of land that supported the Night’s Watch, taking it out from under the purview of House Stark. As far as Lyman could recall, the Starks had not been compensated for this loss. It behoved Princess Rhaenyra to settle the matter, especially since she believed it so important to establish strong ties with the North.

“King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne could perhaps have handled that situation with a touch more diplomatic finesse,” he said delicately, not wanting to overtly insult the old king and queen.

She let out a snort. “That is one way of putting it. Though I suspect that my great-grandparents had other priorities.”

“You still think the boons they granted the Night’s Watch were driven by preparing for the prophecy?” Lyman asked, thinking back to their previous conversations on the topic.

“It would make the most sense if they were,” the princess replied. “Especially after Silverwing refused to fly over the Wall itself. Surely it must have been on their minds.”

He was unsure what to make of that part of the tale. Lyman had never given much consideration to the Wall itself but it seemed clear it must hold some inherent magic.

She leant back tiredly in her chair. “I wish I could talk to them about the prophecy at times. Or even just about ruling in general. Sit down with Jaehaerys and Alysanne. Or Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. Understand what they thought of all this, if they had any particular insights. Any advice that would help.”

Princess Rhaenyra had been but five years old when King Jaehaerys died, and he had been sickly for the last few years of that. None of the virtues of his kingship had been imparted on her. Lyman also noticed that she had not mentioned King Aenys, who spent much of his reign paralysed by indecision. And, well, the less said about Maegor, the better.

“In those early years that I ruled Honeyholt, there was so much that I wished I was able to ask my father,” he offered. “But those moments lessened with time, as I grew into being Lord Beesbury. Nobody enters a new position being fully confident in what they are doing.”

She did not look appeased by his words. “The burden of the crown is a heavy one, even though it does not yet rest on my brow,” the princess said contemplatively. “On some days, it feels almost too heavy.” The weariness was clear on her face.

It had been a long time since she last expressed such doubts to him.

“Do you ever regret it? That becoming King Viserys’s heir fell to you? Accepting the heirship?”

“Not recently,” she replied, her gaze unfocused. “When I first became heir, it was on my mind more. What would have happened had little Baelon lived. Or the other sons my mother lost: Aenar and Aerion. One of them would have been the Prince of Dragonstone and I would have remained a regular princess. Or even what would have happened if Alicent and I had fled across the Narrow Sea.”

Lyman remembered the princess had mentioned such the night before the lords had first sworn to her as heir. He wondered vaguely what would have happened with the succession in that case. With Prince Daemon having been all but disowned by the king, would Princess Rhaenys or Ser Laenor have been the new heir?

“But now, I do want the throne,” Princess Rhaenyra went on, straightening her spine. “I know that you and Alicent believe the white hart meant I am divinely blessed to rule. I am unsure if I believe that myself but I think that I can be a good and just ruler.”

“You will be,” he said, leaning over his desk to place his hand atop hers. “If I am certain of anything after having gotten to know you over these past decades, it is that. There have been few issues since you assumed the role of Princess Regent.”

A couple of lords had pushed back against the princess in small ways, testing her authority: taxes that were delayed, ravens that were ignored, acting beyond their lawful power. However, nothing had escalated beyond that point and the unruly lords were soon convinced to fall back in line. There was much to be said for dragonriders that could reach any point in the realm within several days.

She gave him a soft grin. “For all that the king told me that the Iron Throne is the most dangerous seat in the realm, he never prepared me to sit it. But you did. Any successes that I have had are yours as well. And for that, you have my sincere and everlasting gratitude.”

Lyman could feel a warm flush as blood rushed to his face. “I did not do that much in truth, Rhaenyra. Just provided a little guid—”

The princess cut him off with a shake of her head. “No, do not do that. Do not minimise the importance of all that you have done for me. Believe me, I would have been lost without your support.”

His face felt like it was aflame now, cheeks surely glowing bright red in the dull candlelight of his office. He tried to offer another half-hearted protest to her kind words but she was already out of her seat and rounding his desk. Lyman rose to meet her as she pulled him into an embrace.

As ever, Princess Rhaenyra emanated a pleasant warmth that soon spread into his limbs. Despite her not having gone riding that day, there was the faint odour of dragon.

“I love you.” The words slipped out unbidden from his mouth, without thought. He had been sure of the sentiment for nigh on ten years but had never said it aloud before.

“What?” She drew back from him just enough that they could look each other in the face. Her eyes were glimmering with a growing wetness. “What did you say?”

There was no point in denying it. “I love you,” Lyman repeated. “I love you, Rhaenyra.”

The expression of disbelief on the princess’s face soon gave way to joy. “You love me.” She let out a short laugh before pulling him back into a hug. “I love you too, Lyman.”

Ignoring the emotion rising in his chest that almost felt like it would choke him, he pressed his head to hers and basked in their connection.

When they slowly pulled apart an indeterminable amount of time later, both their faces were wet with tears.

Princess Rhaenyra cleared her throat, wiping at her cheeks. “I should go and say good night to the children. I hope you sleep well.”

He nodded in response. “And I you.”

However, as she began to head for his office door, a knock rang out. What could anyone want at this hour?

“Ser Harrold to see you, princess,” Ser Lorent called.

She quickly bid him entry.

Lyman knew as soon as he saw Ser Harrold’s face. The knight was reserved at the best of times but the expression he wore now was of the utmost solemnity.

“Prin– Your Grace.” Ser Harrold went to one knee.

The pri– queen merely stared at him, eyes wide. It was one thing to know that this day would come, it was something else to live it. But Lyman knew that she could do it, that she had been meant to do it.

“The king is dead,” Ser Harrold continued, bowing his head over his knee. “Long live the queen!”

Lyman’s own knee bent as he echoed the words. “Long live the queen.”

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the First of Her Name, helped him back to his feet.

Chapter Text

King Viserys I passed away in the late evening of the 3rd day of the 1st moon of 130 AC, leaving behind two daughters, three sons and three grandchildren. As had been decreed and written into law long before, it was to his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, that the crown would now pass.

The divine grace that had favoured Queen Rhaenyra since the gods sent the white hart to her on Prince Aemon’s second name day once again revealed itself. The full might of House Targaryen was gathered in the Red Keep that night and quickly united around their new queen. When Queen Rhaenyra summoned the court and announced the king’s death the next morning, the Iron Throne was flanked by five princes, three princesses, the dowager queen, Ser Laenor Velaryon, Lady Laena Velaryon (as she remained known, despite her earlier marriage to Prince Daemon) and her daughters.

After being seen to by the silent sisters, the king’s body was placed in the Grand Sept for seven days as those of King’s Landing and the surrounding Crownlands came to pay their respects. Then, in the tradition of House Targaryen, a pyre was constructed on the same cliffside that had borne witness to the funeral of Queen Aemma. Though it was Queen Rhaenyra’s fearsome mount, Syrax, that set King Viserys’s pyre alight, all the royal house’s dragons were gathered for the occasion. Once the formalities had concluded, those dragons large enough to be mounted took to the air, twisting and diving past each other in what the smallfolk would say looked almost like a dance.

The coronation was set for one month after the king’s funeral. Accounts tell that some among the Small Council wished for it to be held sooner, that – given the realm was seeing the crowning of its first ruling queen – it was safer if Queen Rhaenyra was invested with all the trappings of her position as quickly as possible. The queen responded, “I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I will not rush to crown myself as Maegor did, when he stole a throne that was not his.”

While the succession had been set over a decade and a half before, rumour and hearsay indicate that there was still worry throughout the realm of a dispute materialising. Prince Aemon was a boy of fifteen years when his sister became queen, unmarried with no heirs of his own. However, some of the more unenlightened, traditional lords would surely have preferred that he inherit the crown, despite the will of King Viserys and the capability Queen Rhaenyra had already shown.

For all that several probably wished for another king, none rose up against Queen Rhaenyra inheriting the Iron Throne. With the Hightower explosion having claimed many of Dowager Queen Alicent’s closest kin less than a year before, the house most likely to press Prince Aemon’s claim was led by eight-year-old Lord Lyonel Hightower. A boy that was being fostered by Queen Rhaenyra. It is therefore unsurprising that no protests to the queen’s accession emerged from Oldtown.

The actions of Prince Aemon himself should not be overlooked either. In its short history, House Targaryen’s rulership had already seen usurpation and disputed successions: Maegor the Cruel seizing the throne from King Aegon the Uncrowned; King Jaehaerys acceding over Queen Rhaena and Princess Aerea; Princess Rhaenys’s rightful claim being overlooked as Prince Baelon and the then Prince Viserys were installed as heir one after the other.

However, Prince Aemon was fiercely loyal to his elder sister and to the will of their kingly father. In those early weeks of her queenship it was said to be rare to see Queen Rhaenyra without Prince Aemon at her back, a silent affirmation of support. When questioned about it in his later years, the prince remarked that he “would rather have become the court’s fool than seek to sit the Iron Throne.” No, Prince Aemon would lead a relatively unremarkable life as an envoy for the crown and then Lord Consort of the Stepstones after he married Lady Baela Targaryen.

Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm was crowned thus on the 14th day of the 2nd moon of 130 AC.

The coronation took place in the Dragonpit before hundreds of lords and ladies and tens of thousands of smallfolk. Indeed, the jubilation that erupted from the populace of King’s Landing at Queen Rhaenyra’s accession was said to have bordered on disrespect to the late King Viserys. Though this was certainly only because the queen was so well loved by the people there.

The High Septon made the journey from Oldtown to anoint Queen Rhaenyra with the seven holy oils and bless her in the name of the Faith himself. Having only been elected half a year previously, this would be the first important ceremony the High Septon would perform since rising from his role as archsepton of King’s Landing. It seems only fitting then that he was brought back to the city where he had served for so long, working with the then Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent to improve the lives of the people.

It was the last of King Jaehaerys’s trueborn grandchildren that laid the Conciliator’s crown upon Queen Rhaenyra’s brow: Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Should Have Been. In that moment, part of Princess Rhaenys surely mourned that she would have worn that crown herself had King Jaehaerys not been so unenlightened on the subject of women. Alas, Princess Rhaenys would have to look to the next generation to see that particular wrong righted.

Once her own crowning was complete, Queen Rhaenyra placed a circlet of plain gold upon the head of her husband, declaring him Prince Consort Laenor Velaryon. Despite the solemness of the occasion, several of those in attendance swore that the two exchanged small grins. Though this was perhaps to be expected from a couple remembered for the warmth of their relationship.

The two were then presented to the assembled masses, with the resulting cheers and dragon roars audible miles outside King’s Landing itself.

And thus began the reign of Queen Rhaenyra the Golden, so-called because of the Golden Age she ushered in and because of her golden dragon, Syrax.

Of course, no reign is without strife. The early years of Queen Rhaenyra’s time on the throne bore witness to the infamous sack of Lannisport by the Red Kraken, an attack which saw Lord Jason Lannister perish and his eldest daughter, Tyshara, become Lady of Casterly Rock. There was the Winter Fever too, a disease that claimed the lives of many on the Three Sisters and in White Harbour before decisive action by Queen Rhaenyra saw trading ships banned from entering or leaving the realm’s ports. An edict reinforced by the Velaryon fleet blockading the Gullet and by the crown’s dragons. Small outbreaks were unavoidable but the Winter Fever never gained a true foothold in King’s Landing.

But this is not a history on the reign of Rhaenyra I. Enough books have been written about her relationship with the Faith; the improvements brought to King’s Landing; the minimum age established for marriages; the abolishment of a husband’s right to chastise his wife; the recognition that rape could occur within the bounds of marriage and its outlawing; the expansion of the Night’s Watch. On what would later become known as the ‘Reign of the Two Queens’ after Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower was named the realm’s first Hand of the Queen.¹

No, this is a history of Queen Rhaenyra’s relationship with Lord Lyman Beesbury, the so-called Queenmaker.

¹ The author is aware of the salacious rumours that have persisted throughout the centuries regarding the relationship between Queen Rhaenyra I and Dowager Queen Alicent. They do not bear repeating here and any copies of the seditious pamphlet ‘Childhood Companions’ should be burnt if come across.

Lord Lyman Beesbury would continue to serve as Master of Coin for the first four years of Queen Rhaenyra’s reign before stepping down. Even then he did not leave the Red Keep, remaining at court for the rest of his life – which would be a further eight years.

It was Queen Rhaenyra herself who flew Lord Lyman’s body to Honeyholt after he passed away and remained there for the funeral, joined by much of the royal family. The funeral itself was small – as had apparently been Lord Lyman’s request – so no first-hand accounts have survived of what took place there. However, it was noted by the court that the queen was melancholy in the months to follow.

So came to an end the life of the man that was said to have influenced Queen Rhaenyra’s reign the most, despite having lived through but the first dozen years of it.

History loves to make comparisons between its figures and it is Ser Otto Hightower that Lord Lyman is most often viewed against. Ser Otto is remembered as a grasping second son, one that put his own ambitions over what benefited the realm in encouraging his daughter to be made queen consort over Lady Laena Velaryon. One whose death, while violent, was ultimately for the best. On the other hand, Lord Lyman Beesbury had all the virtues one would hope for in a servant of the realm: modest, intelligent, hard-working, and beholden to the will of the crown.

It has never been clear why exactly the task of mentoring the then Princess Rhaenyra fell to Lord Lyman, the Master of Coin. Surely it would have been more sensible for King Viserys to take his untrained, fourteen-year-old heir in hand after declaring her such. However, the king appears to have done little to educate his daughter on her future duties himself, nor did he arrange for a suitable proxy, merely a maester. One cannot help but wonder how well Queen Rhaenyra would have ruled had it not been for the instruction Lord Lyman provided in those early years.

Many scholars have presented Lord Lyman as having been driven solely by his desire to serve the crown; that the counsel he provided to Queen Rhaenyra in her youth was to help fulfil the will of King Viserys that she sit the Iron Throne after him. To forge her into the heir she would need to become. A role Lord Lyman willingly took on when no others presented themselves for it.

However, this interpretation of events ignores the undeniable personal connection that developed between the two: the reports that Queen Rhaenyra and Lord Lyman frequently dined together; that they were in and out of each other’s offices at all hours of the day; that Lord Lyman was a grandfather figure to the younger generation of princes and princesses; that Queen Rhaenyra was thought to have mourned Lord Lyman’s death far more deeply than King Viserys’s.

By the time of Queen Rhaenyra’s accession, I would go so far as to argue that the relationship between her and Lord Lyman was more of a daughter being supported by her father than anything else. That these feelings had eclipsed their initial pragmatic mentor/mentee dynamic.

For those still unsure which interpretation they favour, I leave you with one last historical fact, gentle readers. Officially, Queen Rhaenyra used the standard Targaryen sigil first adopted by the Conqueror: the red three-headed dragon on a field of black. However, it was widely known that a different banner hung in the queen’s rooms: those same Targaryen arms quartered with those of House Arryn … and those of House Beesbury. When Queen Rhaenyra I passed away after ruling for near half a century, it was that same quartered banner which became her funeral shroud.